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Children's Television Workshop Releases Child WorkforceMarch 3, 2003 |
Toronto, Canada Oscar T. Grouch The original production staff of the Children's Television Workshop circa 1969, in a rare unchained photograph.
Rogers, who died Thursday shortly after switching back into his business shoes and suit jacket, was a lifelong defender of the rights of children and had negotiated with the Children's Television Workshop for years for its underage hiring practices. Months earlier, Rogers reportedly asked representatives of the CTW as an act of good will to allow the working youth out of their contracts in the event of his death. Thursday, after hearing of their neighb...
ollowing the speedy delivery of Mr. Rogers to the afterlife Thursday, the Children's Television Workshop announced it would be releasing all children in its laborforce from contracts within the month. This was in accordance with the wishes of the late Fred Rogers, a children's advocate and fellow children's television producer.
Rogers, who died Thursday shortly after switching back into his business shoes and suit jacket, was a lifelong defender of the rights of children and had negotiated with the Children's Television Workshop for years for its underage hiring practices. Months earlier, Rogers reportedly asked representatives of the CTW as an act of good will to allow the working youth out of their contracts in the event of his death. Thursday, after hearing of their neighbor's passing, CTW representatives announced they would do as Rogers wished.
"Fred Rogers was a dear friend and the kindest man I've ever known," said Children's Television Workshop Vice-President Doug Birch, 23. "I came up in this business, clawed my way up to the top from the mailroom. In all the people I've met in my 20 years at CTW, Fred Rogers never resorted to the 'business-first' mentality so many have. He will be missed."
Birch went on to say the board of directors of CTW declared an emergency meeting after hearing of Rogers' demise, and after a heated argument which included name-calling and crayon-throwing, the board agreed as a gesture to Rogers' memory all contracts with underage CTW workers would be voided, to be re-negotiated if desired. This would release the 3,042 members of the CTW labor force, 92% of which are under 18, from the employ of the company.
Shows such as Sesame Street and The Electric Company will halt production while considering new ways to produce inexpensive public television with the help of rare viewers who actually donate money.
Though child labor laws exist in the United States to prevent the exploitation of children in the production of educational television, offices and studios of the Children's Television Workshop operate predominately in Taiwan, Malaysia, and Canada. Rarely are laws against child labor enforced in such regions.
For some CTW employees, the move means the first taste of freedom since being purchased by the corporation from orphanages and refugee camps; for others, it means powerful leverage for re-negotiating better contracts and living conditions. Either way, most everyone is grateful to the generous request of the late children's television icon.
Sesame Street Co-Producer Steven "Stevie" Robinson: "I remember when I first came in here. Five-year-old kid, timid and scared and seeing all these cameras and wooden sets and expensive equipment, all this stuff you don't think about when you see those kids TV shows on the air. And this guy in a green sweater comes up and says, 'Hi, I'm Fred Rogers. What's your name?' Even then I knew he was a class act. I may be a little older, a little more cynical and suspicious of how the business works, but even now, two years later, I remember the friendliness in that gesture. Children's television should be about the kids. Like me."
While most are pleased by the announcement of the Children's Television Workshop, it still comes at a sad time for all involved in educational television production as the world remembers Fred Rogers.
"Me sad," said Sesame Street ensemble player Cookie Monster. "Me no realize how much Mr. Rogers touch Cookie Monster life until he gone. Me gladly give all cookies in world to have him back." the commune news is proud to say we are no longer using child labor in our production either—all our girls are over 18 and we can provide proof upon request. Ivana Folger-Balzac is a commune correspondent and a hateful, vengeful bitch… according to some people, none of which we agree with. We think quite the opposite of the lovely, small type-reading Ivana.
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 July 8, 2002
We're Through the Looking Glass, PeopleI suggest you check your phone for bugs and turn the stereo up loud. At least if you're reading this column out loud to yourself or with friends. Some may say you're crazy for believing the world is more than meets the eye, that the government deceives you every moment of every day, that you host small parties where you get together with friends and read my column aloud. I say if you're crazy, we're all living in a nuthouse. And we're the less crazy "germaphobic" kind of insane and everyone else is the "dog tells you to shoot the president" kind.
We have turned a corner, loyal readers. We've opened a door to a room or a lid to a box that we can't close again. We've stripped the spark plug where we can take it out, but can never put it back in. We've unscrewed the top to the jar and you've gotten peanut butter in my chocolate. We're through the looking glass, people.
Be prepared for anything. Your life may be in jeopardy just for seeing me. Your wheel of fortune is spinning out of control. You've thrown the dice and shouted "Yahtzee!" and the government is listening in. The word of the day is "conspiracy," with a capital "C" and it's right on triple word score, triple letter points.
You're looking in the manhole, Americans, and there's a foul stench coming up. Go ahead. Turn to me with a pinched face and ask, "Damn! You smell that?" I sure do. Someone smelt it who did not dealt it.
We've lifted up the seamy underbelly of...
º Last Column: Aliens Are Transporting Me from Room to Room
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I suggest you check your phone for bugs and turn the stereo up loud. At least if you're reading this column out loud to yourself or with friends. Some may say you're crazy for believing the world is more than meets the eye, that the government deceives you every moment of every day, that you host small parties where you get together with friends and read my column aloud. I say if you're crazy, we're all living in a nuthouse. And we're the less crazy "germaphobic" kind of insane and everyone else is the "dog tells you to shoot the president" kind.
We have turned a corner, loyal readers. We've opened a door to a room or a lid to a box that we can't close again. We've stripped the spark plug where we can take it out, but can never put it back in. We've unscrewed the top to the jar and you've gotten peanut butter in my chocolate. We're through the looking glass, people.
Be prepared for anything. Your life may be in jeopardy just for seeing me. Your wheel of fortune is spinning out of control. You've thrown the dice and shouted "Yahtzee!" and the government is listening in. The word of the day is "conspiracy," with a capital "C" and it's right on triple word score, triple letter points.
You're looking in the manhole, Americans, and there's a foul stench coming up. Go ahead. Turn to me with a pinched face and ask, "Damn! You smell that?" I sure do. Someone smelt it who did not dealt it.
We've lifted up the seamy underbelly of America and tickled it until the leg started kicking wildly. But it's not enough. We keep tickling, up and down the belly. Don't be surprised when it pees on you.
I've met with top government officials, who agreed with what I said. About being through the looking glass, I mean. We've walked through the park, arm in arm, neither looking the other in the eye so government spies wouldn't know we know each other. Sure, it felt really gay to be walking like that through the park, and some teen-age boys we believe were not affiliated with the government chanted something obscene about us, but homophobic teen-agers is the least of our problems right now. We've broken through the ice and our collective privates have shrunken like sun-dried dates in the freezing water.
This information is too big to release in one column. I can only say three words: Japan, yogurt, chemical P. No more is safe to say; in fact, I worry about government assassins out there doing Yahoo word string searches on "Japan, yogurt, chemical P" and stumbling on this column. My life would be worth less than a possum douche if I was discovered with what I know at this point. That's why I used "yogurt" in place of the real word which, if said, would put the horrifying reality out there for all to understand and fear, but also shorten my life significantly. So I hold back the secret true word at this moment, but let's just say that "yogurt" is the biggest worry of our new millennium, if we knew about it.
Things will go from worst to far worse than worst if I let the wrong information slip right now. This column is a call to arms—I'm assembling an elite team, a daring venture on my part. For the first time I'm going to do something rather than report the ugly truth. My elite team will break into the yogurt storage facility and remove the dreaded chemical P before it contaminates the yogurt and yogurt-based products, at which point the ultimate weapon of covert destruction will be formed.
The team will have to be brave, intelligent, and expendable. They should also be able to follow my commands from a long distance away, since I'll be coordinating from my fall-out shelter at an undisclosed location I can't disclose. And should they be caught, they should disavow any knowledge of my part in the operation and certainly shouldn't expect to receive any sort of payment for incomplete work.
If this sounds like you, or an unsuspecting friend you could trick into doing this, then by all means, contact me. I'll be at my undisclosed fall-out shelter, so if you can contact me I'll know right away you're one of the government spies and my hideout's been compromised. º Last Column: Aliens Are Transporting Me from Room to Roomº more columns
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|  November 15, 2000
God Owes Me BIG TIMESome people act like God owes them something... just because they were born! As if being given the gift of life entitles them to something other than each and every lucky breath they take. Nosiree Bob.
Look at my face! Now you know damn well somebody owes me something for that, people.
Nobody owes Claudia Schiffer jack shit. Miss pretty priss can bitch and moan all she wants about how rough it is being a supermodel and working all day in a swimsuit until the fabric cuts your pert little nipples, and okay, maybe the beaver teeth are a bit repugnant. But her case don't matter a hill o' beans to my having to cart this puss around for eternity.
Ain't nobody on earth done so wrong to deserve my gruesome hood ornament. If the Geneva Convention applied to my sadsack mug God would be up on some serious crimes against humanity charges, that's for sure. And I make no apologies--hell, with this creepy kisser nobody would stick around to listen to 'em anyway. I'm not a handsome man, that's something I and everybody I've ever encountered instantly knows. But what matters is... I'm damn ugly.
"Wait, Rok," you say, looking quite the fool while reading the commune and talking back, "I know where this is going." But you're wrong. This isn't about disproving the existence of God. If anything, my nasty neanderthal visage proves there is a God and he's one twisted bastard, He is.
I'm not pushing any unwarranted charges on Hisself,...
º Last Column: Nabisco Loves Me
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Some people act like God owes them something... just because they were born! As if being given the gift of life entitles them to something other than each and every lucky breath they take. Nosiree Bob.
Look at my face! Now you know damn well somebody owes me something for that, people.
Nobody owes Claudia Schiffer jack shit. Miss pretty priss can bitch and moan all she wants about how rough it is being a supermodel and working all day in a swimsuit until the fabric cuts your pert little nipples, and okay, maybe the beaver teeth are a bit repugnant. But her case don't matter a hill o' beans to my having to cart this puss around for eternity.
Ain't nobody on earth done so wrong to deserve my gruesome hood ornament. If the Geneva Convention applied to my sadsack mug God would be up on some serious crimes against humanity charges, that's for sure. And I make no apologies--hell, with this creepy kisser nobody would stick around to listen to 'em anyway. I'm not a handsome man, that's something I and everybody I've ever encountered instantly knows. But what matters is... I'm damn ugly.
"Wait, Rok," you say, looking quite the fool while reading the commune and talking back, "I know where this is going." But you're wrong. This isn't about disproving the existence of God. If anything, my nasty neanderthal visage proves there is a God and he's one twisted bastard, He is.
I'm not pushing any unwarranted charges on Hisself, I'm just saying that all this can be cleared up nice and neatly with a blank check. His holiass can definitely afford it, just invent more gold or utarnium, the ultimate valuable metal or something. But it's quite clear I've been done wrong and it don't take no Judge Wapner to rule in my favor to prove it. I'll forget the whole thing if Our Lord Who Art Laughing His Ass Off Up In Heaven will just cut me some quick cash. And it better be soon, I've got a high school reunion to go to soon. º Last Column: Nabisco Loves Meº more columns
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Milestones1961: Cuban immigrant Lazlo Homales buries a small change purse in a remote section of upstate New York. Over 40 years later, commune reporter Ivan Nacutchacokov finds the purse with a metal detector, and—what the crap, two dollars?? Lousy poor immigrants!Now HiringHall Monitor. Duties include asking to see hall passes, looking like an authority figure and keeping the unpopular commune staff members out of the staff lounge. Good grades a plus.Top Shocking New Barry Bonds Allegations| 1. | Extra 45 pounds of muscle added in 1998 not actually from special "Reverse-Atkins Crazy Carboholics" diet | | 2. | Injected Flubber into testicles, just for hell of it | | 3. | Paunchy, long-haired trainer "Camaro Dan" not actual fitness expert | | 4. | Dosed with Nyquil—during daylight hours! | | 5. | Bonds' bats made from genetically-modified maple trees | | 6. | Therapeutic skin grafts actually beef grafts | | 7. | Bonds-endorsed "Human Growth Flakes" cereal not safe for children | | 8. | Bonds didn't actually write "Surfin' Safari" | | 9. | Tasmanian Devil hormone injections not a court-ordered road rage treatment | | 10. | Friends, relatives refer to Bonds as "Skippy" | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 7/21/2003 Glad you finally came around, America, welcome back to Entertainment Police. What have we got for you this week? Well, before we get to that, you ever notice how I always refer to the column by "this week" when we all damn well know it only runs once every two weeks? I'm sure you were wondering about that, unless you just take everything you read at face value and figured your brain was probably freaking out every other week and giving you a dĂ©jĂ vu of the previous week's column on a rhythmic schedule, which is pretty bizarre but people believe in Scientology, too. But anyway, yeah I know it only runs every two weeks, I'm not trying to fool anybody there. That's as often at the commune publishes, which is fine since they still pay us every week. Though come to think of it, paying us...
Glad you finally came around, America, welcome back to Entertainment Police. What have we got for you this week? Well, before we get to that, you ever notice how I always refer to the column by "this week" when we all damn well know it only runs once every two weeks? I'm sure you were wondering about that, unless you just take everything you read at face value and figured your brain was probably freaking out every other week and giving you a déjà vu of the previous week's column on a rhythmic schedule, which is pretty bizarre but people believe in Scientology, too. But anyway, yeah I know it only runs every two weeks, I'm not trying to fool anybody there. That's as often at the commune publishes, which is fine since they still pay us every week. Though come to think of it, paying us only on new-issue weeks sounds like exactly the kind of crap Red Bagel would try to pull, so don't anybody read this column to him lest he gets any ideas from it. But the real reason I say "this week" is that there's just no good way to refer to this two-week period without sounding like a complete nerd. You start messing around with terms like bi-weekly and that just sounds too much like a lesbian magazine title to me. So unless you want me to start saying "this half-month" like some kind of bed-wetting science fiction geek, I recommend you just take a chill pill over the whole thing.
So anyway, back to the original question: What have we got for you this week? What are you, slow to catch on? Movie reviews, dumbass!
In Theaters
Bed Boys II
It's nice to live in an age when big action stars aren't afraid to acknowledge the homoerotic undertones of the typical buddy action picture by ceasing to beat around the bush (the pun wasn't intended but I'll take it) and just doing a gay action flick every once in a while. For the longest time people acted like this was some huge deal, like you couldn't have a couple of gay guys running around, shooting people and spouting catchphrases. Kudos to Will Smith and funnyman Laurence Fishburne for taking that bold step in style. True, this way neither of them can win the girl in the end, but it's a nice change of pace when the filmmakers don't have to staple a pair of boobs to a flimsy sketch of a character to give the heroes motivation. After all, what could be more crowd-pleasing than having the two leads go home together at the end, without having to watch some girl pretend like she can shoot a gun? Kudos and other snack products to you, Hollyweird.
Lara Croft Tomb Raider: Rock the Cradle of Love
Virtual sex bomb Angelina Jolie reprises her role from the popular Billy Joel video "Rock the Cradle of Love" in this feature-length shake of the moneymaker. Few thought she'd have much of a career after that video, unless Winger got really popular again, but she's done all right for herself. I guess it pays to be able to do a serviceable fake English accent; smart pinup girls should take note and work on that. Though that's kind of like saying fat Olympic divers shouldn't do the cannonball, probably doesn't come up much. This film another shameless example of the trend toward giving movies titles that are longer than Ron Jeremy's wang, but even at that it's still better than the original title: Lara Croft Who is the Tomb Raider Stars (and By Stars We Mean She Both Kicks and Shows Some Ass) in The Cradle of Love: A Rocking Titfest. The longer title might have brought more pasty teenagers into the theaters, but the trailer for this film (available now on DVD as Lara Croft: Tomb Raider) has the same effect without using all those words.
Seabiscuit
As anyone who's seen Caddyshack knows, a "seabiscuit" is when you take a shit in a swimming pool, which obviously makes this a very bizarre name for a movie. It's even more bizarre that Tobey Macguire is starring in this one, though the make-up people did a pretty great job of giving him a dorky red wig that does make him look like a seabiscuit. It takes a brave actor to wear something like that. Kind of reminds me of when George Clooney dressed up as a Latino pimp for that goofy Yo Brother, Where's the Party? movie. This movie isn't nearly as fun as that one, though, despite the hilariously inappropriate title. Personally I found it hard to follow, in part because I kept wandering out of the theater to see if there was anything better going on outside.
Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over
After all these years, Hollywood finally gave me an excuse to drag my old 3-D glasses out of the bedroom closet, dust them off and cart them gingerly out to the metroplex for the first time since Jaws 3-D sucked all over the big screen. These actually aren't even the glasses they gave me for that one, I have a free promotional pair from 7-11 from when they inexplicably showed Terms of Endearment in 3-D on Fox a few years back. It sucked, too, but it was fun to wear the glasses. Actually, all 3-D movies ever have sucked, including this one, but really they've always been thinly disguised excuses for people to get to wear the fun glasses. You can try to just wear them out and about town, but after about 20 minutes if you haven't walked into a bus yet you'll have a headache the size of Chinatown and your rods and cones will be all mixed up like they were a crazy breakfast cereal.
That's all they paid me to write this week, America, so you'll have to turn elsewhere to quench your passion for numerous letters strung together into pretty words, if this wasn't enough to keep your boat floating. Until next time, America: Get out!    |
