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 October 13, 2003 |
Either Schwarzenegger arrives from belated victory party with wife Maria Shriver, or some sort of clip from a movie.
California voters turned out in record, ignorant numbers Oct. 7 to make their confused voices heard, and the answer was a resounding, "What's this all about again?" As voters chose to recall Gov. Gray Davis, elected only 11 months earlier, and replace him with female-violating, Hitler-loving pure beef slab Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Not that a truly inept politician can't ruin an entire political system in less than a year. The current president only needed 9 months before the world as we knew it fell into a shitcan. And Gray Davis, described by friends as "a necessary evil," probably deserved a good pink-slipping. But to ...
he Tuesday polls have closed, the ballots are still being counted, but estimates make the outcome clear: California has lost the recall election.
California voters turned out in record, ignorant numbers Oct. 7 to make their confused voices heard, and the answer was a resounding, "What's this all about again?" As voters chose to recall Gov. Gray Davis, elected only 11 months earlier, and replace him with female-violating, Hitler-loving pure beef slab Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Not that a truly inept politician can't ruin an entire political system in less than a year. The current president only needed 9 months before the world as we knew it fell into a shitcan. And Gray Davis, described by friends as "a necessary evil," probably deserved a good pink-slipping. But to replace the deviously crafty with the hopelessly out-of-their-league, a trend already set at the presidential level, left California in the position of the biggest loser in the U.S.
Early estimates show the recall winning by 55%, with Schwarzenegger leading the recall candidates by a sizable margin. Among the opponents not just doing it for shits and giggles, Lt. Gov. "Tom" Cruz Bustamente, Sen. Tom McClintock, apparently not the character from the John Wayne movie of the same name, and a Green Party candidate who pushed a referendum where new ballots were cast with hemp. Schwarzenegger's 7,000+ votes over the next nearest candidate was called "overwhelming" by some overly-excited reporters. After all, here is a difficult foreign name they already know how to pronounce.
McClintock conceded happily to his fellow plus-sized Republican, calling it a "great day for California."
"In response to a common danger, the people of California rose to their duties and ordered a new direction for our state," said the well-rehearsed GOP mouthpiece. The message on that direction couldn't be less clear: We want the dumbest, most sexually-excitable candidate who runs a chain of failed over-hyped restaurants to do for us what he did for The Last Action Hero.
The white media, plagued with their fascination with celebrity, lauded the Schwarzenegger victory in many subtle ways, some calling it a "Hollywood ending." Leaving one compelled to remind reporters Dr. Strangelove and Taxi Driver had Hollywood endings, too.
Exit polls showed many voters disappointed with the failure of Gray Davis to mend California's budget problems during his 11 months in office. "It's not like the whole country's in a recession here," said one angry voter, drooling on this reporter's tape recorder.
The results of the California recall do little to surprise most pollsters, who predicted the election weeks in advance with their preemptive announcement of recall results beforehand. When asked what features they were looking for in a state governor, most Californians cited a vague understanding of the problems afflicting the state, poor pronunciation of English, and having appeared in at least one horrible Batman movie.
In a concession speech, Gray Davis called for everyone to "get behind" the governor-elect. What Davis neglected to add, but surely was thinking, was either that, 1, you could then proceed to push him off a cliff and into the Pacific Ocean, or 2, he's a big guy and you'll need the shade when the air conditioning dies after every power grid goes out, you fickle yellow-bellied traitors.
Schwarzenegger's new lieutenant governor, a bronze bust of former president Ronald Reagan, could not be reached for comment, as it's incapable of speech. the commune news does not share the malevolence visible throughout this article, but damn if we don't hate and hate and just don't know why. Shabozz Wertham is a former professor of something at some school and has been on special assignment covering the California recall election, and you ask us, he's a little spiteful toward us about it, too.
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 July 8, 2002
My Past Life as a Pro-Wrestler Has Come Back to Haunt MeThis is becoming the Rok Finger motif as of late: Taking a rocky path, somehow surviving most of the way, coming to a bump in the road, inhale a huge breath and successfully jump over the bump in the road, just to land in dogshit.
Am I exaggerating? I've known for quite some time God Himself has it in for me—once again, look at the face. But this seems a little sadistic even for the Almighty. To use me as a tool to scare children with this scrapheap of a punum, to break up my 30-year marriage through my paranoia and impulsive temper, to do the same to my second marriage, to make Camembert paralyzed just so my future apartment would be inconveniently filled with ramps and railings, all of it is just so cruel as to make me doubt the existence of God, if I thought someone evil enough like Kathi Lee Gifford had enough power to affect my life. No, there's a God, and He most certainly gets his kicks drowning puppies and kicking Rok Finger's backside like a black and white Spalding.
Now my one little past discretion has come back to haunt me. No, not my out-of-wedlock children—they are neither singular enough in number nor small enough in individual quantity to count as one little indiscretion. I speak of the three month span in the 1980s where I was a professional wrestler.
It's nothing I'm proud of. Even my ex-wife Arvelyn and all my previous column publishers know nothing about it. It's hard to explain why in today's culture, where...
º Last Column: I Have Been Dragged by a Car for Three Days
º more columns
This is becoming the Rok Finger motif as of late: Taking a rocky path, somehow surviving most of the way, coming to a bump in the road, inhale a huge breath and successfully jump over the bump in the road, just to land in dogshit.
Am I exaggerating? I've known for quite some time God Himself has it in for me—once again, look at the face. But this seems a little sadistic even for the Almighty. To use me as a tool to scare children with this scrapheap of a punum, to break up my 30-year marriage through my paranoia and impulsive temper, to do the same to my second marriage, to make Camembert paralyzed just so my future apartment would be inconveniently filled with ramps and railings, all of it is just so cruel as to make me doubt the existence of God, if I thought someone evil enough like Kathi Lee Gifford had enough power to affect my life. No, there's a God, and He most certainly gets his kicks drowning puppies and kicking Rok Finger's backside like a black and white Spalding.
Now my one little past discretion has come back to haunt me. No, not my out-of-wedlock children—they are neither singular enough in number nor small enough in individual quantity to count as one little indiscretion. I speak of the three month span in the 1980s where I was a professional wrestler.
It's nothing I'm proud of. Even my ex-wife Arvelyn and all my previous column publishers know nothing about it. It's hard to explain why in today's culture, where wrestling clearly is considered a mental disorder rather than a lifestyle choice. Let's just say I needed the money and was going through an unpleasant phase where holding half-naked men down to mats was what was important to me.
My wrestling league, the Dandies of America (D.O.A.), was small and cheap, but so am I; we were a match in heaven, where, I might remind you, the God who hates me so much lives. Our matches were quick and exciting, the way wrestling should have been, and boy, were our costumes fancy! I liked it, but I was always wise enough to wear a mask, to protect my journalistic career and save my cat from abuse on the streets. None of it helped.
I came home from, let's say a massage parlor, the other day just to find Camembert and Lee sitting on the couch and watching some home video wrestling tape. They rented it from a video store under the auspicious title, "Douches of the Ring." You can imagine my surprise when I saw a familiar costume appear in the midst of these badly-edited clips of smaller wrestling events. It was me, under my ring name of The 4-Foot Nightmare, wrestling with an old foe called "Amazing Sack" Ryan. I shuddered in fear, but the next words were what stopped me dead in my tracks:
"Damn, Rok, he's as short as you," Lee said, deadpan face on the TV. "Well, a little bit taller."
That was Saturday night. I haven't been home since. Curse that Lee! He has it all: A handsome face, long, luxurious hair, except for the top of his head, a beautiful apartment with fantastic roommates like me and Camembert, abundant bass playing ability, a never-ending supply of funny weed, and his mother likes him. Now he wants everything I have, to boot—my commune stipend of $36 a week, my fancy desk, my lousy craphole of an apartment with my turd roommates, and worse yet, my pride. I imagine, I didn't really give him time to make any demands after he made me in the video.
Well, I'll be damned to be victim of blackmail! I'm coming out, right here in my commune column, so at least Red Bagel will be reading it. Probably. Yes, America, I used to be a pro-wrestler. It's nothing I'm proud of, though the "Stamp of Approval" move that was my signature was pretty sharp. It was a long time ago. I ask for your forgiveness, and to let me move on. And be quick about it, they won't let me live in the office another day so I've got to get home again. º Last Column: I Have Been Dragged by a Car for Three Daysº more columns
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|  March 22, 2004
Let the Buyer BewareHere's the facts, folks: I did not, nor have I ever tried the Waffle Messiah.
Any implication that I did try the Waffle Messiah, or in any way endorsed the Waffle Messiah or purchase of that kitchen appliance, was unintended.
I did not at any time mean to encourage that someone should actually purchase the Waffle Messiah or that it would be a welcome addition to any kitchen. When I made the statement during the infomercial that "it would make a welcome addition to any kitchen," I was, in fact, referring to a Mr. Coffee machine though I had made no previous reference to it. The fact that I was standing in close proximity to the Waffle Messiah and gesturing in what some could consider to be the direction of the Waffle Messiah that lay on the counter in front of me was purely accidental. Just a bad camera angle as I was actually gesturing in the direction of the restrooms off-camera, where I was planning to go once the taping of the infomercial was done.
The following statements I did say were intended to refer to the Waffle Messiah:
"It cooks so fast!"
"How much is that thing?"
"You can't get a waffle iron for less."
"Does that mean it's healthier?"
"And we'll tell you how to get one by calling this number."
"It's white!"
"Classic design."
The following statements may have been misconstrued to refer to the Waffle Messiah when in fact they were referring to Mr....
º Last Column: Living on Borrowed Dime
º more columns
Here's the facts, folks: I did not, nor have I ever tried the Waffle Messiah.
Any implication that I did try the Waffle Messiah, or in any way endorsed the Waffle Messiah or purchase of that kitchen appliance, was unintended.
I did not at any time mean to encourage that someone should actually purchase the Waffle Messiah or that it would be a welcome addition to any kitchen. When I made the statement during the infomercial that "it would make a welcome addition to any kitchen," I was, in fact, referring to a Mr. Coffee machine though I had made no previous reference to it. The fact that I was standing in close proximity to the Waffle Messiah and gesturing in what some could consider to be the direction of the Waffle Messiah that lay on the counter in front of me was purely accidental. Just a bad camera angle as I was actually gesturing in the direction of the restrooms off-camera, where I was planning to go once the taping of the infomercial was done.
The following statements I did say were intended to refer to the Waffle Messiah:
"It cooks so fast!"
"How much is that thing?"
"You can't get a waffle iron for less."
"Does that mean it's healthier?"
"And we'll tell you how to get one by calling this number."
"It's white!"
"Classic design."
The following statements may have been misconstrued to refer to the Waffle Messiah when in fact they were referring to Mr. Coffee, my co-host of the program Brad Winchell, or something I was thinking about in my mind:
"Makes 'em delicious!"
"I'm convinced!"
"Grease-free cooking!"
"And it's 100% safe!"
"I'd buy one!"
"I love it, Brad!"
"Sure makes you think."
"Classic design."
"Order one now."
I do not claim complete innocence in the recent Waffle Messiah fiasco. In fact, I allowed the production and multiple airings of an infomercial that intentionally misled the viewer to believe I, Clarissa Coleman, beloved celebrity and former star of Who's Your Daddy?, in some way supported or encouraged the buying of the dangerous Waffle Messiah product. My heart goes out to all those kids in the burn ward and I pray, metaphorically, for their quick recovery.
In the meantime I encourage anyone feeling down about the whole thing to go out there and pick up Time-Life's 70's Groove-A-Funk Collection featuring all your favorite hits, though I should clarify that when I say "all your favorite hits," I in fact have no way of knowing what your favorite hits are and the phrase refers to generally favored songs of the 70's era.
Caveat emptor.º Last Column: Living on Borrowed Dimeº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Fortune is a fickle bitch. No, wait… I'm thinking of my wife. That's right, my wife's the fickle bitch. Fortune is some transcendentalist concept.”
-Martoon RomeoFortune 500 CookieQuick, put these shoes on—walk around in them to get comfortable, if you need to. This week, fasten your seatbelt for the ride of your life. Straight over the goddamn cliff and everything. Sure, when you say a dog talks to you, everybody believes you, but make it a rhesus monkey and all of a sudden you're "crazy." Now here's Trip with the sports.
Try again later.Least Effective SARS Protective Efforts| 1. | Stop breathing | | 2. | Fire handgun blindly at coughs | | 3. | Smoking deceased SARS victims | | 4. | Wave hand, say "Don't go in Toronto! Whew!" | | 5. | Drinking imported Hong Kong bathwater | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 6/14/2004 Whabang! And as simple as that we're back, America, for more of the movie review taste adults have grown to tolerate. It's grrrrrrrrr-decent! I'm your host, captain, and father figure Roland McShyster, here once again to brave the torrent of flops and crocks Hollywood keeps flinging at us unthinkingly, like a blind man cleaning out his garage. Who knows when we might find a diamond in the proverbial rough? That's not a rhetorical question, if you know the answer please write in because I'm getting really tired of waiting. On to the reviews!
In Theaters Now:
The Chronicles of Ritter
It's unusual that Hollywood makes us wait nine long months after the funeral before memorializing a marginal TV star with a shoddily...
Whabang! And as simple as that we're back, America, for more of the movie review taste adults have grown to tolerate. It's grrrrrrrrr-decent! I'm your host, captain, and father figure Roland McShyster, here once again to brave the torrent of flops and crocks Hollywood keeps flinging at us unthinkingly, like a blind man cleaning out his garage. Who knows when we might find a diamond in the proverbial rough? That's not a rhetorical question, if you know the answer please write in because I'm getting really tired of waiting. On to the reviews!
In Theaters Now:
The Chronicles of Ritter
It's unusual that Hollywood makes us wait nine long months after the funeral before memorializing a marginal TV star with a shoddily made biography picture, but such was the fate of John B. Ritter, late of Hooterman and Clifford the Big Commie Dog. In a brilliant ploy to distract us from the tardiness of their response, they've stunt-cast racially ambiguous meathead Vin Diesel in the starring role, a move that has paralyzed the bowels of filmgoers nationwide. Though I'd normally be tearing into Hollywood for this stunning show of hubris, this particular insult to audience intelligence is unintentionally hilarious and I loved it. I particularly enjoyed the scene where Ritter is recording the Three's Company theme song with Suzanne Sommers (played brilliantly by Suzanne Sommers in a fat suit), since Diesel's singing voice sounds like Henry Kissinger on Valium. If there's anyone intelligent left in Hollywood they'll sign Diesel to do a whole series of similar films, playing historical greats ranging from Albert Einstein to Mother Theresa, because that would be funnier than a sick dog on an airplane.
Garfield
When I first heard this project was in development deep within the bowels of 20th Century Fox, beneath the earth's crust where only the damned do dwell, my first thought was this: Only Bill Murray stands a chance of making the former president exciting, and they'd better not cast that fat guy from The Drew Carrey Show. Thankfully they followed my advice, and did it one better. I wasn't watching this film for more than fifteen minutes before my keen eye realized, "Holy shit! They CGI-ed him? Brilliant!" The bane of all previous Garfield flicks has been the failure of actors to accurately capture the sublime fatassedness of James Garfield, the colossal ennui that made the man move like he was wading through wet cement. Garfield was concerned with only two things during his four years as President of the United States: sleeping in and getting his meals on time. Don't ever let anybody tell you that being president isn't a cush job. While some have argued that the CGI wizards at Fox went over the top in committing the former president to pixels, I was impressed that they got his orange stripes right and bravely refused to bow to revisionist historians who claim the head of state didn't have a tail. Sure he didn't. Sleep tight, girls.
Susan Powter and the Prisoner of Azkican
Raise your hand if you didn't think spiky-haired fitness smurf Susan Powter had some poor schmuck tied up in her basement somewhere, kept handy for beatings and pep-talks depending on the swing of her manic-depressive pendulum. That's a hunk of news that should shock exactly no one. Anybody who saw her screaming "Stop the insanity!" on her infomercial years back knew she was talking to people the rest of us couldn't see. We didn't know, however, who the poor bastard was strapped to her radiator with surgical ties; his face caked in garish New Orleans whore makeup and a shameful giant piss-stain on the front of his flowery dress. Sure, we all had our candidates. I figured it was either Joe Piscopo or Caspar Weinberger. Those guys had to go somewhere. Turns out I was wrong, and Warner Bros. is betting you'll cough up $9 to see who it was. I'm thinking they're wrong about that one, since I just told you it was Bronson Pinchot.
And with a bang and a zip and a whiff of Nair, that's it! We're done for this installment of America's third favorite horse racing weekly, which is quite a bragging point around here since I've never even mentioned horses in this column. God bless the search engines. And for those of you hearing this column read aloud on late night Cuban radio, "¡coma la mierda!" I'm not sure what that means, but it's probably something.   |
