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McCartney, Bradshaw to TourFebruary 18, 2002 |
New Orleans,LA Courtesy Schizophrenic Dan The greatest duo since Coverdale-Page?
The response to the pairing of Bradshaw and McCartney for an impromptu version of "A Hard Day's Night" during the Super Bowl halftime activities was nothing less than overwhelming. The phone lines at Fox were lit up for virtually the entire second half of the game with viewers asking where they might be able to pur...
ith the rousing success of their recent surprise duet at the Super Bowl, entertainers Terry Bradshaw and Sir Paul McCartney have announced that they are going on tour together soon, and will play major stadium and arena dates in selected cities across America. McCartney, former front man for the band Wings and alleged ex-Beatle, was quoted as saying that he "very much enjoyed Terry's fresh approach to lyrics. He plays fast and loose with the words, and I like that."
The response to the pairing of Bradshaw and McCartney for an impromptu version of "A Hard Day's Night" during the Super Bowl halftime activities was nothing less than overwhelming. The phone lines at Fox were lit up for virtually the entire second half of the game with viewers asking where they might be able to purchase a copy of the song as sung by the two well known personalities. The ragged vocals and fractured lyrics caused many of those inquiring to ask about "that punk-rock song about the hard day's dog" the two had sung. Callers were told that, unfortunately, there was no recorded version available at that time. Spokesmen for both McCartney and Bradshaw hinted that they may spend some time in the studio together soon to rectify that situation, however.
"The other thing I like about this arrangement," said McCartney, "is that, ever since Linda died, I've been looking for someone to sing backup on 'Hey Jude' like she did. Up until now, I hadn't met anyone who had that kind of vocal range and musical intuitiveness that she had. But Terry's 'nah nah nah naaah's' have that certain je ne sais quois that I've been looking for."
Asked for further comment, Bradshaw responded excitedly in a language that was completely unintelligible, waving his arms and gesticulating wildly. His eyebrows shot up and down his tall forehead, his eyes bugged completely out and his tongue seemed to take on a life of its own as it rolled and flopped around in and out of his mouth. "Blah-dah boogah wah wah wah! Hibbidy dibbidy woogah! Manalanna frack!" Bradshaw apparently said. the commune news already knows that the answer to the question "What lives on a farm and has three legs?" is "Paul McCartney and his fiancee," so don't even bother asking. Stigmata Spent thinks that jokes about cripples are lame.
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Carson story beaten to death in front of millions of witnesses
Tree farmers plagued by "mad log" disease
Late Playboy photographer Helmut Newton goes on to marginally better place
 Colin Farrell Claims Responsibility for Groin Injury That Sidelined Kwan |
At Least One
Team in SuperBowl ‘Really Came to Play’ War on Terror Finally Focused on Real Threats Who’s the Black Pit That Killed a Night Club Prick? Elevator Shaft — Damn Right Apple iPhone to Contain Real Fruit Filling |
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 July 12, 2004
Lost VegasAfter a voyage that took me to nearly every state in the union, and some I'm still not convinced are legally in, I found my Elvis medicine.
First a long trip to New Hampshire, only to realize the Elvis Graceland is in Memphis, so I headed down that way. I'm sure there was plenty of pharmaceuticals on hand in that huge facility, but the tour guides give you the most morbid look when you ask if you can go through the medicine cabinet. I'm sure the King looks down disapprovingly from his cloud, but he's powerless to help me now.
And that's when I thought of it—Elvis helpers! I've seen them everywhere. Like Santa Claus, they are plentiful and pose as the man himself while going around, doing his bidding, like non-denominational disciples. And like Elvis, of course, Santa Claus also died in a mansion in the 1970s, but his work continues through those noble men. All I had to do was meet up with a faithful Elvis impersonator and I would receive the medicine I so needed! Though actually, the flu that inspired this long trek disappeared somewhere between Ohio and Kentucky, but I was already in motion, no fun to stop the journey.
All I can guess is it must be the off-season, since the Elvis helpers were nowhere in sight. I tried the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the original Sun Studios, and every Hard Rock Café in the nation. I camped out for days in front of Nicolas Cage's house, knowing well his fetish for everything Elvis, but none ever...
º Last Column: I Too Need Elvis Medicine
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After a voyage that took me to nearly every state in the union, and some I'm still not convinced are legally in, I found my Elvis medicine.
First a long trip to New Hampshire, only to realize the Elvis Graceland is in Memphis, so I headed down that way. I'm sure there was plenty of pharmaceuticals on hand in that huge facility, but the tour guides give you the most morbid look when you ask if you can go through the medicine cabinet. I'm sure the King looks down disapprovingly from his cloud, but he's powerless to help me now.
And that's when I thought of it—Elvis helpers! I've seen them everywhere. Like Santa Claus, they are plentiful and pose as the man himself while going around, doing his bidding, like non-denominational disciples. And like Elvis, of course, Santa Claus also died in a mansion in the 1970s, but his work continues through those noble men. All I had to do was meet up with a faithful Elvis impersonator and I would receive the medicine I so needed! Though actually, the flu that inspired this long trek disappeared somewhere between Ohio and Kentucky, but I was already in motion, no fun to stop the journey.
All I can guess is it must be the off-season, since the Elvis helpers were nowhere in sight. I tried the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the original Sun Studios, and every Hard Rock Café in the nation. I camped out for days in front of Nicolas Cage's house, knowing well his fetish for everything Elvis, but none ever showed up. The police officer who escorted me away had a pretty good sneer, but he was sneering for a different reason. That's when it occurred to me—Las Vegas! The Windy Apple! The City of Broken Lights! The Gamblingest Place on Earth!
I had a contact in Vegas, too, through a friend named MC Vic Daniels, whom I met through the commune. He once wrote a Rent for us, so I knew he was poor and had a poor interpretation of reality, and hopefully those factors would help me find a reliable Elvis who could help. I saw his show, and even though I'm not much on rap, I certainly enjoyed a lot of it, and indeed his shoes were worth remarking on. We shared a dinner afterwards, and it turns out he knows the best of the best Elvis impersonators. Which is good, since I wanted a sincere Elvis imitator, and not some loser just pretending to be Elvis.
I found the best indeed—Loretta "Elvis" Costello, a female Elvis impersonator who couldn't look more like Elvis if her mother had been the King. Not a female impersonator, but a female who impersonates—she has trouble with those adjectives all the time. She was kind, informative, and could belt out "In the Ghetto" so well as to bring a tear to your eye. Quick to help, too, as she carried her own duffel bag loaded from top to bottom with the finest prescription drugs you could ever find—Elvis' own, no doubt. She set me up for everything I need, and took no money in return. Why, you may ask? You cynical shit. Some people just carry the spirit of the good King with them, and exhibit it in everything they do. In fact, I want to live the same way from now on. I thanked Girl Elvis and invited her to drop in any time she was in the neighborhood, and I would be glad to repay the favor.
She said she was going to be coming to Atlantic City next week and needed a place to stay, so she would be happy to take me up on the offer. Didn't know what time she would arrive, whenever her friend Merle dropped her off, and didn't know how long she would be staying, since the show may get extended. Yes, I truly am a stupid man. º Last Column: I Too Need Elvis Medicineº more columns
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|  November 11, 2002
Volume 29Dear commune:
Just writing in to make you privy to the word, dudes. I just rocked the vote today by voting for that righteous fucker Red Bagel for State Assemblyman. True, I'm not exactly sure what a State Assemblyman is supposed to do, but whatever it is, I'm sure my man Bagel will do the fuck out of it. Whether it's putting shit together that the state needs, like futons and bookcases and all that, or if it's talking in front of a bunch of kids crammed together in a cafeteria, whatever kind of assembly it means I know Bagel's gonna tear it a new asshole, commune style. Shit yeah.
True, I hated assemblies myself when I was a kid, but that was mostly because there wasn't some nut up there talking about Vietnam and doing magic tricks and shit. That's some madness that would have been worth missing a smoke break for. And, come to think of it, I hate putting shit together too, so I'd probably make a pretty lousy Assemblyman myself. But if Bagel gets elected, I've got a coffee table still in the box out in my garage that I could use some help with. Don't even think about welching, dude. I got you elected!
Truth be told, if I'd had my druthers I probably would have voted for my homestyle, Omar Bricks, for State Assemblydude. But unless you wanted to vote for one of those gay-asses they had preprinted on the menu, you had to write in your choice, and I can never remember how many o's there are in Omar. Just in case there was some uptight dick out...
º Last Column: Volume 28
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Dear commune: Just writing in to make you privy to the word, dudes. I just rocked the vote today by voting for that righteous fucker Red Bagel for State Assemblyman. True, I'm not exactly sure what a State Assemblyman is supposed to do, but whatever it is, I'm sure my man Bagel will do the fuck out of it. Whether it's putting shit together that the state needs, like futons and bookcases and all that, or if it's talking in front of a bunch of kids crammed together in a cafeteria, whatever kind of assembly it means I know Bagel's gonna tear it a new asshole, commune style. Shit yeah. True, I hated assemblies myself when I was a kid, but that was mostly because there wasn't some nut up there talking about Vietnam and doing magic tricks and shit. That's some madness that would have been worth missing a smoke break for. And, come to think of it, I hate putting shit together too, so I'd probably make a pretty lousy Assemblyman myself. But if Bagel gets elected, I've got a coffee table still in the box out in my garage that I could use some help with. Don't even think about welching, dude. I got you elected! Truth be told, if I'd had my druthers I probably would have voted for my homestyle, Omar Bricks, for State Assemblydude. But unless you wanted to vote for one of those gay-asses they had preprinted on the menu, you had to write in your choice, and I can never remember how many o's there are in Omar. Just in case there was some uptight dick out there named Oomar Bricks, I thought I'd play it safe and vote for the dude named after my breakfast. Sucks, yeah, but that's politics. Peace Out. Brian Delaney
Santa Monica, CADear Brian:
Thanks for the word, dude. Red Bagel appreciates your vote and if he voted, we're sure he voted for you, too. And by that we mean that we're sure he didn't vote, since he's scared shitless of those optical scanning machines and the soul maps they can chart using your electromagnetic field, making it possible for the government to tax you again in your dreams.
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible, and the ladies find that irresistible. Don't blame us, it's apparently some kind of self-esteem issue.º Last Column: Volume 28º more columns
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Milestones1954: November 11 is changed from Armistice Day to Veteran's Day to honor veterans of all wars, and mostly to prevent huge national embarrassment as Americans repeatedly fail to pronounce "armistice" correctly.Now HiringPlay Director. Experienced Broadway/Off-Broadway veteran sought to bring life to boring old commune Thanksgiving production without mentioning syphilis and genocide. A good show will guarantee you a spot directing our multi-denominational Hanukkah-Ramadan-Christmas Kwanzaganza.Top Enduring 2004 Election Scandals| 1. | Bush didn't really win; they forgot to count the comatose vote | | 2. | Identical twins voted twice, ignoring "1 Face, 1 Vote" principle | | 3. | Every 13th vote discarded as "unlucky" | | 4. | Too many precincts used antiquated paper ballots | | 5. | Too many precincts used newfangled electric voting machines | | 6. | 10,000 Florida voters cast ballots for dead man: John Kerry | | 7. | Too many military absentee ballots were marked for Bush: Now that's just stupid | | 8. | No paper trail for southern state "applause-o-meter" polling technique | | 9. | Oh sweet Jesus, Bush really won! | | 10. | Eskimos kept away from polls by sheer geography | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 4/2/2007 Buenos Greetos, America! Do you know what time it is? No, I’m serious, somebody replaced my wall clock with half a live chicken and I have no idea what time it is. Come to think of it, I hope to hell that’s a whole live chicken with only the front half sticking out of the wall, because it’s going to freak me out all to hell if it turns out half a chicken is somehow staying alive on my wall. And have you ever had a clock you had to feed? I don’t recommend it. Anyway, forget that I asked, now that I think about it, by the time any of you read this and get back to me, it’ll be an entirely different time and I probably won’t even care then. Let’s just compromise and say it’s Entertainment Police time. Deal? Sweet.
Blades of Glory
Anyone want to...
Buenos Greetos, America! Do you know what time it is? No, I’m serious, somebody replaced my wall clock with half a live chicken and I have no idea what time it is. Come to think of it, I hope to hell that’s a whole live chicken with only the front half sticking out of the wall, because it’s going to freak me out all to hell if it turns out half a chicken is somehow staying alive on my wall. And have you ever had a clock you had to feed? I don’t recommend it. Anyway, forget that I asked, now that I think about it, by the time any of you read this and get back to me, it’ll be an entirely different time and I probably won’t even care then. Let’s just compromise and say it’s Entertainment Police time. Deal? Sweet.
Blades of Glory
Anyone want to write in and offer up a plausible explanation why it took the Hollywood bigwigs this long to finally bring a cinematic retelling of the amazing life of actor Ruben Blades to the big screen? The only rationale I can come up with involves a labyrinthine international conspiracy that would make Oliver Stone barf out his ass. But whatever the reason for the delay, the long wait was clearly worth it when you see the life of the genius behind Predator 2 and Disorganized Crime eat up the screen like it was a giant slice of bubble tape. If Hollywood makes a better biopic this year, well, good for them.
Honey, I Think I Love My Wife
Finally, Rick Moranis gets over his illogical fear of blackface and steps gracefully into the role he was born to play in American public life: The white guy who’s a really funny black guy in blackface. It seems like for years actors have been going the other way, Eddie Murphy hitting the makeup truck hard and playing the entire white cast on Entourage, and Martin Lawrence splashing on the whiteface to play a soulful white retard in Rain Man. Since when do only black men have a license to make us laugh by pretending to be a race they’re not? I want to see Chinese guys dressed up like they’re Australian and Cubans who can do a hilarious Samoan. Get on it, Hollywood.
Peter Pan’s Labyrinth
One of the most painful experiences from my childhood that still sticks with me today was seeing Disney’s Michael Jackson biopic Peter Pan in the theater and coming to realize, a sickly feeling rising up from my stomach as each minute passed, that they were going to leave out the part at the end of the book where Pan goes shithouse and chases the lost boys through the hedge maze with an axe. Why? It’s a painful lesson for a child to learn, about the compromises and cowardice of the adult world. Well, apparently I wasn’t the only one who felt this way, as brooding Spaniard Benecio Del Taco was scarred enough to wait until he grew up to set the record straight with this harrowing remake, true to the source material down to the last comma. Trust me, I counted. One word of warning for parents, however: You must bring your children to this film. I don’t care if you have to pull them out of school, permanently, you owe it to your children to tell them the story of Peter Pan, the whole story, the way it was meant to be told. All else pales in importance.
Rocky Balboa
Few thought soulful beefcake Sylvester Stallone would dare make yet another Rocky sequel after earning a lifetime of love and adulation from lingerie-clad weirdos for his genre-bending penultimate effort, The Rocky Horror Picture Show. But just like in the movie, Cobra doesn’t know when to quit, so he keeps churning these things out like an Amish dude who won’t accept that the town already has way more butter than it can use. But is it any good? If you’ve got a thing for watching old guys get beat up, but couldn’t score tickets to the latest Evander Hoylfield fight, then yeah, this one will probably scratch that itch. Fans of recognizable cinematic values would probably be better off hopping from theater to theater, watching the Coke commercials before all the main features instead. All in all the quality of the movie hardly matters, since lingerie-clad true believers will be driving midnight showings of this thing for decades to come regardless.
Well, America, I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for this week. I’m not actually afraid, I mean, I won’t be sleeping with the bathroom light on tonight or anything. Actually that’s a pretty bizarre figure of speech when you really think about it. Weird. Anyway, join us again next time so as not to be left outside in the cold dark void of the unknowing. Until then, I’m Roland McShyster and you’re some other person out there.   |
