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 June 20, 2005 |
Philadelphia, Mississippi Whit Pistol Accused killer Killen is brought to the courthouse with shackles on his wheels, to prevent a flight risk.
The accused killer Killen is on trial for the premeditated murder of civil rights workers James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, who came to the town to aid in black voter recruitment. The accused was originally tried in 1964, but the jury deadlocked and couldn't decide whether murdering a Negro and two Jews was a crime in Mississip...
he trial of last century is making all the news in Mississippi and nowhere else, as the racially-motivated murders that inspired the film Mississippi Burning are underway after a lengthy ignoring of the whole thing. It took a little time to build a case and find a non-racist jury, but after 41 years, Edgar Ray Killen is being given as fair a trial as the white man's legal system will allow in a Philadelphia, Mississippi court.
The accused killer Killen is on trial for the premeditated murder of civil rights workers James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, who came to the town to aid in black voter recruitment. The accused was originally tried in 1964, but the jury deadlocked and couldn't decide whether murdering a Negro and two Jews was a crime in Mississippi. "Killer" Killen, as this reporter's just dubbed him, was released and not retried for years, although he was punished then by enduring Southern cooking at a barbecue in his honor thrown by all his Klan kronies.
Thankfully, Hollywood intervened in 1988 with a film about the murders fueled by the performances of Gene Hackman and Willem Dafoe that, while good, no self-respecting black man is going to sit through when they've actually lived the same shit every day. Embarrassed by the liberal ass-tanning, modernized Mississippi began a crusade to re-try Killen and put the killings to rest once and for all.
Since the accusations have resurfaced, Killer Killen has denied orchestrating the murders and downplayed his involvement with the charitable organization the Ku Klux Klan; or at least that's what his lawyer says he has said, the 80-year-old is a bit indecipherable over the loud sound of his wheezing and mumbling. Philosophers only I've talked to suggest maybe Killen will live another 30 years as his real punishment from God, long enough to see black culture completely co-opted by every white kid on his street and allowing black performers to dominate the box office, television, and every station on the radio. And there's always the White House, if God is particularly cruel to the poor peckerwood.
Some fellow good old guys and girls have come to Killen's defense, while denouncing the killings, and say the frail, birdlike man had nothing to do with the horrific murder of people they wouldn't have spat on back then. Among those testifying were other Killens, including Killen's brother and sister-in-law, and several associates with peculiarly pointy hairstyles, like Cricket Beechauser.
"I love Killen," said the comparatively young 75-year-old Beechauser. "Killen taught me everything I know, not that I'm braggin' or nothin'. I'd do anything for him, that's how much I respect Killen—I'd go to jail for Killen. I'd go to hell for Killen, if that's what I had to do. Killen ain't any more racist than anyone here in this courtroom." To which at least the defense agreed.
The only irregularity in the Killen trial came on Friday when an angry protestor in the courtroom objected to the Beechauser testimony. A young white woman stood up and began shouting at the witness, still on the stand, insisting if the Ku Klux Klan liked Killen so much, they deserved Killen.
"Order in the court!" clichéd Judge Marcus Gordon. "If there's any more outbursts I'll remove the defendant. Then there won't be any Killen to shout about."
The prosecutor Mississippi Attorney General James Hood, for those of you who like irony, said the state would win this time against the Klansman.
"This time we will get Killen for these killings—hey! I just noticed how that sounds. Weird. But in all seriousness, my office is seeking the death penalty. And we'd better hurry up because this old Nazi is half in the bag already."
So declare the men of law in Mississippi, where the state motto in racial killings is "better late than never." the commune news knows there's no statute of limitations on murder, but thinks it must be really hard for an 80-year-old white bigot hate machine to find a real jury of his peers in Mississippi—but then again, probably not as hard as it sounds. Shabozz Wertham asked to cover this case, but regretted it after getting down there and experiencing his first day of Mississippi summer. Could be worse, of course—we're always told it was a lot hotter in the 1960s.
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OPEC boosts production on oil-shortage excuses
PlayStation Portable hopes to eliminate last person not glued to a screen
Kidnapped journalist mysteriously rescued by Superman
Martha Stewart from prison: Send cigarettes
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Duke Prosecutor Disbarred, Accepts New Position as National Scapegoat High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman |
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 April 11, 2005
Pokered FaceAs much I regretted it, I had to take a break from the world's greatest conspiracy last week. Nothing more than I can handle, of course. Maybe I'll benefit from the break, it will give me a chance to put everything in perspective, possibly have one of those great conspiracy epiphanies I've always longed for. But I'm such an important player I couldn't just take a vacation, so I had Stigmata Spent put on my fake beard and fake trenchcoat and take my place at all the secret meetings. But the conspiracy will wait for me. I had to take off for more pressing matters. The world's highest-stakes poker match.
I'm not a member of the Illuminati, of course—I wish! But I'm quite wealthy, so me and some other wealthy friends started a sub-Iluminati. We call ours the Niluminati, and we control everything the regular Iluminati doesn't want to control. Mainly the stuff we own. But being a member of the Niluminati has its own benefits, like our covert annual picnic and our annual high-stakes poker match. The highest stakes, as I've mentioned before.
No slouch in the poker department, I've won three of the last fifteen matches I've attended. Doesn't sound impressive? How many of the world's highest-stake poker matches have you won? I didn't think so. But it had been a while since I've had any real success, I've been on a losing streak for long time. Approximately since I started publishing the commune, oddly enough.
I decided, despite the...
º Last Column: The Best Conspiracy Ever
º more columns
As much I regretted it, I had to take a break from the world's greatest conspiracy last week. Nothing more than I can handle, of course. Maybe I'll benefit from the break, it will give me a chance to put everything in perspective, possibly have one of those great conspiracy epiphanies I've always longed for. But I'm such an important player I couldn't just take a vacation, so I had Stigmata Spent put on my fake beard and fake trenchcoat and take my place at all the secret meetings. But the conspiracy will wait for me. I had to take off for more pressing matters. The world's highest-stakes poker match.
I'm not a member of the Illuminati, of course—I wish! But I'm quite wealthy, so me and some other wealthy friends started a sub-Iluminati. We call ours the Niluminati, and we control everything the regular Iluminati doesn't want to control. Mainly the stuff we own. But being a member of the Niluminati has its own benefits, like our covert annual picnic and our annual high-stakes poker match. The highest stakes, as I've mentioned before.
No slouch in the poker department, I've won three of the last fifteen matches I've attended. Doesn't sound impressive? How many of the world's highest-stake poker matches have you won? I didn't think so. But it had been a while since I've had any real success, I've been on a losing streak for long time. Approximately since I started publishing the commune, oddly enough.
I decided, despite the conspiracy barking at my back door, that I'd put everything on hold and go back and claim my crown. Mind you, the crown itself is rather chintzy, but what I want is the respect that comes with wearing it. Sure, I've made my own crowns out of cardboard before, but when people find out you didn't get it winning a card game, all the respect vanishes.
I was happy to board the ol' riverboat Pressure Cooker and see my old colleagues and rivals, the nameless members of the Niluminati—"Buggy" Bob Hedges, Krisco, Flatella Morgan, B'Twana Modge, Catarast Winton, and Dave Pogo ("The Instigator"). They all sized me up with their eyes the minute I came through the door, though Flatella hired somebody to do it with his hands, and they took me for a rube whose bad luck streak was going to continue for another year. I said nuts to that, and quite loudly. They asked me not to do it again.
I made my presence known right away, starting the first game with an unheard-of bet of $75,000. They called me overeager and told me I would not be invited back if I insisted on betting so high first time out. But we played for a while, I won my share of games and kept my bets wise, and eventually we raised stakes to $250,000. That's American dollars, mind you, and not Niluminati dollars, which weren't even accepted in the Niluminati swear jar.
And in the end, believe it or not, I won it all on a bluff. I won the game with a bet of $800,000, then we doubled the bet, and I had jack shit in the way of cards. Not even a pair, I tell you. Nothing wild, all my options run out, so I bluffed—I yelled "Fire!" and we all abandoned the boat. Since we didn't finish the last game, that made me the winner for this year.
Quite a bluff it was, if I must say so. And I had Rascal in the engine room ready to throw a stick of dynamite into the fire if they called me on it. Always keep an ace in the hole. º Last Column: The Best Conspiracy Everº more columns
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|  September 20, 2004
Slap Me Some Skin:A Brief History of Hand Gestures, Part 3The first time someone saw two men slapping their palms together in greeting, one single thought inevitably bubbled its way up from the primordial ooze:
What the fuck was that?
Yes indeed, what the fuck was that? And more importantly, who started this crazy shit? Good question, and good of me to ask it. However, one cannot begin to discuss the history of the high-five without first exploring the origin of its parent gesture, the handshake.
The handshake is a gesture with a long and storied history, dating back to ancient times when everyone hated everyone. Mothers and sons, fathers and brothers, anyone could kick your ass and take your muffins at any time. These were brutal times and people behaved accordingly, ruthlessly exploiting the weak and dickless. It was a bad time to wear open-toed sandals.
During these harsh times, whenever two people approached on a country road, or in the livingroom, there began a dance where the participants would circle each other cautiously, right hands at the ready on their weapon of choice, be it a sword, a dagger, or a book of pithy puns. If, in the verbal parrying that ensued, it was determined that the threat of being beaten into fruit leather was acceptably minimal for both parties involved, the two people would then extend their empty weapon-hands and shake them, as a way of saying "I'm too tired to kill you today" or "I can't get this smell off my hand."
º Last Column: Up Your Ass: A Brief History of Hand Gestures Pt. 2
º more columns
The first time someone saw two men slapping their palms together in greeting, one single thought inevitably bubbled its way up from the primordial ooze:
What the fuck was that?
Yes indeed, what the fuck was that? And more importantly, who started this crazy shit? Good question, and good of me to ask it. However, one cannot begin to discuss the history of the high-five without first exploring the origin of its parent gesture, the handshake.
The handshake is a gesture with a long and storied history, dating back to ancient times when everyone hated everyone. Mothers and sons, fathers and brothers, anyone could kick your ass and take your muffins at any time. These were brutal times and people behaved accordingly, ruthlessly exploiting the weak and dickless. It was a bad time to wear open-toed sandals.
During these harsh times, whenever two people approached on a country road, or in the livingroom, there began a dance where the participants would circle each other cautiously, right hands at the ready on their weapon of choice, be it a sword, a dagger, or a book of pithy puns. If, in the verbal parrying that ensued, it was determined that the threat of being beaten into fruit leather was acceptably minimal for both parties involved, the two people would then extend their empty weapon-hands and shake them, as a way of saying "I'm too tired to kill you today" or "I can't get this smell off my hand."
Eventually, after hundreds of years, the traditional handshake began to fall behind the accelerating pace of modern life. Basketball games were slowed down unacceptably since entire teams were constantly stopping the game to shake hands after a successful slam dunk. And in normal public life, too many jokers were doing that thing where they rub their middle finger on the inside of your wrist while shaking hands, which feels really perverted. An increasingly homophobic population was also growing less comfortable with the thought of men touching each other's hands for entire seconds at a time. Could a cockshake really be that far off?
The time had clearly come for a new, modern greeting, something quick, violent, and devoid of intimacy. Nature wasted little time filling this vacuum in the form of University of Louisville forward Derek Smith in 1980. Angry over being pantsed by fellow teammate Hubert Sanders on the previous play, Smith took a running leap at Sanders mid-court, in an attempt to punch Sanders' nose into the back of his shorts. Due to Smith's poor motor control and Sanders' serendipitous choice of that moment to wave to his girlfriend in the stands, the would-be beat-down resulted instead in a thunderously loud palm-on-palm slap that all present mistook as intentional.
So dramatic and unexpected was the gesture that it energized the crowd and soon caught on nationwide, with Smith and Sanders playing along since Sanders had no idea what had happened and Smith didn't want anyone to know he was that big of a gimp. The truth didn't come out until years later, when Smith was pantsed at a book signing in Michigan in 1993, and responded by high-fiving an elderly woman in the face who was waiting in line to buy a John Grisham book on tape.
Since that fateful day, the high-five and its low-five and non-altitude-specific variants have become ubiquitous in modern life, from urban culture and youth sports leagues to the embarrassing climax of many a John Tesh concert. Due in no small part to the gesture being co-opted by such blanchingly uncool impostors of the funk as Tesh and living duck decoy Bob Sagat of television near-personality fame, intricate and complex handshakes, complete with high and low slaps, snaps, fist-hits and pointing were developed in the inner cities to keep white people everywhere feeling lame and inadequate for the foreseeable future.
In recent years, the gesture has continued to evolve, with the traditional high-five now being used almost exclusively in sporting events and corporate seminars. In hip-hop culture, the high-five has been replaced entirely by the fist-hit, a "less-faggy" gesture residing more comfortably near to the border between violence and greeting. At our current pace, by 2050 we'll have come full-circle with the re-acceptance of the "kick in the face" greeting popular in ancient times. And with any luck, I'll be long dead by then, or at least cryogenically frozen in a threatening pose. Good day. º Last Column: Up Your Ass: A Brief History of Hand Gestures Pt. 2º more columns
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Milestones2000: Ramrod Hurley is hired as a commune correspondent after the failure of his startup internet company, www.poopoftheday.com.Now HiringExtras. Positions available for extras in Boogie Nights 2. Minimum wage, lunch provided as well as SAG credit. Full frontal nudity required, well-endowed equipment or prosthetics a plus. Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Are You Reincarnated Disco Royalty? | | 2. | Get Un-Ugly for Summer | | 3. | Is Your Dog an Alcoholic? | | 4. | Michael Jackson's Make-Up Secrets | | 5. | Honesty: The Best Policy. Honestly. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 3/17/2003 Oscar fever is upon us, ladies and gentlemen, and fear not: that puss-like discharge is a completely normal symptom. Hollywood is throwing all of its bulimia-managed weight around in an effort to whip us all into an Oscar frenzy, until we're running around like assholes, buying movie hats and snatching up tickets for movies we've never heard of. Since after all, they must be good if Hollywood wanted to artificially boost their box-office by leveraging back-room deals for Oscar nominations, right? They wouldn't go to all of that trouble for a turkey, would they? Don't be silly. So let's ratchet up the anticipation to an uncomfortable level before the big night with one final look at the nominees!
Best Picture 
Oscar fever is upon us, ladies and gentlemen, and fear not: that puss-like discharge is a completely normal symptom. Hollywood is throwing all of its bulimia-managed weight around in an effort to whip us all into an Oscar frenzy, until we're running around like assholes, buying movie hats and snatching up tickets for movies we've never heard of. Since after all, they must be good if Hollywood wanted to artificially boost their box-office by leveraging back-room deals for Oscar nominations, right? They wouldn't go to all of that trouble for a turkey, would they? Don't be silly. So let's ratchet up the anticipation to an uncomfortable level before the big night with one final look at the nominees! Best Picture Chicago -read EP review- I've already given the city of Chicago enough free publicity by refusing to review their movie a few months back. I'm not about to add insulin to injury by talking it up more, here. More than I already have, anyway. So I'm stopping. Right… Now!
Gays of New York -read EP review-
Hands down the best gay film of the year. Notice I didn't say the "gayest best film," because that would be improper English, or "gayest good film," because that honor belongs to the overpoweringly gay epic Sweet Homo Alabama. GoNY, however, is good and gay in its own right. Though some thought the disco club rumbles in the film were too graphic, I think that the film would have lost its realism if they had left out all of the hair-pulling and name-calling. Some might argue that the film is too gay to win the big prize, but that didn't stop Cool Hand Luke, now did it? Even money says this one makes off with the naked-guy statue.
The Hours -read EP review-
There's some kind of standing rule with the Academy where if all of the reviewers fall asleep during a certain movie, they have to nominate it for Best Picture. Partly just tradition, I think, but also none of those guys want to admit they weren't deep enough to power through some ass-numbing exploration of a woman's spirit filmed in real-time with no cuts or bathroom breaks. The Hours is the secret shame of this year's nominee class, and I understand why. Getting through this movie is like serving a tour in Vietnam, only hard. Look out for this one as a dark-horse candidate for the win if none of the voters can get through the video.
The Lords of the Ring: The Out of Towners -read EP review-
What was supposed to be either the best gay movie of the year, or at least the gayest best movie of the year, turned out to be the least-gay mediocre movie that was supposed to be better and more gay. Peter, Paul and Mary Jackson pulled a fast one with this wild departure from the modern classic original, and I don't mean the good kind of "fast one" like in an airplane lavatory. Steve Martin is obviously acting upon orders from individuals who have kidnapped his family, but the directors, at least, should have known better. The series still has a chance to redeem itself, but early word is that the third film will star Lou Diamond Phillips. Really. If this one wins the Oscar it'll be because someone's a big fan of "The Hammer Song".
The Pianist -read EP review-
Funny, sure, but I doubt they're going to want to have to show a clip montage of past Oscar winners that includes a midget in a sleeping bag being mistakenly used as a giant tampon for a whale. In this case, the nomination is the award, and a secret thank-you to the Farley brothers for cutting the title down from their original The Princess and the Pianist.
Best Director
Rob Marshall, Chicago -read EP review-
I'm not kidding, piss off with the Chicago stuff.
Martin Scorsese, Gays of New York -read EP review-
It's fitting that Scorsese should invent the gay-boxing epic (with 1945's lesbian opus Raging Bull), see it aped masterfully in last year's Lords of the Ring, and then turn around and trump them all with this gay disco masterpiece. I don't know how they'll end up copying his latest coup, maybe they'll make Saturday Night Fever again, but I hope they just leave well enough alone.
Roger Daltry, The Hours -read EP review-
Roger Daltry must've been too wasted away in Margaritaville to jump on the "Rock Stars Directing Blockbuster Movies" bandwagon last year, and when he did finally show up to direct something, a year late and with his pants only half on and his eyes all bloodshot, it isn't a pretty picture. Pun most definitely intended. Some directing classes or rehab time couldn't have hurt, and it's pretty clear there are a few scenes where he dozed off while the camera was running. After the world-ending badness of Tommy, it's not like we were expecting anything better than a kick in the nuts here, but I still left feeling vaguely disappointed, and sore.
The Farley Brothers, The Pianist -read EP review-
At first glance this may seem like one of the Academy's usual gag nominations, but for once I think they're actually acknowledging the skill it takes to get a camera crew up an elephant's ass.
Pedro AlmovĂłvar, Talk to Her
Now here's the gag nomination. Fairly uncreative by Academy standards, but maybe they've got some inside joke about a guy waking up in bed with some Mexican dude and saying "Pedro, I'll move over and talk to her" that makes it hilarious. You never know.
Best Actor
Adrien Brody, The Pianist -read EP review-
Finally, that funny guy from Mallrats gets his due, though of course he had to unwittingly have sex with a buffalo to get it. That's the price we all have to pay. But who knew he had a poofy first name like "Adrien"? No wonder we haven't seen him in more action vehicles.
Nicolas Cage, Adaptato
Only Nicolas Cage, or possibly Robin Williams, (maybe Gerald Ford) could pull off the lead role in this heavily bizarre Mr. Potato Head movie. But Cage does it with more panache, funny noses and sour cream than anyone had a right to expect. Maybe now he'll finally get to take a crack at the big-budget action roles he's always been denied because of that crazy look on his face.
Daniel Day-Lewis, Gays of New York -read EP review-
Daniel Day is just amazing in this film. His shoes match every outfit… even the ones you wouldn't think would go with anything. In addition, he does the gay thing better than most supposedly gay people. Give the man a restaurant already.
Toby Keith, The Quiet American
Another gag nomination that provides a polite smile and little else. Maybe the Academy needs to hire some new writers.
Jack Nicholson, About Shit -read EP review-
Jack is the man, even when he's not a man (see Kangaroo Jack, 2003. Actually, don't see it, since it was kind of rank, but think of it when you read that comment) and the Academy has never been afraid to French-kiss his two Jakes. Woah, excuse me. Just barfed. Got too vivid there even for my own self. Anyway, there are few men on earth who can carry a film in which absolutely nothing happens, and thankfully for us Jack is one of them. I'm not sure who the others would me, maybe Jesus or that Jonestown guy. I hear he was pretty charismatic.
Best Actress
Salma Hayek, Fritos
Best snack-food movie since Kurosawa's Ramen-dan, and Salma Hayek makes eating Fritos look like something we should all do, naked.
Nicole Kidman, The Hours -read EP review-
To be honest I forgot she was in this; she must have come in after I tried to kill myself by choking on a Whopper. The candy, you think I want to die with Burger King in my mouth? Ick.
Nathan Lane, Unfaithful
Proving he's just as good at playing a chick as he is at playing a really effeminate man, Nathan Lane won a lot of fans this year, many of whom would beat the shit out of themselves if they knew they were lusting after a dude.
Julianne Moore, Farhvergnugen
Though Moore should probably be recognized for the best performance anyone has ever given in a two-hour car commercial, I got sick of that "Da da da" song after about ten seconds and I think it may have soured me on her as a human being.
Renée Zellweger, Chicago -read EP review-
Nope, don't have anything to say. Not a God. Damned. Thing.
Best Supporting Actor
Chris Cooper, Adaptato
The secretive X-Files creator must've had some childhood play-time issues lingering to make him want to call in a favor to be cast in this one, but he does a fine job as the Potato Heads' weird neighbor who's missing some of his accessory teeth.
Ted Harris, The Hours -read EP review-
There must be a lot of big fans of The Who out in Hollywood, because Daltry had no problem attracting top-drawer talent to this project. Thanks to this film I now know all the nervous tics Ted Harris displays while waiting for the director to wake up and call "Cut!" but I'm not sure that gives him the edge for the Oscar.
Paul Newman, Road to Perdition -read EP review-
The movie itself was a slow train to Boregon State, but Newman did his thing with style as a mafia hitman who had his bladder removed in the war and has to drink while standing over a toilet. It doesn't read funny in black and white, but it works in the film. It's a shame to think what Newman could have done with a decent script, I for one would have loved to see him as a member of the Potato Heads' extended family in Adaptato.
John C. Reilly, Chicago -read EP review-
I hear ya knockin' but you can't come in… Keep it up, Chicago.
Christopher Walken, Catch Me If You Can -read EP review-
It's a bit strange that Walken got the nod instead of Leo "I Was Born to Play Lucky the Leprechaun" DiCaprio, but I can't fault the Academy with throwing a little love Walken's way. Playing Lucky's father had to be a challenge, since he rarely appeared in the Lucky Charms commercials, leaving Walken to create an entire mythology from scratch. And he did a fine job, mixing one part parental cereal wisdom with two parts of his trademark "I'm hiding under your bed" icky charisma.
Best Supporting Actress
Kathy Bates, About Shit -read EP review-
Bates scared the shit out of me when she came up on the screen, I thought she was going to go after Jack's ankles with a sledgehammer. Come to think of it, they could have had a pretty sweet sledgehammer/fire-axe battle to the crazy death between the two of them. Kind of strange the screenwriters didn't think of it first.
Julianne Moore, The Hours -read EP review-
Shit, she was in this, too? What, is she saving up to buy a house or something?
Queen Latifah, Chicago -read EP review-
Nice try, you almost tricked me into talking about Chicago again. Riiiight, Queen Latifah.
Meryl Streep, Adaptato
She was born to play the role of Mrs. Potato Head, and did not disappoint. But being a woman of sleight build, I did wonder at times exactly how many facial features and accessories she could really store in her ass.
Catherine Zeta-Jones, Chicago -read EP review-
Christ, did the entire Academy have family members in this movie or what?
And that is what it is. Of course, there are also some nominations for cartoons and music and best catering and all that, but we're trying to bring the column in at under three hours this year. I did notice that the nominations were fairly light on joke names and fake categories this year, maybe it's a sign that the Academy is finally growing up. Well, on second thought they did still nominate a movie with a dick joke in the title for Best Picture, so I guess we shouldn't get too worried. I hope you've enjoyed yourself as much as I've enjoyed yourself, and that you'll all be back for more EP flavor the next time we squirt it out of the nozzle. Until then!
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