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Motherfuckers Still Blowing Up Shit in BeirutFebruary 7, 2001 |
West Front, Beirut Slovak Digger Assholes destroyed a building much like this one
Although details are sketchy, something resembling a building was blown up by several religious fucks believed to be complete assholes in their personal lives with their unbending fanatical devotion to their religion and complete lack of humor.
"These are probably not the same twisted fucks who bombed a bunch of shit back in the '80s," said Michael Winslow, a reknowned authority on religious assholes who bomb shit. "But frankly, they're all the same. For some reason they really think we can tell them apart. They couldn't be more wrong."
Winslow was not optimistic about these assholes getting their shit together.
"From what I hear ...
ssholes continue their onslaught of terrorism in the Western Front with a bombing of some important building.
Although details are sketchy, something resembling a building was blown up by several religious fucks believed to be complete assholes in their personal lives with their unbending fanatical devotion to their religion and complete lack of humor.
"These are probably not the same twisted fucks who bombed a bunch of shit back in the '80s," said Michael Winslow, a reknowned authority on religious assholes who bomb shit. "But frankly, they're all the same. For some reason they really think we can tell them apart. They couldn't be more wrong."
Winslow was not optimistic about these assholes getting their shit together.
"From what I hear these assholes' god is demanding they blow shit up until everyone else is dead. So they'll probably continue to do it. Unless we blow them all up. Or kill their god. When there's only one god left I imagine He'll be happy. And stop fucking up our daily lives." The preceding news was sponsored by Ropers' News Service, where three's company, too. Abby Ject Poverty is a silly name used by an unreal person and we found the news story laying on the floor and needed to fill some space.
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Anywhere: Respected leader of one religious group assassinated by opposition fanatic
Steve Jobs' Coffin Has No Handles, Requires Special Proprietary Gravesite
Kevin Bacon comes to aid of town that banned raves
Carson story beaten to death in front of millions of witnesses
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Several Newscasters Fired for Reporting Death of Don Ho 5 Million White House E-Mails Missing, All About Low-Cost Cialis Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol IRS: Excessively Needy Girlfriends Can’t Be Declared “Dependents” |
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 January 20, 2003
The Myth of TornadoesThe first tornado, or "dizzy wind," was reported in ancient Sumer in 4914 B.C.. The Sumerian king returned home from an afternoon pillage one day to find his castle in total disarray, with royal garments strewn everywhere and the court musicians stuck up in a tree. He called upon the court scientists, who declared it the work of an ungodly natural phenomena caused by God's drunken uncle Blitzen. Later it was discovered that the king's ex-wife had been over that day and had caused the whole thing as usual, so the king had the court scientists tarred, feathered and cooked in a terrible big pot pie. And while he was at it he had the royal ex-wife beheaded again, since it apparently didn't take the first time.
When the Renaissance came along and slept on the world's couch longer than anyone would have liked, all sorts of half-assed thinkers came out of the woodwork to declare that they had the answers to all of nature's mysteries, like why sticks are pointy and why a dropped donut always falls in poop. For a while it was funny, but before too long people were longing for the Dark Ages again, when you could be ostracized, killed and buggered (in that order) for talking about anything other than how nice the weather was.
But unfortunately for fans of involuntary necrophilia, the Renaissance eventually led to the modern age, with its own host of superstitions and scientific old wives' tales. Modern scientists explained that twisters were actually...
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The first tornado, or "dizzy wind," was reported in ancient Sumer in 4914 B.C.. The Sumerian king returned home from an afternoon pillage one day to find his castle in total disarray, with royal garments strewn everywhere and the court musicians stuck up in a tree. He called upon the court scientists, who declared it the work of an ungodly natural phenomena caused by God's drunken uncle Blitzen. Later it was discovered that the king's ex-wife had been over that day and had caused the whole thing as usual, so the king had the court scientists tarred, feathered and cooked in a terrible big pot pie. And while he was at it he had the royal ex-wife beheaded again, since it apparently didn't take the first time.
When the Renaissance came along and slept on the world's couch longer than anyone would have liked, all sorts of half-assed thinkers came out of the woodwork to declare that they had the answers to all of nature's mysteries, like why sticks are pointy and why a dropped donut always falls in poop. For a while it was funny, but before too long people were longing for the Dark Ages again, when you could be ostracized, killed and buggered (in that order) for talking about anything other than how nice the weather was.
But unfortunately for fans of involuntary necrophilia, the Renaissance eventually led to the modern age, with its own host of superstitions and scientific old wives' tales. Modern scientists explained that twisters were actually caused when high-powered attorneys ran into the front of low-pressure salesmen, resulting in a fun party game with a spinner. People never really believed that, but the spinner was so much fun that few saw fit to question the philosophy behind it.
To this day, a goodly proportion of the superstitious masses still believe in the tornado, this mythical "wind beast" that can pick up an entire trailer park at once and deposit it in a better part of town with no warning, even if they're just about to say who gets to marry the millionaire. Wild-eyed true believers tell fantastic tales of tornadoes that can blow a piece of straw through an oak tree or even drag a needle through Tipper Gore's ass.
Hollywood has done much to play into the public's ignorant fears, creating computer-generated tornadoes so real you'd swear they really were the bane of hayseeds from Kansas to Oklahoma. The Helen Hunt drama Twister won many a convert to the cult of the tornado, even though the film's credits spell out exactly who was responsible for the digital sleight-of-hand in large font. Many remember seeing the foam-rubber tornado in 1939's The Wizard of Oz as a child and have simply always assumed they were real. Others should know better, but there is little hope in arguing with someone who has a deep-seated need to believe in tornadoes.
Sadder still are the so-called tornado victims, who grab for headlines with vivid tales of the twister that took their truck, their house and their hometown. A sparse few have any kind of hard evidence, beyond some twisted wreckage and a town-shaped hole in the ground. Tornado hoaxes such as these have proliferated in recent years, as a deep need for contact with the supernatural has pushed many desperate people to the edge. A hilarious few claim to have been "taken" by the twister, up into its spinning winds, presumably to a magical land of merry-go-rounds, spinning tops and ice skaters twirling around perpetually like Lazy Susans.
Eventually there will come an enlightened age when we are free from such inane superstitions, but unfortunately it's not likely to happen until our alien creators come back and anal probe us into being smart. º Last Column: The History of Fast Foodº more columns
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|  May 23, 2005
Be a Child Star This SummerI've got to admit something: Sometimes, in the past, for the sake of my career, I've done stuff that didn't exactly make me feel like a big-time actress. I told this to my shrink once (whoops, 'nother secret out of the bag) and she said, "You mean like Who's Your Daddy?" So I didn't talk to her for the rest of the hour. Big waste of money, but I showed her she can't talk to me like that. Of course I'm proud of Who's Your Daddy?, and all the shows and movies I've done. Stuff like Ho's! is the highlight of my career.
I'm talking about some of the less classy stuff I've done, both to keep the money flowing and to keep my name out there—sometimes that's more important than the money. There's some of the infomercials. I'll tell you, if anyone ever mentions the Waffle Messiah thing to me again, I'm going to have yet another scandal on my hands. But there's not much dignity in infomercials, you might know. Then there's the Metallichick comic book, dressing up for those covers. Not that I have anything against a metal bikini. But it's not the best way to make your big comeback.
Everything's changed now, though. I've got the best idea I've ever had—even better than the idea to write my own screenplay (But I'm still working on that, Nancy, so quit chapping my ass). Picture this: Child Star Fantasy Camp. That's right, a special place where kids of all ages (no one over 18) can come to pretend to be special, like the real child...
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I've got to admit something: Sometimes, in the past, for the sake of my career, I've done stuff that didn't exactly make me feel like a big-time actress. I told this to my shrink once (whoops, 'nother secret out of the bag) and she said, "You mean like Who's Your Daddy?" So I didn't talk to her for the rest of the hour. Big waste of money, but I showed her she can't talk to me like that. Of course I'm proud of Who's Your Daddy?, and all the shows and movies I've done. Stuff like Ho's! is the highlight of my career.
I'm talking about some of the less classy stuff I've done, both to keep the money flowing and to keep my name out there—sometimes that's more important than the money. There's some of the infomercials. I'll tell you, if anyone ever mentions the Waffle Messiah thing to me again, I'm going to have yet another scandal on my hands. But there's not much dignity in infomercials, you might know. Then there's the Metallichick comic book, dressing up for those covers. Not that I have anything against a metal bikini. But it's not the best way to make your big comeback.
Everything's changed now, though. I've got the best idea I've ever had—even better than the idea to write my own screenplay (But I'm still working on that, Nancy, so quit chapping my ass). Picture this: Child Star Fantasy Camp. That's right, a special place where kids of all ages (no one over 18) can come to pretend to be special, like the real child stars. Watched over by the world's greatest child star expert, me, Clarissa Coleman. And some various partners, whoever I can find to put up the scratch.
That's the only real complication right now. It's an otherwise perfect idea. It's not going to start without money, though, which means I've got to find some major investors right away. I'm making calls all the time to former child stars, trying to get them all signed on to appear at the camp. Guest speakers, maybe make some counselors out of the lesser stars— DeGrassi Junior High actors and stuff, or the kids from Witch Mountain. None of that solves the money problem at all. You know how child stars are with their money—I might as well be asking Orion Pictures for the moolah.
I've got big plans for this thing. My first big idea was that we get all really big people for the camp, so all the guests, adult or children or whatever (big stupid kids are welcome) will feel 4 feet tall. We've also got tutors for everyone, who hang out on the set and just sort of stare at you while you're on the phone to your agent. Did I mention everyone gets an agent? It's all one guy, so that part will be cheap. But you always feel like you're his favorite client, even if you're one of 200 kids at the camp.
No kidding, this camp will have it all down. We have three different trailers for each kid, and as your ratings climb higher, you can demand a bigger and bigger trailer. Plus all the amenities. M&Ms (blue only), small finger sandwiches, vodka (kids 8 & older only), a personal masseuse, physical trainer, your own personal entourage and a gangsta rapper (every kid needs a bad influence). If you're a really big star (if you paid the really big star fee) you can even get on our simulated Conan O'Brien show, with Eric Roberts as everyone's favorite not-Craig Kilborne talk show host.
After that peak, the real fun starts. The ratings start to dip. The liquor turns into hard drugs, which turns into homemade drugs and crack-mixed-with-heroin (crackoin). And then… cancellation. That means you leave camp—you don't have to go into syndication, but you can't stay here.
I suppose we could build on a whole "level 2" fantasy camp thing, but that would start to be spooky. Like my real life. What happens when you get to the part where you open your own fantasy camp? Reality would probably eat itself, that's what. º Last Column: Still Workingº more columns
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Milestones1853: The snorkel is invented, leading indirectly to the conception of commune reporter Lil Duncan several years later. STD specialists from the CDC would eventually send a robot back in time in an attempt to prevent this chain of events from occurring, but tragically this move caused the Short Circuit franchise of films in the 1980's instead.Now HiringMidwife Crisis. Not entirely sure what this is, but the guys thought it would be funny. So… Hmm. Uh… well, if you have experience delivering babies in a dramatic and dangerous fashion, then I suppose you should dust off your résumé. No freaks please.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Vietnam: The New San Francisco? | | 2. | 10 New Ways to Weight a Body Down | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Ethnic Pudding | | 4. | Love: The Source of All Bad Poetry | | 5. | Pants You Could and Will Die In | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 5/27/2002 Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to...
Hey there America, thanks for showing up for yet another dose of Entertainment Police magic. It looks like summer snuck up on us while we were passed out in the hammock, and that can only mean one thing: vaguely justified bikini features on Entertainment Tonight! Actually, that's a lie, summer probably means more than that to certain types of people, like the blind and sheepfuckers. And for the intents and purposes of this column it means summer blockbuster season! In case you've been out on the range a little bit too long, this is the time of year when Hollywood rolls out its big guns in an all-out war to gouge those greenbacks out of our tight little wallets. Who's got the biggest guns, besides that chick from The Skulls II? Roll your eyes over part one of our Summer Preview to find out:
In Theaters
Bad Company
I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw Steven Seagal ass-kicking his way through the hallways at Enron, but I was still surprised at how fast they turned this one out. They must have these scripts sitting around in Mad-lib form somewhere.
The Bourne Dentist
Matt Damon is Richard Bourne, a man who was born (get it?) to scrape plaque off of molars, but highly secretive government agents are out to stop him for reasons that only the screenwriter understands. Pretty good as far as dentist-thrillers go, and I liked Damon's Bond-like use of dental apparatus to get him out of tight jams. Kind of like Bond himself in It's Never Too Late to Die and Fancypants. The best thing about the movie, however, was the fact that they vetoed the original title at the last minute: Rinse, Spit or Die. Hallelujah. That would have been the worst title since James Bond in… Overkill.
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
Talk about some divine Ya-Yas. This would qualify as must-see TV if it were on television and television showed knockers. Yeah.
Enough
Those Hollywood big-shots were apparently as fed up with all of this Jennifer Lopez bullshit as you and me, so they finally decided to lay the franchise to rest with one gonzo exploding-building, axe-in-the-skull, flaming-motor-home "the bitch ain't comin' back" finale. Very satisfying for those of us who thought they should have killed her off after The Wedding Planter.
Harvard Man
Sarah Michelle Gellar, the curvy bass player for heavy-metal sloths Slayer, dons the press-on mustache for some cross-dressing Just One of the Guys mayhem at America's favorite party school. Probably the best metal band date movie since Ministry's Sorority Girls.
The Importance of Being Ernest
Hell yeah. It's about time Hollywood laugh machine Ernest P. Worrel returned to the big screen, I was beginning to think he'd died or something. Some might argue that all of Ernest's movies are the same, and on the surface that may appear to be true. Boy meets girl, boy drops girl into a vat of raw sewage, boy falls off ladder and boy saves a bunch of little kids from some kind of snot-covered goblin.
But it's in the subtle undertones that the differences are found, and this soul-searching epic about a septic-tank scrubber who is mistaken for the president is clearly Ernest's strongest work to date.
Insomnia
Can't sleep? Then maybe you should move to Alaska or Norweg or some place like that. I hear it never gets dark there, so you can stay up all night cleaning your gun or whatever they do up there all night. Maybe watching polar bears tear into the soda machines, something. I'm not sure, I fell asleep during the movie.
Scooby, Don't!
Everyone's favorite cartoon leg-humping machine is back in his big-screen debut. Unless you've ever watched the cartoon on one of those huge projection televisions, that's admittedly a pretty big screen right there. But for the rest of us with shitty 10" Sanyo TV/VCR combos, this is our first chance to see Scooby humping the president's leg all larger than lifelike.
Spirit: Stallion of the Cinnamon
I almost choked on a licorice whip when I saw the trailer for this one. Could this be for real? I thought horse pictures died with The Black Stallion and Return of the Bride of the Black Stallion 2. And not only was this a horse picture, but an ANIMATED horse picture to boot. And not only an animated horse picture, but an animated horse picture with a name that sounded like the title of a Jewel song. Holy shit! This could be worse than Glitter! Thankfully for everyone implicated in the credits, this turned out to be another great Mel Brooks spoof, with a clever red salmon of a trailer that should trick more than a few ten year-old girls into paying to see a movie about debutants having sex with horses.
The Sumbitch on All Fours
Ben Affleck takes a turn for the wolf in this poorly-timed "Werewolf in the South" picture. Believe me, I'm as excited as the next guy about the prospect of seeing some nutfuck werewolf with poofed-up hair taking a bite out of some saggy good-old-boy behind, but in the current national climate, are we really ready to laugh about bloodthirsty man-wolves again? As Teen Wolf, Too, Wolf, and Airwolf all proved, a novel spin isn't always enough to keep the public coming back for more man-dog mayhem. Having Ben Affleck being torn from ass to appetite by berzerk werewolves, now that's an idea that could have drawn a crowd. Or perhaps a movie about the same.
Undercover Brother
If you've ever told a younger sibling so many monster stories that they were afraid to come out from under the covers at night, then snuck under their covers while they were sleeping, farted, and then left, this is the movie for you. You know who you are.
Windtalkers
Though some may lament the trend, with more and more movies being packed with fart jokes these days it was all but inevitable that someone would eventually make a movie that was all fart jokes. And who better to do it than John Woo, director of such foreign fart classics as Con Air and Hard Boiled Eggs? The film starts out by showing the members of the Windtalker family coming to grips with their exceptional flatulent skills in a hilarious montage. Carl Windtalker's accidental ass-blasted recital of Sweet Child O' Mine at a baseball game will separate the snobs from the slobs in the audience, but if you make the cut you should have a good time. It's hard not to smile at the family's internal communication through a rudimentary language of intestinal blurts, and uncle Frank's scented Moose call will delight audiences, though it may scare children under the age of four. Coincidentally, some guy sitting in front of me added to the realism by cutting one loose during the film, making for a full sensory movie experience. I'll never eat Jujubees again, but I can't say that it didn't add to the film. I'm a little worried about Taco Bell's plans for a Windtaco tie-in, since I don't want to be caught in one of those places the first time somebody needs to make a run for the border after downing a sack full of those things.
That's it for now, folks. Tune your browsers this way in a month's time to take a gander at the other half of the skinny on what'll be crawling up your local theater's ass and dying this summer. Until then, this has been Entertainment Police, and you've been reading.   |
