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 July 18, 2005 |
Bloomington, Indiana Assad the Unseen Cruise, Holmes, Williams and a funny t-shirt we bought off eBay
"Thank God," sighed IU Professor Richard Luxborough. "I got so confused thinking about this last week I almost threw up. Is he gay? Are they really in love? And what's with that crazy motherfucker jumping all over the couch like that? Every answer just spawns a hundred new questions. I wish Ian the best in his research; I think his quantum physics minor is really going to be put to the ...
ndiana University graduate student Ian Williams made headlines this week after receiving a $4 million grant from the Center for Cultural Studies to untangle the fascinatingly twisted web of rumors surrounding the Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes romance. While some have called the grant ludicrously frivolous, many others expressed relief that somebody else would be figuring this crazy shit out for them.
"Thank God," sighed IU Professor Richard Luxborough. "I got so confused thinking about this last week I almost threw up. Is he gay? Are they really in love? And what's with that crazy motherfucker jumping all over the couch like that? Every answer just spawns a hundred new questions. I wish Ian the best in his research; I think his quantum physics minor is really going to be put to the test on this one."
"Any high school kid who wrote their term paper on this topic knows the basics," explained a cocky Williams, well versed in TomKat lore thanks to the celebrity blog/ Access Hollywood/ street-level trash talk research he did in preparing his grant proposal. "Tom was having a steamy homo affair with Rob Thomas, Matchbox-20's bisexual lead singer, only to be caught with his pants down by Rob's wife Marisol. She was bought off by Cruise for over $10 million and the promise that she'd never have to listen to Matchbox-20 again. But Cruise's people still had to act fast and get Cruise's name stamped on some vagina before another damaging gay rumor hit the street."
"And of course that's where Katie comes in," continued Williams. "But what most high-schoolers don't know, unless they read my blog, is that Katie wasn't the first choice of Tom's people. She wasn't Tom's first choice either, but he wanted Antonio Banderas so that's neither here nor there. Tom's people made up a list of B-list actresses who might jump at the chance to boost their careers and pick up a little coin via a sham fag-hag wedding. Number one on their list was Jessica Alba, but they couldn't get through to her without resorting to 'stamp once for yes' communication tricks. Next they wanted Jennifer Garner, but she had this weird Ben Affleck smell on her that kept making Tom sneeze."
"So the mantle fell to Lindsay Lohan," Williams elaborated, drawing a crowd of eager eavesdroppers. "But then it turned out she'd lost so much weight recently that when she turns sideways she almost disappears, like some weird X-Files villain, and that was freaking Tom out at night. Scarlett Johansson seemed like a safe bet after that, but then Tom started talking about Scientology and she ran like a startled deer, leading to an unfortunate but action-packed escape sequence, some of the footage from which reportedly is going to turn up in this summer's The Island. Sofia Vergara was next on the list, followed by Kate Bosworth, but Tom didn't know who either of them was, and this got him all excited about being gal-pals with Sofia Coppola or possibly hooking up with former football stud Brian Bosworth, so they wisely dropped both of those. Finally it fell to poor little Katie, who cashed in at $5 million for five years with the contract stipulation that she'll never, ever have to see Cruise's penis, which is a better deal than either of Michael Jackson's wives ever got."
"And Katie's actually been playing the role fairly well," raved Williams. "That story about her growing up with a Tom Cruise poster on her wall was brilliant." According to Williams, Holmes' childhood bedroom also featured posters of the rock band Guns 'N' Roses and the horse from The Black Stallion, which doesn't bode well for Holmes' future relationships should the marriage pact with Cruise ever fall victim to downsizing.
Strange as the story may seem to normal humans, veteran rumor-mongers find it excitingly plausible.
"Fans have been in denial of Cruise's gayness ever since Top Gun," gushed legendary New York gossip columnist Dr. Dish. "Quentin Tarantino was right, that movie was gay on fire. I don't care how many times he plays some dude driving a minivan in some movie now; I ain't buying it after that one. Forget homoerotic overtones, that thing was turned up to Gay 11. That thing was all ate up with gayness."
Dr. Dish also points to persistent rumors that Cruise's relationships with Nichole Kidman and Penelope Cruz were both contractual affairs, providing the then-obscure actresses with money, a career boost and lavish lifestyles while acting as a smokescreen for Cruise's long-term relationship with an Asian American Airlines pilot he has stashed away in Chicago. And we mean the pilot is Asian, not that there's a new airline called Asian-American Airlines. Weird.
Though only slightly less convoluted than the saga of Area 51, the TomKat rumors would help explain the speed of the couple's courtship, as well as Cruise's frenzied and bizarre attempts to keep his recent engagement in the headlines. Veteran rumor-whores also recognize a familiar pattern in the Church of Scientology's involvement, since the red hot rumor of the mid-90's was that church wranglers were working overtime to conceal long-time church member John Travolta's hyper-promiscuous gayness.
"That's outside my area of expertise," Williams said when asked for the scoop on the Travolta rumor. "I did my undergrad work on Richard Gere, which frankly doesn't do me a hell of a lot of good now." the commune news has always loved a juicy new rumor, unless it involves the blissful happiness of one of our ex-girlfriends. Have some goddamned respect, people. Ivana Folger-Balzac has been the focus of many rumors in her day, every last one of them involving overly-optimistic reports of her grisly death.
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Florida declared disaster area months before hurricane hits
Asian bird flu traced back to Flock of Seagulls tribute band
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Cheney Vows to Stay Course: Will Shoot Hunting Partner Again Mardi Gras, Gonorrhea to Return to New Orleans Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits” Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split |
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 January 5, 2004
WipeoutAt the risk of offending those of you in this world who were attempting to appease Omar Bricks this holiday season, I think it's safe to announce that this Christmas was a bona fide, Class A, Jesus Christ barfing into a French horn wipeout. No car, no immediate future promises of a car, and no surprise celebrity blowjobs to make up for the fact that I didn't get a car for Christmas. If you've ever been kicked in the nuts by a kangaroo, then you know the kind of pain I'm talking about here.
The week before Christmas I started to get the feeling the car thing wasn't going to happen when my cousin called to ask me what size kilt I wear. I told him I can squeeze into a size you'vegottabefuckingkiddingme, at which point he said something about how he'd have to eyeball it then and hung up. Bad omens rarely come so clearly or call collect.
I held out some hope until Christmas Eve, when I left the garage door unlocked in order to facilitate a magical car surprise Christmas morning for any interested parties who might want to sneak a Ferrari in there while I was sleeping. Not that I realistically expected anyone in my family to have that much class, but I figured maybe some drunk would pull up to my house by mistake and leave his keys in the ignition. Could happen. Of course, the down side is then I'd have some drunk sleeping in my garage while I was out Christmas joyriding, but I can't honestly say I'm sure there's not one in there somewhere already. So I...
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At the risk of offending those of you in this world who were attempting to appease Omar Bricks this holiday season, I think it's safe to announce that this Christmas was a bona fide, Class A, Jesus Christ barfing into a French horn wipeout. No car, no immediate future promises of a car, and no surprise celebrity blowjobs to make up for the fact that I didn't get a car for Christmas. If you've ever been kicked in the nuts by a kangaroo, then you know the kind of pain I'm talking about here.
The week before Christmas I started to get the feeling the car thing wasn't going to happen when my cousin called to ask me what size kilt I wear. I told him I can squeeze into a size you'vegottabefuckingkiddingme, at which point he said something about how he'd have to eyeball it then and hung up. Bad omens rarely come so clearly or call collect.
I held out some hope until Christmas Eve, when I left the garage door unlocked in order to facilitate a magical car surprise Christmas morning for any interested parties who might want to sneak a Ferrari in there while I was sleeping. Not that I realistically expected anyone in my family to have that much class, but I figured maybe some drunk would pull up to my house by mistake and leave his keys in the ignition. Could happen. Of course, the down side is then I'd have some drunk sleeping in my garage while I was out Christmas joyriding, but I can't honestly say I'm sure there's not one in there somewhere already. So I figure I'd at least be breaking even on the deal.
Around 2am I thought I heard a would-be Santa out in the garage, but it turned out to just be a family of raccoons eating the paint off my lawnmower. I was tempted to chase the hungry little bastards off with a claw hammer, but since it was Christmas I decided to leave them be so they could go off somewhere to die in peace. I'm not sure how toxic the model paint was that I used to paint the flames on that lawnmower, but there was a picture of Jonestown on the back of the jar so I'm pretty sure that spelled bad news for any forest animals or neighborhood kids who've been teething on those tasty paint chips. All I know is Darwin didn't need to go all the way out to Galapagos to find this kind of natural selection in action.
I went back to sleep and dreamt that George Burns was there shitting sugarplums into my cereal bowl, only they weren't sugarplums. When I woke up it was Christmas morning, but not the kind where you come downstairs to find your heart's desire wrapped up under the tree. No miraculous car in the garage, not even some long-lost depressed relative who'd signed the title before wrapping the exhaust hose around into the driver-side window. No such Christmas magic for Omar Bricks this year.
So I did the rounds, got some socks and a juicer that blows right through socks like they were made out of tissue paper. Not bad. Somebody got me a beer mug that says "Fuck You!" that was pretty nice. Got a deworming kit for Foghat, though frankly I'm not sure if that's a nice precautionary gesture or a subtle hint that my dog has worms. Like I'm the only one who hasn't noticed and my dog's some kind of gnarly science exhibit, ruining family picnics and shit. I'm not even sure how you're supposed to check for that kind of thing, I guess I've always assumed it would be obvious. Like your dog wants to go fishing all the time or something.
Anyway, it was a pretty standard Christmas in the life of Bricks, nothing to be ashamed of. And refreshingly light on death threat Christmas cards this year, really. But I'd be lying if I said my Christmas spirit wasn't thrashing around at the bottom of a lake, wearing cement Reeboks right about now. All because of the Christmas wish too beautiful to come true. But I suppose it could be worse. I could be my neighbor Dale, I hear he's got some dead raccoons he can't find somewhere up in his crawl space that are making his entire house smell like Teddy Roosevelt's bunghole. Yuck.
Bricks out. º Last Column: No Need to Check That List Twiceº more columns
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|  March 17, 2003
Mutiny on the BagelA disturbing piece of mail has come to my attention lately, and for a change of pace, this one doesn't offer any free AOL hours.
Yes, in my Acting-Editor capacity I sometimes act like I'm opening my mail in the relative safety of my Acting-Office, otherwise known as Red Bagel's office. Usually the mail I open is addressed to the commune Editor, Editor Red Bagel, Bagel Red, Wanna-Be Colonel Sanders, Rudy Bega, Whoever Runs Your Lame-Ass Company, and variations thereof. Imagine my surprise to find a postcard addressed to Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor. Now imagine I study this postcard carefully, while being orally pleasured by supermodel Heidi Klum. It's not really necessary, but that's what I'm imagining so I thought we might as well be on the same page.
This postcard charmingly pictured a man holding a pile of dog feces, exclaiming in a word balloon, "Hey, look what I almost stepped in!" Immediately I was curious since I remember receiving the exact same image on a birthday card from Red Bagel last year. Indeed, this card was sent from "A desolate motel room" in Mobile, Alabama, signed by none other than our glorious leader Red Bagel. In effect, the card read:
"Ramrod: The situation is dire. Things proceed to grow more twisted and deceptive, as my unshakeable will continually nears faltering. I'm glad to see the commune is persevering in your hands even as I face an unknown fate in the bravest of ways. I wish you were beside me,...
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A disturbing piece of mail has come to my attention lately, and for a change of pace, this one doesn't offer any free AOL hours.
Yes, in my Acting-Editor capacity I sometimes act like I'm opening my mail in the relative safety of my Acting-Office, otherwise known as Red Bagel's office. Usually the mail I open is addressed to the commune Editor, Editor Red Bagel, Bagel Red, Wanna-Be Colonel Sanders, Rudy Bega, Whoever Runs Your Lame-Ass Company, and variations thereof. Imagine my surprise to find a postcard addressed to Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor. Now imagine I study this postcard carefully, while being orally pleasured by supermodel Heidi Klum. It's not really necessary, but that's what I'm imagining so I thought we might as well be on the same page.
This postcard charmingly pictured a man holding a pile of dog feces, exclaiming in a word balloon, "Hey, look what I almost stepped in!" Immediately I was curious since I remember receiving the exact same image on a birthday card from Red Bagel last year. Indeed, this card was sent from "A desolate motel room" in Mobile, Alabama, signed by none other than our glorious leader Red Bagel. In effect, the card read:
"Ramrod: The situation is dire. Things proceed to grow more twisted and deceptive, as my unshakeable will continually nears faltering. I'm glad to see the commune is persevering in your hands even as I face an unknown fate in the bravest of ways. I wish you were beside me, instead of Sampson L. Hartwig, who snores loudly. Take heart and take pride, for though I know you would prefer stand by me in my time of need, yours is a greater role—to carry on my legacy if I fail to make it back. Godspeed, Redward Bagel."
That's what it said, in effect. In straight quotation, it read:
"Ramrod, you needledick: What the fuck have you done to my organization? I leave you alone for two goddamn seconds and you let the entire news department go to hell. Is it martial law there yet or not? You will rot in hell for eternity for what you've done to my column alone. Oh, nice job hiring that retarded Russian to write a regular column. Can you not tell when I'm joking? As of this minute I'm putting that numbnuts Raoul Dunkin in charge, and when I get back I'll show you how much I appreciate all the changes made in my absence. In the meantime I have to extract a bullet from Sampson L. Hartwig's back and fashion a temporary tourniquet. You'd better hope they get me before I can get you. Please forgive the smell of gin and unfiltered tobacco on this letter. Suck a skunk's ass, Redward Bagel.
"P.S. This postcard will self-destruct if held too close to a lit match."
This was, as you can guess, extremely alarming to me. Things had been rolling along so smoothly, the changes I implemented seem to be oiling the commune gears so well, now this: A coup attempt.
Fear not, peonic masses. Raoul Dunkin's transparent attempt to rattle my throne will not amount to anything more than a series of unpleasant assignments for a certain infamous turncoat reporter. Next week, Mr. Dunkin has the stellar position of covering the frontlines of the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border. Sure, it will be hard on died-in-the-wool action correspondent Ivan Nacutchacokov, but it's a necessary move. Not to punish Mr. Dunkin, no—if I wanted to do that I'd force him to move in with Rok Finger.
What I need is not vengeance; I need loyalty. If Raoul Dunkin can carry through with this assignment, not out of allegiance to me so much as to the commune, then I'll know I can trust him with the more important duties and assignments. In the meantime, while he's gone I'll need to figure out how he so perfectly duplicated Mr. Bagel's signature. º Last Column: The Government Can See into Your Soulº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Freedom is a fragile thing, and must be protected; however, it is nowhere near as fragile as my aunt's vase, so it seems a fair exchange to lock you in your room for two weeks, you little hooligan.”
-MomFortune 500 CookieMore fruit, dammit!—more fruit, I say! Time to give up the blackmail scheme; there's no getting blood from a stone. Flush once for yes, twice for no. You'll bury all your old grudges this week, and grandpa—sorry, I suppose we could have let you know in a nicer way. Bad dog goes horrible dog this weekend.
Try again later.Top 5 Reasons Facebook is Losing Users| 1. | My fucking parents are on Facebook | | 2. | Cockbook siphoning away gay users | | 3. | Fickle masses already moving on to next David Fincher movie craze, Pogs | | 4. | Tiny fraction of Zuckerberg karma coming back on the installment plan | | 5. | Facebook is retarded | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 4/1/2002 Welcome back, Americanos, I hope the Oscar season left you with a smile on your face and twinkle in your eye. Here in Entertainment Policeland it's back to business as usual, sorting through the wheat to find the entertainment chaff and keeping a sharp eye on Wynona Ryder all the while. I don't know about you, but the last thing I need is some hat-stealing Hollywood brat bringing the heat down on my own private Idaho. But you didn't come here to be reminded of the harsh realities of the real world, so down with the downers and up with the Ask Roland!
Q. Rolaid, I have to admit that I was disappointed to check your column after I heard of the death of Chuck Jones, only to find that you hadn't written any kind of retrospective honoring this true Hollywood legend....
Welcome back, Americanos, I hope the Oscar season left you with a smile on your face and twinkle in your eye. Here in Entertainment Policeland it's back to business as usual, sorting through the wheat to find the entertainment chaff and keeping a sharp eye on Wynona Ryder all the while. I don't know about you, but the last thing I need is some hat-stealing Hollywood brat bringing the heat down on my own private Idaho. But you didn't come here to be reminded of the harsh realities of the real world, so down with the downers and up with the Ask Roland!
Q. Rolaid, I have to admit that I was disappointed to check your column after I heard of the death of Chuck Jones, only to find that you hadn't written any kind of retrospective honoring this true Hollywood legend. What gives, man? You too good for Chuck Jones or something?
Arty Luther, Moose Bend, ON
A. Arty, Chuck Jones truly was a Hollywood legend as you say, and karate-kicking men of his caliber really are few and far between. I'll never forget the fierce ass-kicking he delivered in Delta Force 2: Operation Stranglehold. And he always did it with a certain panache, a certain tang. I've been meaning to get around to writing a heart-warming retrospective for him since I heard the news. But the truth is I recently got a sticky hand out of a gumball machine in front of the grocery store and that's really been dominating my free time as of late. Sorry.
Q. Roland, what's this bullcrack about them having to rename the new Austin Powers movie because the bigwigs decided Goldmember (the original title) would confuse audiences who had entered a time warp and thought they were going to the theater to see the original Bond picture? What the crap, Roland?
Marcus Gomer, San Ysidro, CA
A. I'm right there with you, Marcus. This is poop of the highest degree. Only moviegoers bent out of their minds on pharmaceutical-grade nerve gas (and the elderly) could have confused the new Austin Powers flick with the original James Bond picture Goldthingy. To make matters worse, this is a blatantly hypocritical move on the parts of the bigwigs who allowed the release of In the Bedroom, which moviegoers will forever be confusing with countless films, including: In the Army, In the Basement, In the Closet, In the Bass Barn, Inna Gadda de Vito, Vinnie Bedhead, Over the River and Through the Woods to Grandmother's Bedroom, Sin: the Bedroom, In a Bad Way, In Her Bad Womb: Deadly Mothers 3, Rin Tin Tin in the Boardroom, and Shaft in Africa. Not to mention cloning Ashely Judd and passing the clone off as a separate actress named Charlize Theron.
Movie reviews? I thought you'd never ask!
In Theaters Now:
All About the Berenstains
Even as a kid, you always knew it was just a matter of time before that loveable bear family went honey-nuts and tore into a crime spree. And this is the film that I think best captures what it would really be like if brother bear and sister bear both copped a massive coke habit and had to venture out of the forest to score a fix. Personally, I had envisioned a little more carnage but I guess in the end it's really a children's film so it's understandable that they'd tone down the reality of a bear attack on a Manhattan bank a little bit.
Ice Age
The eighth (and hopefully last) film in Vanilla Ice's self-styled and increasingly ludicrous "I'm the Prophet" series rewrites history with an eye for crediting Vanilla with every evolutionary leap in the history of mankind. This time around we're treated to a barely-coherent plot that was obviously stolen from a Sprite commercial, featuring Vanilla as some kind of supernatural man-god who ruled prehistoric times and could only think to use his power to have saber-toothed tigers bring him Zimas. The laughable proceedings are considerably rocked up by Ice's completely original theme song for the film, She's Cold As (*ding*) Ice, raising this picture an almost-imperceptible notch above past efforts Icecalibur and Vanilla of Arabia.
Mentident Evil
Really a novel idea here: What if a toothpaste manufacturer got fed up with their lot in life as an also-ran behind Gleem and Close-Up (the red-headed stepchildren of the toothpaste industry) and decided "The hell with it! We're putting out an Undead flavor!" Sound far-fetched? It might if the same thing hadn't happened in France last year. There probably won't be a lot of Oscar nominations thrown at this film, but there are enough exploding zombie torsos to keep all but the most bloodthirsty housewives happy, so I give it a "yes".
Picnic Room
Ah, Jodie Foster, what happened to you? Sorry film fans, but it seems like everybody is pussing out on us all at once here, as everyone's favorite action heroine and director David Finger (Fight Cuba) have turned in a film that's quite possibly the most boring thing you've ever seen. I suppose there's some appeal for audiences who are really hungry, but I personally need more suspense in a film than whether or not someone's going to pass the marmalade.
Pig Trouble
I think the movie studios are just now getting to the bottom of the sack of hate-mail they got after they put out "Babe" and didn't bother to let anyone know the movie was about a pig, of all things. Sure, it was a big hit, but how many guys went to that movie expecting to see Cameron Diaz or somebody get naked on the big screen and instead they got two hours of talking pork chops? I don't even want to count. Anyway, it looks like the studios have finally adopted the more sensible policy of marking their pig movies more clearly, and for that I applaud them. As for this specific film, how the hell should I know? Once bitten by a pig movie, twice shy my friends.
Now on Video:
Joy Ride
Shameless product-placement film based around the dish soap. This one might actually attain cult classic status because it is so ridiculous. The premise: a bunch of demographically diverse early-20's friends head on a road trip to Mexico to get soap when their local grocer runs out of Joy and they refuse to settle for the alternatives. A coming of age ensues. In the end, the film is almost redeemed by the chemistry between Katie Holmes and the rapper DMX. Almost.
K-PAX
Kevin Spacey is the DJ for this lite-rock station that broadcasts from deep space. Has kind of a Good Morning, Viet Cong appeal to it, but more than anything it pissed me off to think that the whole universe is listening to Matchbox 20. Yuck.
Sexy Bees
This funny CGI cross between Antz and Basic Instinct has got its laughing pants on, but I'm not sure if kids are going to be able to follow the "Is the murderous lesbian Queen wearing panties or not?" subplot.
Television:
Looks like old Roland McS got so wrapped up in the Oscars he forgot to do anything else with his TV in the meantime. Sorry for the lack of TV and Games, but I'm sure you weren't missing anything. Now let's see what you're not missing!
Gag the Bunny (Fox)
In the tradition of the envelope-pushing Queer Factor on Fox, this reality gameshow terrorizes Playboy playmates by kidnapping them, hauling them away in serial killer-style vans, tying them in dimly-lit basements in small farmhouses, and see who can escape first. And these girls are really in it to win, either that or they haven't been told their primetime TV game show contestants.
Baby Bop (CBS)
Not only is the entire CBS audience doddering senile old folks, now the programming execs are, too. How else could former PBS Barney co-star, the walking muppet stand-up comedian Baby Bop, get his own sitcom. I just don't buy this goofy dinosaur as a father of three and a sports column writer. Is he even old enough? Is it a he or she? I guess if you're on CBS these aren't important questions. Not up my alley, though.
Anal Reaming Controls the Universe
Now this is up my alley! But even the commune won't let me tell you what it's about. Just watch it. Yeah, it's on Fox, but these guys have absolutely nothing to lose. Trust me, every show will be doing this next year. I know I will be.
Video Games:
Freedom Force (PC)
PC gaming comes back hard with this innovative game about Honduran rebels. YOU are el capitan, YOU train the troops, YOU are the only thing standing between the evils of capitalism and the everlasting peace of communist revolution. Not available in the United States.
Resident Devo (Gamecube)
Anybody else hear Nintendo's last gasps? I thought hanging on to Mario and Luigi by the cahones was showing how out of touch they are, now they go and come up with this game based on the early '80s band. You're a landlord who rents a bunch of new apartments to these New Wave noisemakers, then have to evict them when you catch them whipping it. I'm not sure what they are, but they are not men.
Might & Management IX (PC)
PC gaming comes back hard again! This is the 13th game about a retired wizard who takes over managing a Denny's, but I guess 13 is a lucky number because they finally got it right! It's one hell of a strategy game from start to finish, if I ever finish it. You choose when to throw the old fries out or introduce the pita fajita to your thousands of customers. The fantastic designer program allows you to create your own
restaurant layout, complete with playland for kids and nap area for yourself.
That's all for this month, consumeritas! I hope it rolled your oats this time around and that I'll see your sunny faces next time the Entertainment Police wagon comes rollicking into town. Until then!
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