ome groups (Christians and liberals) have called foul when the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences announced their nominations for the 2005 Oscars earlier this week, and their favorite agenda films The Passion of the Christ and Fahrenheit 9/11 were nowhere to be found. The greater mystery, if you ask any film fan in the know, is how the Academy could criminally overlook the short film masterpiece "Unmapped Island," released in 2004 just in time for the Oscars by film auteur and commune employee Ted Ted.

"Unmapped Island," released to poisonous reviews in early December 2004 by the independent film company Ted Ted Pictures, has been targeted for non-targeting by Hollywood elite, despite being completely original and elevating the film forum beyond the usual candy-ass picture Tinsel Town has been churning out for years. Meanwhile, tired biopics like The Aviator and Ray, and foxy boxing pictures like Million Dollar Baby steal the thunder from original films about one man pitted against nature and Nazis after surviving a shipwrecking.

Many were curious and highly pissed-off as to why a formidable new talent, perhaps even a genius(?), was completely passed over for the more traditional kind of slick-produced crap and prettyboy film star nonsense. Most notably, the director and writer himself, Ted Ted, called the move, "The same old Hollywood horseshit."

Though troubled by bad reviews from critics who either simply didn't get it or were too high-faluting to enjoy a movie that was great fun, "Unmapped Island," starring non-Oscar-nominee for Best Actor Ted Ted and also non-Oscar-nominee for Best Supporting Actor Ramrod Hurley, sold out both of its showings in Flatbush, New Jersey, and looked "quite professional," according to the theater owner and projectionist Randall Howard. The praise and audience approval falls on deaf ears in Hollywood, though, as letters go unanswered and phone calls unreturned by simple reporters trying to find out the facts for a story. Still, one has to wonder: Is Hollywood completely oblivious to identifying new talent these days, or do they hold some deep-seated perverse prejudice against filmmaker Ted Ted?

It's not the first time Hollywood has faced the Ted Ted controversy, and refused to answer perfectly reasonable questions about it. In 1999, Ted Ted's first short film Monolog was roundly ignored by critics, on the preposterous grounds that no one in the academy had seen it and it broke minor technical regulations by not being quite finished, though director Ted Ted promised the money for being nominated for an Oscar would be enough to get it finished in time.

Most disappointing, according to director Ted Ted, since he can't win an Oscar now by these ever-tightening Academy standards, he will never have the chance to respond to allegations by movie reviewer for the commune Orson Welch, who attacked the film as, "The most obvious attempt to rip-off both the television series 'Lost' and the movie The Great Escape ever to make it to any screen, even a local theater."

"It's a shame," said Ted Ted, in a carefully-prepared press conference attended by this commune reporter. "If I had the opportunity, I would have liked to reply to Welch, and other critics, by telling them: 'If you're so goddamned brilliant, why don't you go write your own movie and cast it and make it yourself with your hard-earned money? Oh, that's right, I remember now why—you can't. You're all hacks and all your stuff comes out looking retarded. Retards.'"

No one in Hollywood returned any of this reporter's calls, except for one press secretary representing Clint Eastwood, who asked us to please stop wasting her time.

Turkey to Block Offensive Websites; commune Offers Pre-Emptive “Fuck You”

Obama to Change Spelling of Name to oBAMa for Maximum Impact

Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone

Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage

"I remember it just like it was yesterday, the summer that my brother Goose and I spent trying to build our own airplane. We had it on good authority that none other than the Great Gildersleeve himself would be making a public appearance in St Louis in a month's time, and we weren't about to consider the option of not being there. We begged mom and dad for weeks, but they failed to realize the importance of this event, or the relative insignificance of the 36-hour drive to St Louis. Perhaps if we'd had Stephanie on our side we could have turned the tides, but she was strictly a Fibber McGee girl and she distanced herself from the negotiations, most likely because she was angling for a new bike for her birthday. So it remained for Goose and I to find our own means of transportation to St Louis, and a homemade airplane sounded as good as any.

Our first prototype was a simple model consisting of an old mattress we found in the garage with a red racing stripe painted up the side. And it may have gotten the job done if it weren't for Goose, who was scared by a bee when we were hoisting it up onto the roof and let go of the mattress-plane early, which slid off the roof and into our neighbor's pool. Similar was the fate of prototype number two, an old garbage can tied to a pogo stick, which slid down the roof while Goose was climbing in and ended up putting a big dent in the hood of Dad's car. Goose caught pure hell for that mishap, and I had to join the 4H Club just to provide an alibi as to where I was that afternoon.

Goose thought we should go with one of his designs for our third prototype, and I humored him although I was doubtful because of Goose's well-documented lack of imagination. Prototype three ended up being a big cardboard box with a picture of an airplane taped to the side, and all I have to say about that is I'm glad Goose broke my fall. He's probably lucky he sprained his ankle as well since Mom was pretty steamed at Goose for cutting up the "A" volume of the family encyclopedias the way he did.

After that mom and dad both forbade us from attempting any more flights to St Louis, and we ended up having to listen to the Great Gildersleeve on the radio instead while Goose was propped up on icepacks. It probably would have been more fun to be there in person, but I imagine then we would have missed the fun that night when we heard that great crash outside and all ran out to find dad in the driveway amidst a mangled pile of homemade airplane parts."

º Last Column: Christmas
º more columns

Since the beginning of time, the seasons have intrigued, beguiled, and frostbitten man. With summer came the Sun, and with winter came the Sun's cold and evil brother, Stan. But why? Who among the Gods would allow Stan's icy reign over the nethermonths, shining his cold rays down on a helpless populace year after year? Is this the work of Bertle the Brown? Or Oscar the Finn? Who dropped the proverbial ball and kicked it so proverbially across the street? Ye Gods, why hast thou screwed us so?

As is the case with many questions, it turns out that the answer to this one is more scientific than one might expect. Disheartening as it may be to believe, mere fairy tailery alone can not account for the vast fluctuations in temperatures between the summer and winter months. Who, then do we blame for the profanity-inducing hot steering wheels of summertime or the millions of people falling down in hilarious ways during the winter?

For years, primitive peoples believed that the flat, disc-like earth rested in a giant celestial frying pan, and that in the summer months the flame was turned on, heating the earth. The Gods were then believed to wander away to check out a noise they thought they heard on the celestial roof, leaving the earth unattended in the frying pan. By late fall, the earth would get too hot and burst into flames, sending smoke billowing up through the heavens and setting off the celestial smoke detector, which beeped weakly thanks to the Gods being too damned lazy to check the celestial batteries in the thing more often than once or twice a millennia. Eventually, the Gods would hear the beeping and dash back into the house, screaming "Holy Shit!"

The Gods would flounder around the celestial kitchen for a little while, not sure quite what they were supposed to do, then in a panic they would hose off the earth with a gigantic fire extinguisher that they kept next to the celestial stove. Thankfully the Gods knew themselves to be shitty cooks and were prepared. Hencely, a soothing blanket of snow would cover the earth until the springtime, when the Gods would start the whole rigmarole over again. It's best to remember that in primitive times, the Gods were not revered for being exceptionally bright.

Thanks to satellite photography and advanced knowledge of physics, modern man and the occasional modern woman need no longer toil under the weight of such gross misinformation. Today we know that the seasons are actually the result of a power struggle between the two sons of the one true God, Muzamtecca Brown. Muzamtecca's twin sons, named Sun and Stan, were given the earth as a present on the event of their mutual fifth birthday. At first, they were overjoyed, and the earth was a paradise with sunshine and rivers of marmalade. But before long, the two brothers grew jealous of each other, and started fighting over the earth.

Sun, the warm and cheerful brother who was nevertheless a selfish little shit, would grab the earth away from Stan, hugging it close to his chest, causing the glorious summer months. Stan, the cold-hearted and rather slow brother, would notice a few months later that he was no longer holding the earth and would snatch it back from Sun, kicking him in the knee and causing the earth's bitter cold winters.

Back and forth they have gone through the years, repeating the same routine that has resulted in the predictable pattern of the seasons here on earth. The discovery of this celestial struggle by scientists has understandably caused a rift in the religious community, as many consider it heresy to suggest that Muzamtecca's two sons are total assholes. But the reasonable man cannot argue with science. Assholes, they are.

Over the years we on earth have developed a useful calendar based around the struggles between Sun and Stan, creating our years, months and days. Except for the Mayans, who couldn't get with the program and had their own bizarre calendar with cookies and birds on it just to piss off tourists and neighboring countries. Eventually the Mayans were killed off by a mob of irate tourists who were being overcharged for not checking out of their hotel rooms by cookie-bird-moon day. The Mayans called to their neighbors the Incas for help, but the Incas answered back that they wouldn't be able to send anyone until the day after radish-spoon-donkey day, and nobody knew when that was going to be.

So the next time you awake in February to find your car encased in ice like a Jello snack, blame not the cooking-challenged Gods or the fickle freezing point of water, instead reserve your one-finger salute for that pudgy little bastard in the sky. No, not Neil Armstrong. You know who I mean.

º Last Column: The Loch Ness Midget
º more columns