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 June 18, 2007 |
Los Angeles, CA Junior Bacon Hilton is seen here exiting the detention center and getting mentally psyched up for a new career as a nineteenth century pub boxer.
“When I heard the courts had ordered 23 episodes, I knew this was going to be a big hit,” explained media buttsniff Margo Philsbury. “Talk about a fish out of water! Previous seasons of The Simple Life really failed to go for the gusto like this one did. I mean, Paris Hilton? In jail? Can you just imagi...
he early run of hotel heiress and all around well respected young lady Paris Hiton’s highly-anticipated new series The Simple Life: Century Regional Detention Center hit an unexpected blip this week, with Hilton walking off the set of this groundbreaking new creative enterprise. A Hitlon spokesperson cited “creative differences” between Hilton and the detention center officials who are producing the show in conjunction with the Los Angeles County courts. “When I heard the courts had ordered 23 episodes, I knew this was going to be a big hit,” explained media buttsniff Margo Philsbury. “Talk about a fish out of water! Previous seasons of The Simple Life really failed to go for the gusto like this one did. I mean, Paris Hilton? In jail? Can you just imagine it?” “C’mon, she’s so pretty. She’s like a princess,” explained Sheriff Lee Baca, who facilitated Hilton’s temporary departure from the show. “Or whatever they call it. Hostess? Heiress? Celebutante? Is that a real world now? You don’t put people like that in jail. Then all the kids would want to go to jail, they’d be skateboarding in public and carjacking and shit just to get in and live the glamorous life of an inmate like Miss Hilton.” The public’s anticipation of the new series was sky-high leading up to its June 3rd debut, with MTV Video Awards host Sarah Silverman devoting a sizeable portion of her opening monologue to wishing the hotel heiress well in her latest endeavor. Audience members, however, couldn’t tell if Silverman was being ironic or post-ironic, also known as “sincere.” Meanwhile, rumors abounded that Simple Life co-star Nicole Richie was working on a heroin possession deal to possibly continue the series without Hilton’s involvement. “I heard they wanted Paris to eat this grody food, like she was in prison or something,” jawed Hilton friend and fellow What-The-Fuck-Are-You-Famous-For celebrity Richie. “And she was like ‘no way’ and they were like ‘you weigh 75 pounds, you’re gonna die if you don’t eat’ and she was like ‘I’d rather die than eat chicken fried steak, gross!’ and they were like ‘okay you can go home.’” Hilton had landed the deal for the new series after wowing audiences with her performance last September, when a drunken Hilton was pulled over for weaving like an African-American hairdresser and reportedly told the police it was only because all she’d had for dinner was a martini. Other guest appearances in January and February cemented her position as America’s favorite excuse to not pay attention to Iraq, leading to a new deal for the show’s unexpected sixth season. Hotel maids, restaurant owners and taxi cab drivers alike applauded the move, hoping it would mean Hilton would stop pissing everywhere. Disaster was averted on Friday, when Hilton acceded to the producers’ demands that she honor her contract, returning to the set in a spirited mood, boisterously vocal about her enthusiasm for the project. The show’s production was immediately resumed, thrilling fans of lesbian shower scenes and mind-numbing rot the world over. the commune news is not responsible for Paris Hilton. the commune news is not responsible for Paris Hilton. the commune news is not responsible for Paris Hilton. Ivana Folger-Balzac could teach the heiress a thing or two about avoiding jail time, but still lags a distant third to Hilton and that chick who invented the headache excuse among the nation’s most-hated women. Give it a year though, we here at the commune really believe in Ivana.
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 July 12, 2004
My So-Called Life InsuranceYou ever get a nagging feeling, like you left the gas on or forgot to piss out the campfire? Like you're forgetting something but you have no idea what it could be? That's the way the last week was for me until I realized I've spent the last ten years forgetting to get life insurance. Now, I know what you're thinking, that Omar Bricks and life insurance go together like a peanut butter and asscrack sandwich. That this is exactly the kind of dainty bullshit that points to my evil twin being the one who emerged from the smoking hull of that dogsled wreck years ago. That this is Exhibit A proving that Omar Bricks has gone soft like a hard-on during The Crying Game. And those concerns are understandable. Fuck you still, but they're understandable.
But even if it chaps your nads to do so, follow my logic here. Who really needs life insurance? Some milk-fed weenie in a three-piece suit? Some middle manager from Kansas City whose idea of a good time is folding the Wall Street Journal into a sailor hat and prancing around the house while the kids are at bocce ball practice? Shit no, those guys are throwing money down a hole that they're never going to see again, it's like investing in a record company that gives a shit about quality. The only people who stand to make a little money in the life insurance business are the ones who face death on a weekly basis, either due to their vocation or a propensity for taunting the psychotic, that kind of shit. And since my...
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You ever get a nagging feeling, like you left the gas on or forgot to piss out the campfire? Like you're forgetting something but you have no idea what it could be? That's the way the last week was for me until I realized I've spent the last ten years forgetting to get life insurance. Now, I know what you're thinking, that Omar Bricks and life insurance go together like a peanut butter and asscrack sandwich. That this is exactly the kind of dainty bullshit that points to my evil twin being the one who emerged from the smoking hull of that dogsled wreck years ago. That this is Exhibit A proving that Omar Bricks has gone soft like a hard-on during The Crying Game. And those concerns are understandable. Fuck you still, but they're understandable.
But even if it chaps your nads to do so, follow my logic here. Who really needs life insurance? Some milk-fed weenie in a three-piece suit? Some middle manager from Kansas City whose idea of a good time is folding the Wall Street Journal into a sailor hat and prancing around the house while the kids are at bocce ball practice? Shit no, those guys are throwing money down a hole that they're never going to see again, it's like investing in a record company that gives a shit about quality. The only people who stand to make a little money in the life insurance business are the ones who face death on a weekly basis, either due to their vocation or a propensity for taunting the psychotic, that kind of shit. And since my vocation is official representative for the Omar Bricks Nation, it's my job to represent, and represent everything Omar Bricks stands for. Which often involves almost getting my ass killed.
So this week I decided to stop playing it like a chump and see what I could do about lining myself up for a sweet payday upon the eventuality that I take a samurai sword to the noggin or get hit in the nuts by a bus. Most of the places I called specialized in boring policies, paying off if I got my ass kicked by cancer or packed enough pig lard into my heart for that to become a problem. Talk about a snooze-fest, I fell asleep on the phone twice talking to these guys. But that was before I found Moe Sherwood, who's just about the only insurance guy out there with a little imagination or hair on his balls.
Moe specializes in policies that read like the script for a summer blockbuster, packed with incentives for kicking the bucket in exciting and edge-of-your-seat kind of ways. Like the policy I got, the "Motherfucker," it pays off double if I'm ever fucked to death by a great white shark. You may laugh, but strange shit can happen when you're skinny dipping in the ocean, especially if you're smart enough to rub a pork chop all over your body first to guarantee that you get to see some cool fish.
I swear, this thing is practically written with Omar Bricks in mind. It pays off big time if I'm ever hit by a car while hang-gliding. That shit almost happened to me last week! Or if you're ever mistaken for a deer, shot by hunters and mounted over some dude's fireplace, you're going to be one rich dead motherfucker. Electrocuted while burrowing into a sub-Saharan anthill in the middle of the night? Break out the best coffin they make, dude, because you can afford it. Hell, you can have them install a flat-screen TV inside or cover the outside with LEDs like that sidewalk in Vegas where it looks like there are jets flying over your head. Your funeral's going to be more entertaining than the last three Harry Potter movies.
Now I know what you're thinking, unless you're fantasizing about Lindsay Lohan or something, in that case I guessed wrong, but I bet most of you are wondering what good all that money's going to do me if I'm dead. And you're right on that, though I'm sure Foghat would greatly enjoy his role as the policy's benefactor, he still doesn't know how to operate the can opener and would eventually have to forage for food after he'd eaten the rest of the couch. So that whole scenario would suck butt for Omar Bricks. But you have to admit it would be pretty sweet for Navarro Bricks, the dashing Cuban ex-patriot cousin who lives in my house and is exactly like me in every way except for the convincing Cuban accent.
Hey, anything to help out a family member. Bricks out. º Last Column: Las Vegas Ate My Ballsº more columns
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| April 23, 2007
Kibbles 'n ShitAny of you hear about this poisoned dog food scare? I don't know how long this shit's been going on, I only found out when they cut into KNTZ's rock block on Thursday night to announce that Spuds MacKenzie was dead, from an Alpo overdose. At first I was like, yeah, bullshit, that dog drank enough Budweiser to put a Kennedy in the ground, but then my neighbor Mitch said something about feeding his dogs nothing but deer meat until the epidemic blew over. He said that's why he'd spent the whole night driving drunk in the woods, hoping to hit a Bigfoot or something he could tell his dogs was deer meat. That was after he went to the zoo to shoot a deer and they turned him away because you need some kind of permit or something to hunt at the zoo. You really do learn something new every day.
Anyway, Mitch may be a lot of things, but he sure as hell doesn't follow directions, so I was pretty sure the tainted dog food noise was for real. And Foghat barfs and shits all over the place more than enough already when he's healthy, I can't afford however many of those shit-eating Roomba robots it would take to keep up with him if he caught Ass-Dropitis, or whatever this new dog plague is.
They didn't say on the radio which brands of dog food were tainted, but I wasn't taking any chances, so I threw out all the Chuck Wagon in the house immediately. I've never been comfortable with how much that name sounds like Upchuck Wagon anyway. And Iams was right out, too, because...
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Any of you hear about this poisoned dog food scare? I don't know how long this shit's been going on, I only found out when they cut into KNTZ's rock block on Thursday night to announce that Spuds MacKenzie was dead, from an Alpo overdose. At first I was like, yeah, bullshit, that dog drank enough Budweiser to put a Kennedy in the ground, but then my neighbor Mitch said something about feeding his dogs nothing but deer meat until the epidemic blew over. He said that's why he'd spent the whole night driving drunk in the woods, hoping to hit a Bigfoot or something he could tell his dogs was deer meat. That was after he went to the zoo to shoot a deer and they turned him away because you need some kind of permit or something to hunt at the zoo. You really do learn something new every day. Anyway, Mitch may be a lot of things, but he sure as hell doesn't follow directions, so I was pretty sure the tainted dog food noise was for real. And Foghat barfs and shits all over the place more than enough already when he's healthy, I can't afford however many of those shit-eating Roomba robots it would take to keep up with him if he caught Ass-Dropitis, or whatever this new dog plague is. They didn't say on the radio which brands of dog food were tainted, but I wasn't taking any chances, so I threw out all the Chuck Wagon in the house immediately. I've never been comfortable with how much that name sounds like Upchuck Wagon anyway. And Iams was right out, too, because that name sounds like somebody was writing "I am sick" but dropped dead before they could finish. Too suspicious. Science Diet was nixed as well, because I've never liked the idea of scientists experimenting on my dog. Leave that shit for the rabbits and half a cow or whatever they do. I mean, what if the experiment this week is to see what happens to dogs when they eat ground-up Nerf balls? I ain't bankrolling that shit. In the end I decided Kibbles 'n Bits was the way to go, even though I have no idea what a kibble is, but that's all Foghat will eat anyway. But how to know if the dog food was safe? I figured there was only one way to be sure: I'd have to try it myself. This isn't as gross as it sounds, after all, what do you think Cocoa Puffs are? You can make anything taste good if you add enough chocolate. The shit really wasn't that bad, and the milk helped. But half an hour later I was feeling like Andre the Giant had crawled inside my nutsack and died. And Foghat wasn't looking too hot either, just laying there on the couch, watching World's Wildest Police Chases, barely moving. True, that's his normal state of being, but normally he hasn't just eaten an assload of possibly-tainted dog food. So I did the only thing a responsible dog owner could do: I rushed Foghat to the emergency room. And you know what? We waited in line for three hours at that fucked-up place, like there was going to be a roller coaster or something, before somebody told me they don't treat dogs at the emergency room any more and I had to find a vet. Goddamn this luck. Well, guess what I found out at the VFW? Yep, those motherfuckers have sworn off curing dogs as well. Isn't there anybody in this whole goddamned town with the balls to de-sick my dog? After that I blacked out, and woke up on my couch back home. Turns out Foghat had dragged me all the way back home because he was missing Nanny 911, so I guess he got over whatever he was dying from. True, my car was still over at the VFW, and all my clothes were ruined from being dragged all the way across town by a dog with a saliva problem, but I was mostly just happy that Foghat was okay. Then I threw up from the bottom of my balls. Don't eat dog food, it's bullshit for people. Bricks out. º Last Column: Driving My Life Awayº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Get out of my way, you're crapping up my genius, dumbnuts.”
-Ayn RandyFortune 500 CookieAll of those great things we said were going to happen to you last week? Yeah, sorry, we had you mixed up with your brother. You're fucked. Try parking your car at the far end of the lot and walking this week: everyone finds the way you jiggle when you walk highly amusing. Your friends and the packaging aren't lying: that's not toothpaste. Did you really think you were going to get away with naming your son Pringles? This week's lucky ass creams: Vaseline Intensive Hair, Ditch the Itch Ultra, Smooth Movers Hibiscus Scent, Baby's Ass in a Bottle, Johnson & Johnson No More Flaming Mass of Ground Hamburger Hemorrhoid Salve.
Try again later.Least-Anticipated Holiday Movies| 1. | Miracle in an Alley Behind 34th Street | | 2. | Walking in a Winter Wonderbra | | 3. | It Would Be a Wonderful Life if I Wasnít So Suicidal | | 4. | Christ, itís Christmas Already | | 5. | Frosty the Snow Dealer | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 2/18/2002 What it is, America? Welcome back to the long and lonely road of Entertainment Policing. You've probably heard about most of what's gone down since the last installment of this column, including the restraining order placed against yours truly by Saul Worthington of the Bronx, New York. Sometimes the path to the truth can be littered with hardship and legal fees, that's all I have to say about that. But the important thing is that we're back, and ready with another two-weeks' worth of vital editorial nuggets pertaining to the entertainment choices you, the valued reader, must make on a regular basis. But before we get to that, how about we set the mood with a tall, cool glass of Ask Roland? No? Alright, but don't come crying to me when you wake up in the middle of the night hungry for...
What it is, America? Welcome back to the long and lonely road of Entertainment Policing. You've probably heard about most of what's gone down since the last installment of this column, including the restraining order placed against yours truly by Saul Worthington of the Bronx, New York. Sometimes the path to the truth can be littered with hardship and legal fees, that's all I have to say about that. But the important thing is that we're back, and ready with another two-weeks' worth of vital editorial nuggets pertaining to the entertainment choices you, the valued reader, must make on a regular basis. But before we get to that, how about we set the mood with a tall, cool glass of Ask Roland? No? Alright, but don't come crying to me when you wake up in the middle of the night hungry for Ask Roland! You made your bed, now on to the reviews!
In Theaters Now:
Crossroads
As part of the deal that Hollywood struck with a devil on a moonlit night back in 1927, every ten years or so they're required to put out a movie called Crossroads.
And over the years they've delivered, starting with the 1929 French truffle of the same name, continuing with the 1931 Ruskie animated flop, then the 1942 Basil Rathbone picture that succeeded solely on the merits of having an actor with a very cool name on the marquee, then there were the famously forgettable "Crossroads" films of 1955 and 1957, Bruce Conner's revival of the genre in 1976 (notice that there was no "Crossroads" film during the 60's, and look at what happened then), then after that it was ten years on the nose until Ralph Macchio's 1986 film about a blues guitarist who definitely doesn't know karate, and finally the 1996 version about a man tying his shoe that was released to only one theater in Missouri, merely to keep up the bargain.
Well, the Hollywood big-wigs are trying to make sure that doesn't happen again, and are jumping the gun early in releasing this decade's version of a lousy movie called Crossroads. This time it stars Britney Spears, everyone's favorite virgin, who I'm beginning to suspect may have made some kind of deal with the devil herself. How else can you explain the legions of 13 year-old Britney clones that clog our shopping malls and amusement parks like the backwash of brine shrimp out of a whale's ass? Sorry honey, but I think it's time to side-step your creaky old tush out of the limelight to make room for some fresh young talent. I hear there's a singing 10 year-old from West Virginia who can put her legs behind her head, you know.
Big Fat Liar
What's funnier than Jim Carrey running around like he's retarded and not being able to tell a lie? You guessed it, a 300 pound Jim Carrey running around like he's retarded and not being able to tell a lie. They promised the sequel would be bigger than the original, but none of us dared to think they were talking about Carrey's drooping leg fat. And yeah, it's pretty funny, but I have to admit it's the ultimate insult when Hollywood would rather dress up attractive people in fat suits than hire one of the many genuinely fat people available for the role.
Dragonfly
Strange new Kevin Costner flick about a doctor who's wife dies and is reincarnated as a dragonfly. Costner's character tries every kind of new-age chicanery to contact his dead wife, not knowing that she was the slightly greenish discoloration on the windshield of his Beemer all along.
Peter Pan 2: Return to Nevermind
Man, when Disney cuts a budget, they cut a budget. Not only did they shamelessly rehash one of their all-time classics by re-arranging the original footage and inserting a computer-animated wisecracking bedpan, they didn't even spring for an original score for the film. Instead, Disney's latest effort is set to Nirvana's 1991 breakthrough album, Nevermind. A great album, but talk about your bizarre creative choices! You can bet there are going to be some tykes choking on their Cow Tails when they come to the theater expecting to hear "You Can Fly!" and instead they get "Territorial Pissings." It really makes me wonder if there's anyone manning the big magic flying ship over there at Disney. If there is, they must have slept through their alarm because I think the magic boat just crashed into a Kmart.
Queen of the Damned
I've always assumed that when you walk through the gates of Hades, they'll have Queen playing at an uncomfortable volume. Apparently I'm not the only one who felt this way, since the band's first exploitation film has them booked on a sold-out tour of hell. Spankingly gay frontman Freddie Prinz Jr. eats up the screen in his musical film debut, and gets some of it stuck in his mustache. They didn't really say either way in the movie, but I've always imagined Queen would have the Village People opening for them on their tour of hell. Partly because I've long suspected they're actually the same band.
Now on Video:
13 Ghosts
What's scarier than a dozen ghosts but not quite as scary as fourteen? That's right, F. Murray Abraham. Striking the same perfect balance of creepy menace he found in Scarface, without going overboard by being hysterically, pants-shittingly scary, Abraham turns in his best performance since he played himself in The Phantom Emancipation Proclamation.
Bones
Is space-doctor turned gangsta-rapper D-Forest Kelley ready for the transition to big-screen leading man? I don't know, you might have to ask him yourself, but he sucked in this one. Even with Pam "Foxy-Boxing" Grier getting his back, I still wasn't able to believe in him as an action stud, and the attempted turns on his trademark catchphrase ("I'm not a role model, I'm a space-doctor.") ranged from the unintentionally funny to the downright pathetic.
J.Lo and Silent Bob Strike Back
They really need to beef up security on Hollywood movie sets these days, because I'm starting to feel like you can't see a movie anymore that doesn't have some clueless pop star wandering in front of the camera and gumming up the works. Sometimes they even play along like they're actually in the movie, it's pathetic. Here we have what would have been a fun family film that's totally spoiled by J.Lo and her pottymouthed antics. What kind of nickname is J.Lo, anyway? Can I get that with fruit in it?
Television:
It's nice to know even when the movies whip it out and piss all over you there's still trust old television and it's top shows to turn to. Except for the Olympics have taken a dump on my TV. So, covered in every kind of bodily waste, I sum up the highlights of the Olympics.
Marguerita Mixing
Ice sculpting is fun, but what do you do when it's done? A giant ice squirrel is about as useful as... no, stop that snide comment, there's absolutely nothing else more useless. Anyway, the Olympics have done good this year, getting the world's top lushes to come in and see how fast they can pound down the sculptures into a fine drink cooler. Roland M. will be playing along at home.
100-Meter Slip-N-Fall
Usually instead of professional athletes this competition is made up of political prisoners and dissidents. They give them two minutes to get across an icy tundra with greased feet and if they make it, they get a commuted sentence. I watch it not so much for the rousing Olympic spirit and athletic prowess as the funny falling down and busting of asses.
Ice Diving
Anybody can execute a perfect slice into water, but it takes one major bad-ass to cut through solid ice. In fact, it's never actually done. Most countries don't participate in this rare event, but the ones who do definitely have dedicated athletes. The highlight for me was China's Ting Wa Noon, who actually broke the ice. He'll probably be awarded the bronze, posthumously.
Video Games:
Simpson's Road Rage (GC, PS2, XB)
Shows how anything is funny, given a few years. The craziest racing games out there features you as O.J. Simpson circa 1994, running from the law with a gun to your head, driven by loyal buddy A.C. You have to escape the law so you can prove your innocence and catch the real killers.
Jonny Moseley: Bad Trix (GBA)
What luck is that? That stupid rabbit spends years trying to get a hold of the cereal just to find out it's poison for rabbits. Now you've got 24 game hours to find a vet and get fixed. Not a real blast, but it was interesting to find out the rabbit was named Jonny. You think they could've made that more obvious in the commercials.
Drackin' II
Nauseating game about a skateboarder who got a hold of a bad Jack in the Box burger and has his tricks and jumps interrupted by violent bouts of vomiting. Can't decide whether it wants to be a skateboarding or a vomiting game, but neither one is very good. Reminded me of my own visits to Tainted Burger, though.
Well, faithful readers, according to USDA regulations that's all I can give you for this week. Be sure to tune back in a few weeks from now for more of your beloved entertainment vittles. Until then!   |
