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New Osama bin Laden Video Shooting Up ChartsJanuary 21, 2002 |
Daisycutter, CT Anna Basil/AP Osama b. illin' he latest video from self-styled "gangsta wrapped in a bedsheet" Osama bin Laden appears to be the most successful offering yet from his recent album. Produced and directed by Mullah Omar tha Hit Maker, from 2001's "Ol' Dirty bin Laden in da Hizzouse," the video, "Don'tcha Fuck wit Ma Allah," is the third single to chart. It is now in heavy rotation on VH1, has been shown many times on that network's popular Pop Up Video program, and is number one with a bullet on Al Jazeera's afternoon show, Fundamentalist Dance Party. It is also rumored that a twenty-second clip of the video was aired on MTV at approximately 4 AM Tuesday of last week, but those rumors could not be confirmed at the time we went to press.
Following on the heels of the first two singles from "...in da Hizzouse,...
he latest video from self-styled "gangsta wrapped in a bedsheet" Osama bin Laden appears to be the most successful offering yet from his recent album. Produced and directed by Mullah Omar tha Hit Maker, from 2001's "Ol' Dirty bin Laden in da Hizzouse," the video, "Don'tcha Fuck wit Ma Allah," is the third single to chart. It is now in heavy rotation on VH1, has been shown many times on that network's popular Pop Up Video program, and is number one with a bullet on Al Jazeera's afternoon show, Fundamentalist Dance Party. It is also rumored that a twenty-second clip of the video was aired on MTV at approximately 4 AM Tuesday of last week, but those rumors could not be confirmed at the time we went to press.
Following on the heels of the first two singles from "...in da Hizzouse," this latest single promises to make it his most successful album ever, and could garner him a nomination for Comeback Artist of the Year.
Not many people would have predicted that when the first video from the album was released. "Wha' da 911?" suffered from poor production values, and many critics thought it ran overlong, causing viewers to quickly lose interest in the muddy sound mix. The second video, "I Ain't Dead Yet, Bitch," showed more promise, but topped out at number 37 on the charts and disappeared after just a few short weeks. "Don'tcha Fuck wit Ma Allah" appears to have staying power the first two singles lacked.
There are some dissenting voices, however. On the East Coast, especially, a few insiders who preferred to remain anonymous commented that "his shit is dead, man, it ain't fresh." In response, noted Marin County, California, critic John Walker Lindh was quoted as saying "That Al Qaeda beat is funky stupid, dawg, and Osama is Playa Numbah One. It's phat, it's phresh, it's... uh... it's phluffy. You can totally dance to it."
This album marks only the second release for bin Laden since his move to Al Qaeda Mob Records. The first effort, 1993's "Truck Bombin' NYC," failed to generate much critical acclaim, and dropped out of sight soon after its release due to poor sales. Prior to that, it had been a number of years since any product had been put out at all. In the late '80s and early '90s, bin Laden collaborated with former U.S. president George H. W. Bush (the one that was actually elected) in a series of forgettable albums for the now-troubled label CIA Assassin Records and Wiretaps. Their most notable release was titled "Tha Enemy of Ma Muthafuckin' Enemy," and prominently featured Bush, performing under the name Pukeface Killah GH-Dub, with his minor hit, "Nitty Ditty Gritty Big Bird." Bin Laden's contribution to that song was the turntable-scratching and chanted background chorus, "Yo, muthafuckah, yo muthafuckah, yo muthafucka, yo." The only other song from that mix to chart at all was a cover of Tone Loc's "Funky Cold Medina." the commune news wishes to go on, like a blister in the sun. Bludney Plud doesn't suffer from self-esteem issues, he revels in them. With a revel yell, he cries "More, more, more."
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 February 18, 2002
My Reality Shows Rock HardYou should take a trip into my world some time. I think you'd be pleasantly surprised. Every night before I go to sleep, I close my eyes and stroll into the kingdom of my own imagination, a fuck-yeah world that's like some kind of fantastic movie or something. It's an awesome place. Nobody has to work, nobody has to ride the bus, and all the chicks are alotta hot. Not to mention that they're all over me like, well you know, like hot chicks on a rich guy. But most importantly, in my world, we don't have any of these candy-assed reality shows that you see on TV here. Survivor? The Mole? That crap is for kids who think eating worms is cool. In my world the reality shows rock, and you know they rock hard. Probably the most popular reality show in my world is called Feeb Factor. Imagine this, if you can: How will three different pharma-doped-up old farts with high blood pressure and veins as thin as crepe paper react when they're subjected to increasingly stressful and radical environments? The top tier involves making a mad-dash across a football field with a summer sausage stitched to your throat while a pack of crazed, starving German shepherds are released right on your goddamned heels. Keep in mind that you only get this privilege after you've passed the second-most-gnarly fear test, where everybody has to sleep with this nasty old hooker who's like a potluck of weird sex diseases, only some of which are known to science. Some of the middle levels...
º Last Column: Say What You Will, But I Still Don't Like Midgets º more columns
You should take a trip into my world some time. I think you'd be pleasantly surprised. Every night before I go to sleep, I close my eyes and stroll into the kingdom of my own imagination, a fuck-yeah world that's like some kind of fantastic movie or something. It's an awesome place. Nobody has to work, nobody has to ride the bus, and all the chicks are alotta hot. Not to mention that they're all over me like, well you know, like hot chicks on a rich guy. But most importantly, in my world, we don't have any of these candy-assed reality shows that you see on TV here. Survivor? The Mole? That crap is for kids who think eating worms is cool. In my world the reality shows rock, and you know they rock hard. Probably the most popular reality show in my world is called Feeb Factor. Imagine this, if you can: How will three different pharma-doped-up old farts with high blood pressure and veins as thin as crepe paper react when they're subjected to increasingly stressful and radical environments? The top tier involves making a mad-dash across a football field with a summer sausage stitched to your throat while a pack of crazed, starving German shepherds are released right on your goddamned heels. Keep in mind that you only get this privilege after you've passed the second-most-gnarly fear test, where everybody has to sleep with this nasty old hooker who's like a potluck of weird sex diseases, only some of which are known to science. Some of the middle levels are especially sweet, too. There's one where you glue your face to a wolf's ass and get thrown down a bobsled run wearing only a pair of sneakers. How wicked is that? Or how about the one where you get shot out of a cannon into a gigantic man-made beehive that instead of bees is full of serial killers? Or the one where you have to climb a skyscraper in a hurricane using a rope made of live rats? Holy shit! But to be honest none of the old bastards ever make it past the "parallel parking" test at the beginning. One lady even had a brain aneurysm while they were introducing her to the studio audience. It's a shame, really. But there are some joke challenges they throw in that are pretty killer, like having to run naked into a bank and withdraw $50 to buy some pants. Or one time they stapled all the foges to the studio floor and had them reenact that hilarious "I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!" show from the 80's. The next most popular reality show in my world is called Temptation Island of the Cannibal Sluts. Six average guys are let loose on the island, just looking to score. Only one comes back. Actually, usually none of them come back but it doesn't seem to hurt ratings, and Arby's has a tie-in promotional deal for a pretty choice sandwich. One time a guy came back but he'd just spent the whole time recording birdcalls, I don't know what his problem was. One season they tried doing Temptation Island in Manhattan, with the whole island as the set, but that just got confusing as one guy ended up with a family, another got engaged to a drag queen and the others were all hacked up by the Meat Market Killer. Cool idea though. Another popular reality show in my world is Big Brother, which sounds familiar, but it's actually way cooler than you think. On this one, contestants are assigned an immature, muscle-bound and nearly psychotic older brother who belittles them in front of their friends, pushes them around and tries to score with their girlfriends when they're at band practice. The first one to crack and split open their Big Brother's head with a jack-handle wins. This is one that really hits home. So I don't think you have to waste any time arguing that this world's feeble reality programming can hold any kind of candle to the awesome shit I've got going on in my head. Maybe one day those TV people will wise up and come to me for ideas, but they seem to be the stubborn sort who will have to suffer through some pretty weak ratings before they wise up and decide to cash in the gold mine I've got going on upstairs. Incidentally, the movies in my world kick a lot more ass than the ones here do, too. If you haven't seen Allan Quarterbag and the City of Lost Couch Poofs, or Fuzzbumbers in Paradise, and I'm thinking you haven't since they've only played out on the vast theater screen in my imagination, you truly haven't enjoyed film. Sucks to be you, but you have my condolences. º Last Column: Say What You Will, But I Still Don't Like Midgetsº more columns
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|  December 5, 2000
CUIDADO: PISO MOJADOOn a recent trip to the little man's room I came across a sign on the floor. It featured a stick man breakdancing on a yellow background above text which read as follows: "Cuidado: Piso Mojado". That's right, Spanish. And as every bi American knows, that's Spanish for "Look Out: I Pissed on the Floor". And that got me thinking, and I thought this: "Goddammit, how come everything's got to be in Spanish?" Quickly after that my thought changed to "Wait a minute, who's pissing on the floor?" but then after a moment of confusion it switched back to the Spanish thing. And I think I may be on to something here.
Since when do we as Ameyhicans have to bow to the whims of the Spanish-speaking minority? Personally I'm tired of it, and I think it's time I made a stand. The next time I pull up to the Taco Bell drive thru, you won't hear me ordering a "Burrito Supreme, Nachos and a Chalupacabra", I'm going to proudly demand a "Big-Assed Bean Sheath, Some Chips with Shit on Them, and One of Them Scary Fuckers From the X-Files". That's my right as an American. And they'd better not underfold it so the bottom blows out on my bean-sheath, either.
I was feeling rather proud of this resolution as I tried to decipher a pornographic limerick scratched into the bathroom stall (Anybody who knows the one about Swedes and weenies, email me at deeznuts@thecommune.com), when suddenly my thoughts began to change again. Once more, they...
º Last Column: Why "My Friend Polio"? º more columns
On a recent trip to the little man's room I came across a sign on the floor. It featured a stick man breakdancing on a yellow background above text which read as follows: "Cuidado: Piso Mojado". That's right, Spanish. And as every bi American knows, that's Spanish for "Look Out: I Pissed on the Floor". And that got me thinking, and I thought this: "Goddammit, how come everything's got to be in Spanish?" Quickly after that my thought changed to "Wait a minute, who's pissing on the floor?" but then after a moment of confusion it switched back to the Spanish thing. And I think I may be on to something here.
Since when do we as Ameyhicans have to bow to the whims of the Spanish-speaking minority? Personally I'm tired of it, and I think it's time I made a stand. The next time I pull up to the Taco Bell drive thru, you won't hear me ordering a "Burrito Supreme, Nachos and a Chalupacabra", I'm going to proudly demand a "Big-Assed Bean Sheath, Some Chips with Shit on Them, and One of Them Scary Fuckers From the X-Files". That's my right as an American. And they'd better not underfold it so the bottom blows out on my bean-sheath, either.
I was feeling rather proud of this resolution as I tried to decipher a pornographic limerick scratched into the bathroom stall (Anybody who knows the one about Swedes and weenies, email me at deeznuts@thecommune.com), when suddenly my thoughts began to change again. Once more, they drifted to the Cuidado sign, like closeted gays to a Ricky Martin concert. And as I pondered the sign's message, it occurred to me that this little sign says a lot about America today. How many times in a day does someone, in effect, tell you to Look Out, because they just pissed on your floor? Today I counted 87.
Now keep in mind, gentle reader, that I'm not talking about literal pissing here. And that non-literal pissing wasn't necessarily done on your literal floor, either. I'm talking about the constant letdowns of everyday life, the times when those who we count on fail us miserably and just shrug it off because it's become expected. Every time the Concorde slams into a baby farm outside of Paris or that kid at Wendy's gives you Iced Tea when you specifically asked for Lowenbrau, it's Cuidado: Piso Mojado. Any time a cop pulls you over because he thought you were black and makes you late to the six o'clock showing of "Charlie's Angels", Cuidado: Piso Mojado. Whether it's an alligator getting loose at the zoo and eating a clown or the Democrats barfing up Dukakis as their candidate in '88, it's all Cuidado: Piso Mojado.
Well I'm here to tell you one thing: that Omar Bricks' floor was not made for pissing. You can piss your own floor all the live-long day, and you won't see me trying to stop you. I believe it's even covered under the religious practices protection laws in some Southwestern states. But my floor is a strict no-pissing zone, and anyone who forgets that is liable to get a mop-handle up his ass with very little warning. Figuratively speaking, of course.
I implore you to take a similar stand. The next time you're on hold waiting to talk to a customer service representative, and have just listened to 32 straight minutes of Christmas carols on the classical guitar, only to have the system disconnect you just as you reach the head of the phone queue, don't just shrug and head for the mop. Demand accountability. Maybe you should send that company a package of unstable C4 blanketed in roofing nails. Will that get you more prompt service on the customer support line? Probably not, since the service reps will most likely have been reduced to hamburger and strewn over a quarter-mile of real estate immediately following the explosion. But someone, somewhere will take notice. Maybe the next pizza you order won't come in the box upside-down. Maybe those daycare kids will stop chanting "Stinky Butt! Stinky Butt!" when you walk by. Or maybe the mailman will stop crumpling your mail into a ball before he stuffs it into your mailbox. You'll never know until you try. º Last Column: Why "My Friend Polio"?º more columns
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Quote of the Day“I got the blues so bad. Real bad. You know what I'm talkin' about? Uh-huh. No fun. Bluesy blues. Well, that's about all I got to say about that. Song's another four minutes long though. Soooo… Any of y'all from Cleveland?”
-Ugly CarmichaelFortune 500 CookieYou will get kicked in the balls for a good cause this week. Expect a telephone call from a long forgotten friend today—your split personality from Belgium. Lose the mustache, that "Hitler" look is so 1997. This week's stomach-pump jackpot: $20 in loose change, long-lost stash, grandma's favorite knitting needles, Nerds.
Try again later.5 Worst Baby Names| 1. | Osama Bin Hitler | | 2. | Cap'n Jackass | | 3. | Fascist Clay | | 4. | Li'l Accident | | 5. | Not-Gay Bruce | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 1/10/2005 Look out below, America, Roland McShyster just honked and as usual, it looks like gravity will have its way. We're sicker than a Nine Inch Nails video here at Entertainment Police, and all bets are off within a fifty foot radius of yours truly. Anyone interested in staying well would do wisely to coat their computer screen in Vaseline and turn to the black power of voodoo for support, ladies and gentlemen. Now let's take a look at this week's movies, which like everything else at the moment, are something to sneeze at.
In Theaters Now:
Electra
As I anticipated in this very space years ago, celebrity shemannequin Carmen Electra has followed the well-worn path from extra bimbo on Good Burger to the director and producer's chairs, where...
Look out below, America, Roland McShyster just honked and as usual, it looks like gravity will have its way. We're sicker than a Nine Inch Nails video here at Entertainment Police, and all bets are off within a fifty foot radius of yours truly. Anyone interested in staying well would do wisely to coat their computer screen in Vaseline and turn to the black power of voodoo for support, ladies and gentlemen. Now let's take a look at this week's movies, which like everything else at the moment, are something to sneeze at.
In Theaters Now:
Electra
As I anticipated in this very space years ago, celebrity shemannequin Carmen Electra has followed the well-worn path from extra bimbo on Good Burger to the director and producer's chairs, where she apparently perched gingerly with one cheek on each, or else had herself cloned using trick photography. Whatever the method, Electra has managed to inflict her strange autobiography on the world, an improbable geek epic with one cheek each in the worlds of science fiction and comic bookery. Apparently Electra's ass was too busy to star as itself in the film, so Eva Gardner's great-granddaughter was brought in to plausible effect, despite the fact that she's seven feet tall and looks slightly less like Carmen Electra than I do. All of this was of little importance, however, since the audience's geeklust was satisfied and the film served its purpose as a place-holder before the May release of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Nerds, and the highly anticipated Wookie Cookies tie-in promotion.
Hotel Rwanda
Seeking to hitchhike to the heights they once soared with their pervasively eternal gigantahit "Hotel California," the Eagles released the lesser-known desperate cash-in jingle "Hotel Rwanda" in 1981. Though it shared in many of the original's tasty licks and incomprehensible lyrics, the record-listening public was all "Horse with No Name"ed out by that point and the new tune was a sweaty flop. But leave it to Hollywood to mistake a dismal commercial failure for an underground cult favorite, as they did last year with the release of everything they released last year, so we're treated with a movie adaptation that unwisely drags on beyond the original tune's seven-minute running length. Don Knotts stars as the black guy from Traffic.
Racist Stripes
Finally, some genius has realized that CGI doesn't only stand for "Computers Generate Income" and has crafted an actual computer-animated film without any farting dinosaurs or showtunes-loving sidekicks. In fact, this modern-day retelling of Animal Farm is about as crowd-pleasing as an electrocuted elephant, daring audiences to examine the racist underpinnings of their own warped worldviews. When a naïve zebra named Hitler shows up on the farm one day looking for refuge from a world fixated on his mixed-stripe heritage, he finds instead a powderkeg of simmering ethnic tensions amongst the charmingly celebrity-voiced assemblage of barnyard beasts. Over the next 84 minutes, Hitler teaches the assorted ethnic stereotypes a valuable lesson about equality by winning the county's annual racist races, before being made into glue to pave the way for the purification of the farm. This is one thought-provoking future classic that's perfect for kids you don't like.
Well, there you have it, and while you're holding it I'm going to duck out the back door. Hot potato on you, slow-reacting America. Check back next time and hopefully we'll have more movie reviewing magic, minus the iron lung. Achoo.   |