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Paparazzi Buried With Anna Nicole SmithMarch 5, 2007 |
Nassau, Bahamas Junior Bacon A slightly more lively Anna Nicole Smith in the days before her demise, followed by her disciples and their primitive image-capturing devices.
"I’ve got a feeling this story is only going to get bigger after this," said photographer Ray Snable, still clicking away on his camera with fresh photos of the body as pallbearers nailed a large ...
merica’s trailer park inhabitants mourned between talk shows and soap operas Saturday as the world’s public-access Marilyn Monroe was buried in the Bahamas. The modest celebrity and super-tabloid magnet was finally laid to rest after a month of court battles and life-draining media coverage following her February 8 death from over-exposure. Laid next to her son following his September 2006 death from a drug overdose, Smith’s burial was most notable for a judge’s order that allowed several members of the tabloid media and freelance photographers to be interred with the body.
"I’ve got a feeling this story is only going to get bigger after this," said photographer Ray Snable, still clicking away on his camera with fresh photos of the body as pallbearers nailed a large lid on the 125-man coffin containing the deceased starlet and her new entourage.
"The unusual burial situation came about from an order handed down by vaudeville’s own Judge Larry Seidlin when he released the Smith body and its bosom baggage for a burial in the sunny Bahamas. Judge Seidlin decreed that "America has a vested interest in following the continuing drama of the Anna Nicole Smith story."
"Now more than ever," said Broadway Seidlin, "as the country faces one tumor of dull-ass presidential election coverage and weak competition on American Idol, the people want and need the security of a sassy, beautiful corpse of no particular claim to fame and her everyday trials. Reruns are simply not enough."
The court ruling allowed 124 members of the medias, including freelance photographers, to join the Smith remains in their underground adventure with a specified promise of keeping the public up to date on how the story continued to unfold. Will Smith learn to cope with the loss of her son? Will she tell the real identity of her baby’s father? Will she continue to live the sedentary lifestyle all of America witnessed on her too-short-lived The Anna Nicole Show? Judge Seidlin promised just because the body ceased to breathe it doesn’t mean Americans will stop caring about the drama.
After burial of the notably large coffin, the muffled screams of the more timid members of the burial coverage crew were drowned out by the sobbing of people who felt a bizarre kinship with the former Playboy playmate and grave-robbing skeleton widow, as well as the appropriately vacant song stylings of country music superstar Joe Nichols. Slash, of the band Guns ’N’ Roses, was also in attendance, because what else could he have been expected to be doing.
Despite objections from some human rights advocates, Entertainment Tonight segment producer Lynn Hoddbody argued those reporters and photographers buried alive with the corpse of the peroxide blonde model were the lucky ones.
"This is probably the single most important media event of the century, and I can say without fear of contradiction Anna Nicole Smith will be the most tragic figure in history," Hoddbody said. "Who wouldn’t gladly sacrifice themselves to be there when O.J. Simpson slashed the shit out of his wife and that guy, to witness that world-shaking event in progress and have a slim chance of telling us just what happened? In this case, we can all truly say we should envy the dead."
Which begs the question—first O.J., now Anna Nicole: Is there a curse on all the stars of The Naked Gun 33 1/3: The Final Insult? Will George Kennedy survive? the commune news would have bet dollars to donuts Carmen Electra’s wild Dennis Rodman-marrying ways would have laid her low long before Anna Nicole Smith. Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown has been cashing in all his ghost junk bonds for a phantom fortune, hoping to woo the newly dead Anna Nicole spirit away from that nutso Howard Hughes.
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 February 18, 2002
I Fear the Olsen Twins Are Space PilgrimsI do not wish to set a precedent for presenting unfounded conspiracy theories to the American public. I have stringent guidelines for material I accept and in turn present to you, and if I have no evidence I deem concrete, say pictures, documents, or someone has mentioned it to me at a night club, I file it away upstairs (in the attic) until something solid presents itself. However, my fears cannot stay quieted. I have begun to theorize the Olsen Twins are space pilgrims.
The cuddly Olsen Twins from ABC's Full House and countless straight-to-video productions? The same, conspiracy buffs.
The wide-eyed, thin-smiled pre-pubescent clones may seem innocent enough, especially to the young or retarded. But the more innocent the doily the more insidious the teapot lurking underneath, or so my mad grandmother used to say.
It is my theory that the Olsen Twins in fact started out as one baby, born to an American woman impregnated with alien DNA during an abduction—this is not news, of course, the whole alien abduction/impregnated with alien DNA is so old school conspiracy theory it's fairly boring. The interesting aspect here, and I've been looking into this, is that the baby quickly acclimated superhuman intelligence and formed a scheme with its mother where she profits from its salary while the alien baby infiltrated American consciousness at its most cultish level—television. Of course, the trend is to hire twins to play one...
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I do not wish to set a precedent for presenting unfounded conspiracy theories to the American public. I have stringent guidelines for material I accept and in turn present to you, and if I have no evidence I deem concrete, say pictures, documents, or someone has mentioned it to me at a night club, I file it away upstairs (in the attic) until something solid presents itself. However, my fears cannot stay quieted. I have begun to theorize the Olsen Twins are space pilgrims.
The cuddly Olsen Twins from ABC's Full House and countless straight-to-video productions? The same, conspiracy buffs.
The wide-eyed, thin-smiled pre-pubescent clones may seem innocent enough, especially to the young or retarded. But the more innocent the doily the more insidious the teapot lurking underneath, or so my mad grandmother used to say.
It is my theory that the Olsen Twins in fact started out as one baby, born to an American woman impregnated with alien DNA during an abduction—this is not news, of course, the whole alien abduction/impregnated with alien DNA is so old school conspiracy theory it's fairly boring. The interesting aspect here, and I've been looking into this, is that the baby quickly acclimated superhuman intelligence and formed a scheme with its mother where she profits from its salary while the alien baby infiltrated American consciousness at its most cultish level—television. Of course, the trend is to hire twins to play one character on television, mostly for children but this also works well for any show starring Pamela Anderson. At that point the baby split itself into two separate beings, which explains why no one can tell them apart.
The story from there is an easy and predictable one. Aliens grow up, aliens work inhuman hours producing sub-par CDs, movies, and dolls. Aliens develop a loyal following of kids too young to comprehend the danger they pose.
I label this "phase one." It only gets worse from here.
I will gather evidence and shatter the blockade that holds the conspiracy in. I have nothing to go on right now but sheer gusto and a distrust of the creepy aliens, but I've had feelings like this before and trusted them, the most notable when I uncovered the downfall of laserdiscs.
What's next on the agenda of these twisted aliens, if unhindered? Colonization, that's what. Duh, that's always what aliens come to other planets for. In fact, I would say as soon as the hideous space pilgrims achieve a higher popularity they will initiate "phase two." The only thing that has delayed phase two thus far is poor production values and flimsy plotlines.
"Phase two" will find the alien organic matter splitting and multiplying once again, this time into millions if not thousands, or billions, and might take up to three months. But by the time we have realized the abuse of nature going on, we will be trapped in the claw of alien pilgrims.
Then begins "phase three," which is kind of iffy, I'm not really sure which way that could go. They'll surely suck our planet dry of resources, that's a given. Whether it's slave labor or food for us I'm not sure, I'm sort of hopeful for the food angle, at least you assume it'll be quicker. But there's no real way to tell until phase two starts rolling. It's even possible alien technology has a way of turning carbon-based lifeforms into fuel for their space craft, that would be awesome.
Which is to say, I hope it doesn't get that far. But we must be wary. This battle is far from over. It hasn't even yet begun. Most people don't even believe there's a battle. I'll have to look into it more. º Last Column: Chuck E. Cheese is Using Child Labor to Cook Pizzaº more columns
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|  March 4, 2002
Just Say No to Rabid DogsSeems like we spent our entire childhoods preparing for things that never happened. How many hours did we waste watching filmstrips on not accepting rides from strangers, or classics like "Don't Play with Rover Foamymouth" that taught us the virtues of staying the hell away from dogs with rabies? How many sleepless nights spent worrying about total global annihilation from a nuclear war with the Russians? By that I mean other kids staying up all night worrying about nuclear death, God knows Omar Bricks didn't lose any shuteye over foreign policy issues. I was way too wrapped up in my plans to order a money printing press from an ad I saw in the back of a Casper comic book. I schemed for a year to get that damn money-mill, and then it finally came in the mail and it turns out the friggin' thing prints toy money! I shit you not, ten-dollar bills with a picture of a walrus on them. I could have shit, I was so mad. I might have. Gone were my dreams of printing up enough currency to buy every toy in the store and to build a functioning car out of Legos, with which to drive to Sea World. I'd have to wait until Christmas (and 1995, alternately) like all of the other kids, like a shmoe.
I guess every little kid had to have some major disillusionment when they were young, like having their parents die or ordering Sea Monkeys. I'm sure you know the drill: ad in the back of your comic book looks awesome and makes you think you're getting a clan of human-sized merpeople in...
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Seems like we spent our entire childhoods preparing for things that never happened. How many hours did we waste watching filmstrips on not accepting rides from strangers, or classics like "Don't Play with Rover Foamymouth" that taught us the virtues of staying the hell away from dogs with rabies? How many sleepless nights spent worrying about total global annihilation from a nuclear war with the Russians? By that I mean other kids staying up all night worrying about nuclear death, God knows Omar Bricks didn't lose any shuteye over foreign policy issues. I was way too wrapped up in my plans to order a money printing press from an ad I saw in the back of a Casper comic book. I schemed for a year to get that damn money-mill, and then it finally came in the mail and it turns out the friggin' thing prints toy money! I shit you not, ten-dollar bills with a picture of a walrus on them. I could have shit, I was so mad. I might have. Gone were my dreams of printing up enough currency to buy every toy in the store and to build a functioning car out of Legos, with which to drive to Sea World. I'd have to wait until Christmas (and 1995, alternately) like all of the other kids, like a shmoe.
I guess every little kid had to have some major disillusionment when they were young, like having their parents die or ordering Sea Monkeys. I'm sure you know the drill: ad in the back of your comic book looks awesome and makes you think you're getting a clan of human-sized merpeople in the mail, and that in no time you'll be frolicking in their underwater kingdom and cutting deals to have the Sea Monkeys blow up your school and stuff your Social Studies teacher into a steamer trunk headed for the Dutch East Indies. Then of course the package comes in the mail and it's an ant farm and a packet of dust. Since you're a kid and therefore gullible as a mail-order bride, you follow the instructions, add water, and hold your breath to see if this chintzy crap will somehow transform into the awesome experience you've been envisioning. Instead, it ends up looking like that Watersquirtz ring-toss game you've had since you were five, the one that got all leaky and mildewy after it spent a few years at the bottom of your toybox. It dawns on you then that the only way you could use these "Sea Monkeys" to get back at your Social Studies teacher would be if you put them in her coffee. So you get mad, and stay that way for the better part of seven minutes until you realize that you're missing the beginning of Diff'rent Strokes, and it's the one where Willis tries to grow a goatee.
That's what I hear anyway, I never ordered the Sea Monkeys myself. My dad had ordered them when he was a kid and his bitter diatribes convinced me that they probably weren't worth the eight bucks. For that same reason we never got to go to Sea World, since there was no way dad was going to shell out his hard-earned money to see a bunch of water fleas swim around in a tank.
Thank Moses I had my dad to impart these pearls of wisdom on my young mind, since school definitely wasn't doing it. They were far too concerned that we were going to get kidnapped from the school parking lot or bitten by a stray dog if we somehow managed not to get nuked while doing drugs. Of course none of it ever happened, and we all survived (except for Tommy Frink, who peed in the sink and later ended up becoming a Scientologist). What the suits didn't understand was that there were far too many Transformers to collect for any of us to blow our allowances on crack pipes. Of course I may be a bad one to ask since I flunked out of the DARE program at the tender age of eight. I passed out when the officers were showing us how to tie off and locate a vein, so during the graduation ceremony I had to sit off to the side with the kid who'd had Mono the whole time.
Seems like they could have been showing us filmstrips on something useful, like not answering cell phones in movie theaters or what to do if the guy next to you on the plane is wearing a diaper made of plastic explosives. I'm pretty sure I know the proper position to be in when you're obliterated by a mushroom cloud, but search me for how you're supposed to disarm a pimply reject in a Korn shirt with an Uzi. Or even etiquette things like the polite ways to turn down a request to join a cult. That would come in handy. And karate. They definitely should have taught us karate.
But, you know, life goes on and some things you just have to learn for yourself. For everything else, I've been thinking about correspondence colleges.
Yeah. I should definitely open one!
Bricks out. º Last Column: Windows XP: Fight the Futureº more columns
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Quote of the Day“If you can't stand the heat, turn down the goddamned heater.”
-Cheri S. TrumanFortune 500 CookieYou will find great happiness in wok. Be on the lookout for signs, they may guide you to riches or prevent you from driving on the railroad tracks. A large dog will determine your fate. Remember: Just a dab heals dry skin, but larger quantities can lube an entire baby. Lucky numbers: 0, 0, 0, 6.
Try again later.Top 5 Michael Jackson Trial Revelations| 1. | Sleeping with children in your bed only huge moral quaqmire—not illegal | | 2. | Elephant Man bones were delicious | | 3. | "Thriller" song autobiographical | | 4. | Body almost 78% artificial ingredients | | 5. | Jackson himself a delusional product of being raised in the spotlight; middle name Joseph | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 9/30/2002 Happy Birthday, America!
Yeah, I know it's a little late, but some crackhead stole my Dayplanner, so what can you do? We've got eight different kinds of fun coming your way from Entertainment Policeland today, so I hope you're ready. No, that's not a scientific figure and it probably wouldn't stand up to academic scrutiny, but goddammit, we're here to have fun. Leave your nit-picky bummer vibe at the door. We're doing what we can here to get through these Dark Ages of Autumn movie entertainment, and we need your oppressive lab coat act like Traci Lords needs a milk mustache. So let's all get with the program here. On to the movies!
In Theaters
Moonlight Miles
Remember back...
Happy Birthday, America!
Yeah, I know it's a little late, but some crackhead stole my Dayplanner, so what can you do? We've got eight different kinds of fun coming your way from Entertainment Policeland today, so I hope you're ready. No, that's not a scientific figure and it probably wouldn't stand up to academic scrutiny, but goddammit, we're here to have fun. Leave your nit-picky bummer vibe at the door. We're doing what we can here to get through these Dark Ages of Autumn movie entertainment, and we need your oppressive lab coat act like Traci Lords needs a milk mustache. So let's all get with the program here. On to the movies!
In Theaters
Moonlight Miles
Remember back when Dustin Hoffman was in good movies all the time? It seemed like he just wandered from set to set, dropping in to add a few lines to whatever movies looked good. No? Honestly, neither do I, but people tell me it happened. The last thing I liked him in was Hook, that basketball movie with Tommy Davidson, but it wasn't that long ago that he was winning Best Retard Oscars left and right and people said his name louder than they do now. I only found out he was in this movie because his sister was sitting behind me in the theater and she wouldn't shut up about it. Anyway, this movie is fine as entertainment if you're really in the mood to see something about a guy working two jobs at once, which I suppose is a mood people get in sometimes. I thought it was kind of slow myself. They tried to spice it up a bit with some Elton John tunes, but none of them were the Crocodile Hunter song, so I can't say how well that worked. If you ask me, I think Hoffman needs to spice up his own career a bit, maybe by playing a superhero or something. I'm sure there's got to be at least a few of those left, like The Wriggler or Captain Pants or something like that he could sink his teeth into.
Red Dragon
Some people keep on pumping even when the tit done come up dry, and now we can officially add our friends at the Silence of the Lambs franchise to that list. Sure, I think Hannibal Lecter opening up a Chinese restaurant is a clever twist for a new film in this face-eating British Royalty saga, but in case anyone fell asleep before the end of the last one, or crapped out while they were reading the book, he got his hand cut off at the end. And if there's one rule of thumb that every restaurant guide and Fodor's book has in common, it's don't eat at an Asian restaurant where the cook only has one hand. Hell, I don't think Hannibal could even eat Asian food, since you need one hand to work the chopsticks and the other hand to push food onto the chopsticks, otherwise those things are worthless.
Sweet Homo Alabama
See, now this is great. I always have a gay old time every time I travel to the South, since that's just the way they swing it down there. It's not my way, but I'm not about to be the one to suggest we do things Chicago-style when I'm visiting Rome, if you know what I mean. I'm not sure what exactly Chicago-style is, maybe deep dish or something, but the point is that it's not very gay. Unlike the South, which is as homo till the cows come home. And you know, it's about time somebody made a movie about the big gay pool party that the South really is. You might get a different idea watching the news and from books and whatever, but then you get down there and Holy Homo Moses. If you can't get your crops dusted in the South then brother, it just ain't happening. This film does a good job capturing the verve and the sass of the South, though I think they scaled back on the drag queens a bit to make it more palatable for uptight Northern audiences.
The Tuxedo
It's a formula that has worked in the James Bond movies for eons: if the suit is nice enough, it doesn't really matter what boob actor you stick in it for the "motor home cart-wheeling off the cliff oops your fly is open perfect ten swan dive into a glass of French spring water" scene. That suit has been the star of Bond pictures for generations, and somebody finally caught on and spun it off into its own franchise. This time they've blanched spastic Chinese superstar Jackie Chan into the penguin suit, and his brand of "move really fast and pretend it's karate" antics translate well to this rubber-stamped genre. Chan fans will all be satisfied, as the 14 year-olds and the repressed Asian men in the audience get to see some almost-exposed breasts, Jackie falls down a ladder a few times and he uses a nerf ball to beat up a guy who looks kind of like Jet Li. Moviegoers looking for more plot, however, might be somewhat disappointed to find that the film's dialogue is made up entirely of fight noises, like "Ha! Huah! Sho! Nananana! Oooow!"
That's what we've got for you this week, America. Keep coming back next week and you might win a prize or something! I don't know, I'm not in charge of the prizes. It sounds like fun though, maybe we could give away a drug boat or a plate of nachos, something to spice up the week. I'll ask around, there might be some office chairs we're not using or a fax machine that's not chained down. You never know, you could be a winner and nobody bothered to tell you. I'll get back to you on that one.    |
