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Steven Seagal's Life Like Bad Steven Seagal MovieThreats, mob extortion tied to pony-tailed action movie star November 25, 2002 |
Hollywood, California Half-Past Dead Press Kit Steven Seagal, ironically playing a prisoner in his latest movie. Fun twist to see
The victim of the terroristic threatening was a Los Angeles Times reporter, Anita Busch, whose name was being held confidential by police at press time. Busch wrote articles alleging a former filmmaking partner of Seagal's used mob connections to extort $700,000 from the actor, who, in one of his own movies, would have likely punched out the ex-partner with one Aikido punch and cracked the mob boss's arm into a severe fracture before kicking him backwards off the balc...
ews just keeps getting better and better for fans of the bizarre and absurd. Friday allegations were made that "actor" Steven Seagal, famous for his chubby-flanked kicking and limp ponytail in horrible action movies, is linked to a private investigator who alleges Seagal hired him to terrorize a reporter.
The victim of the terroristic threatening was a Los Angeles Times reporter, Anita Busch, whose name was being held confidential by police at press time. Busch wrote articles alleging a former filmmaking partner of Seagal's used mob connections to extort $700,000 from the actor, who, in one of his own movies, would have likely punched out the ex-partner with one Aikido punch and cracked the mob boss's arm into a severe fracture before kicking him backwards off the balcony. Instead, the actor paid the money.
Private investigator Anthony Pellicano was allegedly hired by Seagal to scare Busch away from writing her articles about the extortion. Police reports say in June the show biz reporter found a dead fish, a rose, and a note saying "Stop!" on the hood of her smashed car windshield. The monosyllabic note initially led police to suspect Seagal's involvement, but the combination of the dead fish and the rose was just slightly more imaginative than anything that appeared in his films, leading investigators to believe Seagal's involvement was more hands-off.
Just after the incident, Busch was approached by two men and told to stop writing articles about Steven Seagal. Had Seagal not been the perpetrator, and been in the car, and had the whole thing been one of his movies, he likely would have gotten out of the car, leaped upon the hood to deal out a series of bone-splitting kicks before flipping through the air to land behind the larger villain, bending his arm back and forcing him into the car's hood, warning him not to mess with the lady again.
Further, had this been a Steven Seagal movie, the police force would have been under the power of the corrupt Hollywood star/villain—Seagal, in this case—and seeking their help against the threatening would have been fruitless for the victim. However, the victim did go to the police in this case, and Seagal's alleged henchmen were arrested and charged with the incidents. Seagal has yet to be charged, but a paper trail and witness accounts may put Seagal behind bars yet, this time for a crime he did commit.
In the private investigator Pellicano's office, police found a cache of plastic explosive, a detonating cord and blasting cap, two grenades, 15 to 20 bundles of cash bearing $10,000 wrappers and a number of pieces of jewelry—i.e., things you might find in the hideout of the lead henchman in any Steven Seagal movie. Had the police not intercepted Pellicano and his hired goon, according to initial statements, plans were in place to blow up Busch's car, something that would have sent movie-Seagal out in the night, angrily breaking into the top boss's house—his own, in this case—to deliver the final, fatal beating that ended the movie.
In the real world, however, Seagal waits patiently for his court date, when his lawyer will argue fine points and details of testimony to discredit Pellicano's claims of direct requests from Seagal that initiated his actions. There is likely to be little kicking and punching, and Seagal will be referred to as Steven or Mr. Seagal instead of "Jack," "John," or "Mason Storm." the commune news has gotten really worked up by this article, and if anyone wants to watch an Under Siege marathon at their apartment later, we're all aboard. Ramon Nootles is as tough as they come, meaning little girls; please, don't hit.
 | Michael Jackson Cannibalizes BabyBizarre video footage vindicates crepehangers November 25, 2002 |
Berlin, Germany Image Courtesy Die Station Jackson revealing the surprise entrée
"It just sickens me when I close my eyes and think about it," sighed small-town cop Bufus Randall, who answers questions 24 hours a day and is like a procrastinating reporter's wet dream. "Just picturing that monster, slurping the baby's entrails like spaghetti, munching his bones like peppermint sticks and licking the baby's...
ichael Jackson was caught on video like a red-handed bandit man Tuesday, salaciously nibbling on his youngest son's toe in full view of the German media. Jackson, who was staying in a Berlin hotel while visiting that country for a Save Dem Childrens benefit, waved to the cameras and flashed a "kissy-peace" hand gesture to his fans before he closed the blinds and proceeded to partake in what can only be speculated as an orgy of underage cannibalism.
"It just sickens me when I close my eyes and think about it," sighed small-town cop Bufus Randall, who answers questions 24 hours a day and is like a procrastinating reporter's wet dream. "Just picturing that monster, slurping the baby's entrails like spaghetti, munching his bones like peppermint sticks and licking the baby's empty hide clean like a goddamned dinner plate. God. I think I'm gonna be sick."
Professional housewife Mandy St. Clair echoed Randall's concerns.
"It's like it makes you, I don't know. Want. Want to do something to make that thing different. You know? Different so he's not eating those babies. Because that's just wrong, even if the babies want to be eaten. Because how could you really know? They might smile and wave their arms around like they want to be eaten, but it might just be because they're remembering something nice from when they're in the womb. Or they might have gas, sometimes babies smile who have gas. So you shouldn't just eat them."
Jackson's fans were quick to defend the troubled star, who recently sort of testified in his own defense in a courtward lawsuit.
"Even if Michael did eat that baby, he only did it for the fans. That's how much he cares," explained Kyoko Matsui, a screaming Tokyo fan of Jackson's appearances on cereal boxes in her home country. "People were yelling, 'We want to meet the baby!' and I guess since it was so noisy, Michael probably thought they were saying 'We want you to eat the baby!' It was just a tragic misunderstanding."
But noted sports psychologist Dr. Mandra Jimsack was wary of letting Jackson off the hook so easily.
"Fans yell out all kinds of crazy requests to stars, that doesn't mean they have to follow them. It's the star's job to set boundaries and know where to draw the line. Signing some autographs or flashing your tits out the sunroof of a limo? That's being a good star. Jerking off in a men's room at the park or shooting a rival recording artist in the testicles? That's just going too far. And also, lighting a fart on fire at the Golden Globes? That's very bad, Mr. Sandler. Very bad."
Activist groups rallied within minutes of the tape airing on the German news, calling for whatever kind of social services Germany might have to step in and take Jackson's remaining children away before dinnertime. Lawyers for German's Die Station news network were also preparing a lawsuit against the singer. According to sources, Jackson caused two of the station's cameramen to fall out of an evergreen tree near the hotel when he refused to leave his blinds open, forcing them to attempt filming through a small opening in the bathroom window.
Hours later, Jackson appeared at a puppet museum with the live toddler in tow, setting off ripples of speculation through the "thought he ate the baby" community. Randall, however, was not so quick to forgive and forget.
"Jesus Christ, how many of those things has he got? Well, I guess we can add human cloning to the list of charges. Fuckin' fruit." the commune news may have fallen off the wagon and into the frying pan, but we're pretty sure this next leap will put us in the clear. Boner Cunningham has always been a big Michael Jackson fan, but he still thinks Purple Rain was overrated.
| Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around |
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 November 25, 2002 Michael Jackson Has Always Existedthe commune's Griswald Dreck learned never to trust again after he saw those scary-assed cat eyes at the end of Thriller Countless dozens (twelves) have marveled at the way all of the great Pharaohs and other self-important assholes of ancient Egypt, not to mention their monuments like the Sphinx, the Cooney and the Guggenheim, all look exactly like Michael Jackson. Few have followed their ass-scratching curiosity into the realm of arduous academic research, and I can't blame them because that's some dry shit. But for those few who have, the reward has been a startling revelation.
Michael Jackson has always existed.
Through all cultures and all times over the course of human history there has been only one constant: Michael Jackson. Okay, and bacon. Everybody loves bacon, no lie. So two constants, but one is more surprising than the other.
No one can be quite sure where...
º Last Column: Cancer's for Pussies: How Smoking Started
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Countless dozens (twelves) have marveled at the way all of the great Pharaohs and other self-important assholes of ancient Egypt, not to mention their monuments like the Sphinx, the Cooney and the Guggenheim, all look exactly like Michael Jackson. Few have followed their ass-scratching curiosity into the realm of arduous academic research, and I can't blame them because that's some dry shit. But for those few who have, the reward has been a startling revelation.
Michael Jackson has always existed.
Through all cultures and all times over the course of human history there has been only one constant: Michael Jackson. Okay, and bacon. Everybody loves bacon, no lie. So two constants, but one is more surprising than the other.
No one can be quite sure where the King of Pop came from, as he predates even the earliest recorded history and can be found in the mythology of most world cultures. Historians agree that a crash-landing space egg is as reasonable an explanation as any.
Nowhere is Jackson's influence more evident than in the culture of ancient Egypt. When the great Pharaoh Titencouple built the Sphinx, the model was no other than the gloved one himself. Jackson convinced the Pharaoh to build the Sphinx by saying it would make him live forever, but through a neat linguistic trick Mike failed to clarify that he meant he, himself, and not the Pharaoh, who would die three years later in the crotch of an elephant.
Through some kind of voodoo shenanigans that can only be explained using a detailed diorama and action figures, Jackson designed the Sphinx as a kind of supernatural Dorian Gray portrait who's magical powers kept the singer impervious to the ravages of time. It worked like a charm, though when the dog-loving warlord Mameluke shot off the Sphinx's nose during a drunken bender in the 1300's, Jackson began to lose the nasal portion of his magical protection. Eventually this lead to the unsightly implosion of his shnozz, an unfortunate side-effect of marrying one's fate to that of a stationary monument in asshole country.
In the 20th century, acid rain began to deface the Sphinx further, wreaking more havoc on Jackson's visage and driving him to more and more paranoid attempts to stave off the effects of aging. Sleeping in a giant vacuum-sealed Pringles container made for good press in the tabloids, but eventually proved to be of little help. A Sphinx haircut would come later, though some would argue that he went too far with it and ended up looking more like a character from Big Trouble in Little China than the Sphinx.
Some may bring up the well-known footage of a young Jackson rumpshaking his way through Motown hits in the early 70's as evidence of his normal human lifecycle. Few realize that this footage is from, amazingly, 7840 B.C.. Check out the cord on Jermaine Jackson's bass guitar. Looks suspiciously like a braid of camel hair, doesn't it? Jackson has proved that he's nothing if not adept at predicting cultural trends ahead of time, only few have realized just how far ahead. Once again in pop music, everything old is new again.
Some might wonder what to make of this discovery, to panic wildly and fling one's ass out an open window, or to shrug apathetically and help oneself to another helping of chicken fried steak. I believe the correct approach is mild curiosity. While it would be easy and understandable for one to succumb to an intense bout of the heebie-jeebies, it's important to realize that if Jackson had the power to destroy the world, he surely would have done so after HIStory sold like Cancer McNuggets a few years back. He may hold some bizarre powers we have yet to discover, but whatever happens we know that over in Egypt we've always got him by the man-headed lion balls. And personally, you can keep your immortality if it means that any yahoo out there with a rocket launcher can blow your sandy bits back to Cairo any time he pleases. º Last Column: Cancer's for Pussies: How Smoking Startedº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Yours is not to question why, yadda yadda yadda, just jump out of the goddamned plane already.”
-Corporal "D-Wipe" HeisenhouserFortune 500 CookieLet me be the first to say: Elastic Grandmacraps. You can run but you can't hide, and that's why you never got the Hide 'N Seek scholarship to Brown you had your hopes set on. Your character of Jasper the Friendly Goat will garner you the attention you've long desired this week, but will be much more of the legal variety than you had intended. This week's lucky animal cookies: dog, penguin, June bug, Oreo.
Try again later.Top-Selling commune Paraphernalia| 1. | the commune's Book on Tape: Everyone's favorite verbose classic War & Peace printed in tiny type on the non-sticky side of a roll of Scotch tap | | 2. | The "I Sued the commune for Libel and All I Got Was This Lousy Mug" Mug | | 3. | "Pin the Paternity Suit on Lil Duncan's Babydaddy" Home Game | | 4. | Boris Utzov Guide of English Slang | | 5. | Ivana Folger-Balzac. Please, somebody take Ivana Folger-Balzac. | |
|   Republican Majority Mandates Lobster Bibs for Democrats BY roland mcshyster 11/25/2002 Hello Yellow, America! Step right up for another dose of Entertainment Police love, and just see if you don't come away with a lump in your throat or breast. Like our forefathers and foremothers before us, pointing their forefingers in a vague gesture of thanks, we're here to give thanks that the holiday movie season is finally upon us. Just as the pilgrims gave thanks that they wouldn't have to sit through any more Indian "coming of age" tales or movies about animal spirits walking around and shitting everywhere, we give our thanks that the big budget movies are finally here. The food industry may try to convince you that you're happy this Thanksgiving because you're eating dried out turkey with your hideous in-laws, but we all know better than that. That smile on your face can be directl...
Hello Yellow, America! Step right up for another dose of Entertainment Police love, and just see if you don't come away with a lump in your throat or breast. Like our forefathers and foremothers before us, pointing their forefingers in a vague gesture of thanks, we're here to give thanks that the holiday movie season is finally upon us. Just as the pilgrims gave thanks that they wouldn't have to sit through any more Indian "coming of age" tales or movies about animal spirits walking around and shitting everywhere, we give our thanks that the big budget movies are finally here. The food industry may try to convince you that you're happy this Thanksgiving because you're eating dried out turkey with your hideous in-laws, but we all know better than that. That smile on your face can be directly traced back to seeing Stephen Segal kick that guy's ass with a Christmas tree. So without further delay, let's get to the late November movie releases.
In Theaters
Adam Sandler's Eight Crazy Nuts
Eventually, gross-out humor in the movies had to go too far, alienating even the retarded adolescents and middle-aged pro wrestling fans who have made it a goldmine for studios and Tom Green over the last decade. It looks like Adam Sandler may be the one left holding the hot potato when that song stops, because his new film is so over-the-top it makes There's Something About Marty look like Dating the Mormon Way. This time around, Sandler plays an annoying, mealy-mouthed loser named Sadam Andler who has his mother's penny-pinching passion for Mexican pharmaceuticals to thank for the fertility pills that caused him to be born with eight testicles. Sandler milks those extra nuts for all the comedy they're worth, including a nauseating mix-up involving a blind man buying grapes at a produce stand, not to mention Andler's gut-wrenching hazing at the hands of the Chinese ping pong team. If you had to say something good about the film, I guess you'd point out that it's animated, which saves us from any disturbingly realistic nutsack textures. And that's more than enough reason for me to give thanks this year.
Diet Another Day
Bond's apparently getting a little chunky in the ass section these days, as was bound to happen eventually. It's tough to keep the pounds off after 40, even if you are a super-secret limey sex machine. Pierce Bronson squeezes his lumpy can into the penguin suit for one more go-around as he saves the world from rich idiots once again and tries to get into Chuck Berry's daughter's pants. I suppose it's about as good as the last 87 Bond films, but I have to admit it leaves stretch marks on the torso of believability at times. So you're telling me that the Ministry of Spy Shit can outfit 007 with a cell phone built into a tic-tac no problem, but they can't get their hands on some Fen-Phen for this guy? Please.
Extreme P.O.S.
Truth in advertising is a concept that rarely applies to movie titles, as evidenced by such famously misleading crocks as Babe and Naked Lunch. But every once in a while Hollywood spits out an appropriately named flick just to draw in the curious, like Knock Off or Senseless. Well, as Britney Spears would say: "Shit, They've Done It Again." Aiming at the same audience that tapes Mountain Dew commercials, the producers put together a cast of albino piercing models to snivel their way through an hour and a half of weakly justified snowboarding stunts and truly horrible music. Originally titled Duuude!, the producers eventually decided to hedge their bets by giving the film a heavily ironic title, figuring it might give them a shot at Sundance and betting that Generation Ysters wouldn't notice, anyway.
The Friday After Next Friday
Apparently the original title, Two Weeks From Now didn't make it clear enough that this was a sequel to Ice Cube's stinky horror flick I Still Know What You'll Do Next Friday, though you'd think that would be a good thing. If I were them, I'd call it Ain't No Way This is a Sequel to That Shitball, which might cause some translation problems when they release the film in Singapore, since I hear they eat shitballs there. Hey, when in Rome. In the long run, it probably doesn't matter what they call it, since it'll be on Beta in about two weeks. Every once in a while a movie does so poorly they skip the DVD and VHS releases all together and put it out straight to Betamax, figuring that the poor suckers with those types of VCRs will buy anything to try and recoup their entertainment investment. Usually they reserve that honor for Tim Allen movies, but I see them branching out in this case, trying to make inroads into the "found this thing in the dumpster" demographic.
Wes Craven Presents: They…
It's always sad when an artist dies in the middle of a project, leaving us to wonder what might have been had they not opted to crap out early and cheat us out of something that might have been great. Who knows what funny things John Belushi might have yelled, or how fat Jim Morrison might have got, had they not been taken from us so soon. Less compellingly, but more relevant to this review, who knows what horrormeister Wes Craven would have called his last film? He managed to finish the film but kicked off before he could finish naming it, leaving us to wonder what the proper title would have been. They're Invisible But Sound Scary As Hell? They Look Like Throw Rugs But They Eat Your Feet? They're Right Behind You, Dipwad!? The possibilities are endless, and the movie's no help because it's awful, but who knows how good it could have been with the right title?
And that's all she wrote, ladies and gender-neutrals. Check back next issue when we hit the sweet spot between Thanksgiving and Christmas and marvel at all the wonders scheduled for release within. By the way, for those of you have been asking, word is that word on the street is that Margaret Cho's Thanksafuckinglotgiving has been delayed once again, look for that to hit theaters in April.   |
