American Media Can Shut Up About Harry Potter Any Time Now

pokespeople for the American media-consuming culture spoke Friday, sending out the word that we hear what you're saying about this Harry Potter phenomenon and the American media can lay off for a little while already.

Besieged by reports about the success of the hugely popular Harry Potter books by British author J.K. Rowling, the American public has recently been assaulted with constant unwanted information about the film Harry Potter and the Soceror's Stone, released Nov. 16, 2001 to monstrous audiences, making it one of the most successful movies of 2001.

"What are we, five?" said spokesperson for the American public Ralph Mackie.

"Yeah, okay, just shut up about the shit already, okay?" pleaded spokesperson Nancy Shumaker. "I know all about the movie and I don't give a rat's ass. I don't have any kids or nothing, what do you want me to do? Am I really supposed to care?"

Spokesperson John Umala empathized. "I just was starting to enjoy not hearing about friggin' Survivor every five seconds, then I'm blasted at every angle by terrorism. Can't I get a minute of peace without being slammed with over-hype on anything?"

When questioned about any possible chance of shutting the fuck up about it, executives at Warner Bros. declined to comment. No guarantees to stop talking about it for at least a minute were made.

The corporate-generated media hype is possibly the largest since 1999, when nearly every facet of the American media refused to give Star Wars: The Phantom Menace a rest, will you?

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Ladies and Gentleman, I'd like to bring things down for a minute, if that's okay with all of you. Make things a little somber. Bring up an unflattering truth, even if we're all reluctant to hear it, because that's what rap is about: Making us face the unpopular realities of the world.

A lot of us have lost friends in the Las Vegas-Atlantic City Coast Wars, haven't we? It's sad, I know. Why, a friend of mine, MC Charles Laser, he was one of the first to go down in the dispute. I'd like to have a little hand for him, if we can, MC Charles Laser! A good man, if I ever met one. One of the best Las Vegas show-stopping rappers you ever could hear. Taken in the prime of his showbiz life—he was only 47.

But you know, as great as Charles was, he's not the only one. A lot of us have lost homies on both sides of this senseless war. I'm not going to stand here and dis Atlantic City. There are many, many fine hip-hop artists out there, who perform some of the finest old school rap there is. Why, my very own DJ, DJ John Waterhouse, actually started with an Atlantic City act called Smilin' Wiley and the Funky Bunch. To dis Atlantic City is to dis my own blood. Is that hip? I think not.

The Atlantic City rappers do their own thing, and we here in Vegas do our own, too. Cappin' Crunch and I aren't likely to share the stage, but it's just because our acts are so different. I don't begrudge him his success. He deserves every penny he's earned for every record he's turned. Give it up for Cappin' Crunch now, everyone! That's it!

Which is why it just burns me up to hear some of these rappers—and they know who they are—these rappers who insist on saying derogatory things about their "opposition" on the other coasts. I heard a rapper right here in Las Vegas say MC PawPaw in Atlantic City was a perpetrator. Now, I've met MC PawPaw, people. He's no perpetrator. He's the real deal, and I'd stake my own professional reputation as an old school rapper on that. Las Vegas, Atlantic City, it's all good, friends.

Frankly, I think these negative rappers are just unimaginative. They have nothing good to say about anything, so they stoop to saying the worst things about other rappers. Other rappers, I might add, whom they know are class acts and possess talents superior to their own. That's what really burns them up. You can sling mud all you want, but that's not what rap is about. I rap about perpetrators, sure, but I never name names. That's just low-class, folks.

But you all know the negative rapping isn't even the worst of all this Las Vegas-Atlantic City rap war stuff. Friends have died. Homies have been lost. We all know the tragic story of DJ Sugar Cane, who was so distraught when he heard the negative things said about him in some "nameless" naysayer's rap, he lost control of his car and crashed. Died instantly—that's not right. Or Atlantic City's own P. Party, who was so tormented to read the mudslinging in Rap-Happy magazine, he took his own life. Sad. And there's the story of my friend MC Charles Laser, who became so infuriated, driven to near insanity by the slaps coming at him out of Atlantic City, he boarded a plane to fly out there and give them a piece of his mind. And that plane crashed upon take-off.

Too much blood has been shed already!

That's why I'm pouring a martini for my dead homies—on both coasts—and ask all of you to stop the insizzanity. Make rap, not war.

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I recently acquired a manservant, and let me say, it's about time. I don't too often dredge up the personal details of my life—few people have the stomach to face the horrible truth about the emptiness of my world outside the commune. It's all work, work, work, although not quite as much work as all that. I tend to spend my time chasing conspiracies, like a lone Fox Mulder, only in the attire of a riverboat gambler and with more incoherent yelling.

I hired Rascal in an attempt to do more with my free time than work. Frankly, I don't think the Ultimate Conspiracy is unraveling any time soon, but I'll keep my eyes on it—never let it be said Red Bagel isn't vigilant. I can just be vigilant in fewer hours, because it's wearing my ass out.

If you looked up "manservant" in the dictionary, you would see a picture of Rascal right there on the page. Actually, the picture is next to the entry for Mansi, a people of the Ob River in Siberia, and I was looking in an encyclopedia. But that third fellow back looks dead on like Rascal. I hired him for his wonderful English accent, so classy and uptight. Then he told me he was from Australia, but it's close enough, as far as I'm concerned.

So finally, I have managed to tear myself away from the office. In a metaphorical sense, this is not another complaint about the vinyl seats on those summer days I wear short shorts. Rascal suggested we go out and update my wardrobe, get something with more earth tones. I don't mind telling you I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman that day, if that's not too weird. It was fun trying on all those clothes and seeing how dapper I could look, like a real gentleman, when I went crazy in the most expensive stores in town. Of course, we didn't buy anything, their prices were shithouse, but when they found out I had tried on the underwear they let me keep every pair.

A man of many talents, Rascal also cooks. His Eggos are the finest to be found anywhere, and he makes all his syrup himself. Actually, he makes it by combining stolen bottles of syrup from IHOPs and Denny's, but as far as I'm concerned that's his creative license. True, it would be nice if he made more than Eggos and syrups, or the occasional burnt pop tart, but never let me be called greedy, sir.

One of the best things about Rascal is his thirst for work. Yes, no one works harder if you stand right there the entire time while the task is to be done—and don't take your eyes off that one, or he'll slip off to nap under a sequoia. But assuming you keep him under constant surveillance, no one works harder. We worked together all day last weekend building a chicken farm, including the chickens, from the ground up. At least we did until Rascal mysteriously disappeared. I found him at the end of the day, but in spite of all that work, he looked well-rested. Put two and two together with me, folks.

But I don't want you to think the Red Bagel house is a dictatorship. It's at least as democratic as the Bush administration. Rascal and I spent all Saturday partaking of his favorite pastime, underground death racing. It's not quite as fun as building a chicken farm, but there's a certain amount of exhilaration watching a car explode right in front of you, showering you with shrapnel and body parts. Suffice to say, we'll be a dictatorship from now on. All the same, I highly recommend getting an English-Australian manservant to all of you who are not poor.

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