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 January 10, 2005 |
Flatbush, NJ Mrs. Bird, Graphics A podge of the hodge that made 2004 so yearish
2004 dazzled us like strange, incomprehensible kabuki theater, in which a talking gonad was somehow re-elected president and the biggest group of losers this side of Color Me Badd accidentally won the World Series. Martha Stewart went to jail and Kobe Bryant didn’t, teaching America’s children a v...
oodbye, 2004. Thanks so much for biting the dong and hanging around for at least eleven months too long, until it finally took a forty-story tall wall of hauling ass saltwater to wash your taste out of our mouths. Thanks for finally dragging your skanky, broken ass off our calendar at last, and don’t think we won’t be calling the Goodwill in the morning to come pick up what’s left of your shit. The new year is here, and it doesn’t stink quite so strongly of Jovan Musk.
2004 dazzled us like strange, incomprehensible kabuki theater, in which a talking gonad was somehow re-elected president and the biggest group of losers this side of Color Me Badd accidentally won the World Series. Martha Stewart went to jail and Kobe Bryant didn’t, teaching America’s children a valuable lesson about the horrors of overly tasteful home décor. The country had to grow up fast with the revelation that Janet Jackson has breasts, while her brother Michael strangely has no interest in the same. Americans everywhere were up in arms about an unjustified war in Iraq… no wait, sorry. Americans everywhere were up in arms about a fertilizer salesman who snuffed his wife, vigilantly demanding to see justice done before more Modesto singles could be put in harm’s way.
Meanwhile, on the bright side of political news, Ronald Reagan and Yasser Arafat both died in “unrelated” incidents, leaving more Ben Gay for the rest of us.
There were also the usual run of celebrity mercy killings, though 2004 couldn’t even get those right, as nobody was especially eager to see Ray Charles, Marlon Brando, Rodney Dangerfield or Christopher Reeve go. Though the thought of the four of them all on the same bus to the afterlife offers many amusing possibilities, which isn’t a half-bad idea for a sitcom or at least a winning bar joke. Note to self: write down this million-dollar idea!
2004 was the year gays started getting married, Britney Spears couldn’t stay married, and somebody accidentally married J-Lo. Though thanks to a timely UN intervention, Ben Affleck remained single at year’s end.
But mostly, 2004 felt like a dead hooker rolled up in a carpet, which shrinks mercifully in the rearview mirror by the minute as we peel out bravely into the future. Both of the top grossing films of the year were sequels, which seems like a golden treat when you realize the third-place film was about Jesus getting the holy shit beaten out of him. And the top-selling album of the year was by some kind of disgruntled movie theater employee, likely having had to sit through one too many screenings of The Passion of the Christ or, even worse, Catwoman.
However, movies couldn’t sate our thirst for horribleness in 2004, so the real world had to oblige us with the Madrid train attacks, ethnic cleansing in Sudan, and the tragic first-ever meeting of the Russian PTA. By the time the south Asian tsunami rinsed what was left of 2004 down the crapper, few were sad to see it go. Unless they were wealthy, horny Republican NBA stars with points on The Passion.
We’ll miss you, 2004. Like we miss polyester underwear. Don’t let history hit you in the ass on your way out. the commune news remembers 2004 only as a big, gray blur, thanks to the magic of our break room microwave with the missing front door. Red Bagel is the commune’s fearless editor, not to be confused with the commune’s beardless predator, Ramon Nootles.
 |  January 10, 2005 |
Phuket, Thailand Courtesy SI Duck, bitch!
That same miracle, however, killed over 155,000 foreign peoples, most of whom can charitably be described as “nobodies.” To date, the bodies of over 155,000 nobod...
he whole wide world heaved a giant sigh of relief this week with the news that disaster had been averted: despite Mother Nature’s best attempts to rob us of one of our most beautiful people, pretty Czech supermodel Petra Nemcova has survived the Asian tsunami. Accidentally trapped in the midst of the ugly foreign tragedy while on a glamorous beach vacation, Nemcova soldiered through the big wet mess by clinging bravely to a tree while her photographer boyfriend was tsunamied to his apparent death. Nemcova sustained only moderate injuries in what international aid workers are calling “a miracle from God.”
That same miracle, however, killed over 155,000 foreign peoples, most of whom can charitably be described as “nobodies.” To date, the bodies of over 155,000 nobodies have been found in disaster recovery operations throughout southern Asia. The search for celebrities continues.
In the wake of the recent tsunamic free-for-all, American President George W. Bush has vowed vengeance against all nations suspected of harboring or supporting the deadly ocean waves. Early reports indicate that the Middle Eastern nations of Iran and Syria are already on the president’s tsunami “shit list.”
Other nations known to have studied tsunamis in the past, including Jordan and Turkey, are reportedly also under close watch. Lending credence to the theory that oil and evil go together like beef and cheese, Bush also suggested that Saudi Arabia is skating on thin ice regarding their own tsunami-harboring status.
“This terrible tragedy has earned the president precious political capital, and he intends to use it,” explained the Secretary of State Colin Powell, indicating that American troops were even now readying to kick the Iranians’ tsunami-loving butts back to Tehran.
Little is known about the elusive tsunami, whose name comes from the Japanese word for “big fucking milkshake.” First described in the 1964 pop hit “Love Tsunami” by Little Johnny Maxwell, scientists have been unable to determine where the giant killer waves come from, or where they hide out between attacks.
“A tsunami is apparently some kind of big wavy thing,” explained University of Minnesota geologist Hans Goering. “I know, woo—scary. But apparently a lot of those people didn’t know how to swim or something. In addition, we believe that this event may have featured an unprecedented number of surfing fatalities. Kids should take heart and remember to always wear a bicycle helmet while surfing. Also, don’t fall asleep in a hut on the beach.”
Nemcova’s miraculous survival has brought hope to millions in the region, who take heart in the fact that despite the widespread misery and destruction prevalent in so many countries bordering the Indian Ocean, no famous or really beautiful Americans were killed in the tsunami attack. Meanwhile, international aid groups continue to search the wreckage day and night for signs of anyone you may have heard of. the commune news was the victim of a tsunami attack once when we were trying to learn to surf, regardless of what you may have heard about it just being a pussy-assed little baby wave. Ivan Nacuchacokov remained the most upbeat man in southern Asia this week, happy for once to get to a story after the disaster had already occurred.
| Celebrities donate lip service to needy tsunami victims Miami DJs: Castro confirms refrigerator is running Iraq occupation troops to enjoy long period of job security Site's Quantum Leap fan fiction lacks subtlety, convincing characterization |
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 January 10, 2005 A Christmas Sandwich Come TrueIf I go into a restaurant at ten o'clock at night, and they are not closed this time, I should be able to order a venison sandwich and get it. I have said it before, I'll say it again.
Good people, is this America, or communist Italy? We live in the richest and freest nation on earth. Freest? That doesn't look right. Free-loving? Wrong implications, but I see little alternative. You know what I mean—we love freedom. We have endless resources and, Lord knows, if I can afford a venison sandwich, there is no good reason why I should not get it.
Don't tell me it's Christmas Eve, missy. I didn't order a calendar. I ordered a venison sandwich. Venison has to be the fifth or sixth most popular kind of meat in the world. How can a national chain like McDonald's run ou...
º Last Column: The Two-Car Garage Problem
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If I go into a restaurant at ten o'clock at night, and they are not closed this time, I should be able to order a venison sandwich and get it. I have said it before, I'll say it again.
Good people, is this America, or communist Italy? We live in the richest and freest nation on earth. Freest? That doesn't look right. Free-loving? Wrong implications, but I see little alternative. You know what I mean—we love freedom. We have endless resources and, Lord knows, if I can afford a venison sandwich, there is no good reason why I should not get it.
Don't tell me it's Christmas Eve, missy. I didn't order a calendar. I ordered a venison sandwich. Venison has to be the fifth or sixth most popular kind of meat in the world. How can a national chain like McDonald's run out of it so fast? That's pretty ridiculous.
As you can guess, this really did happen. I had something called a "Big Mac" instead, some kind of cow meat or something, with salad dressing slathered all over it. I prefer my meats not to be slathered. Basted, or painted, perhaps. Never slathered, and certainly not drenched. Unless it's with barbecue sauce, but this wasn't. So yes, a nasty cow meat sandwich with slathered-on salad dressing. I promptly threw up. That was my Christmas present.
Camembert and his girlfriend Elvis were quite embarrassed. I think they just like to challenge me now. I'm paying for Christmas dinner, I reminded them, I'm the one who should be embarrassed about throwing up. But I wasn't. Because as I said, they didn't give me what I originally wanted—my stomach doesn't compromise. It wanted venison, and it knows the difference between deer meat and cow meat slathered with salad dressing. McDonald should be ashamed of himself. I tried to get him on the phone, but those disrespectful slacker employees just kept calling him a clown. In my day, we respected our wealthy corporate founders.
I'm not sure, good people, what it is about Christmas that puts me in the mood for a tasty venison sandwich. It has long been my cross to bear. That and the large cross in my backyard, but I'm not finished building that quite yet.
Jesus had a cross to bear, too. It was called being the son of a popular Fellow. It's not easy being God's son. Everybody expects a lot from you, and they will not stop mentioning all the great things your Dad has done. And what have you done? That's all they want to know. And that's why Jesus made the venison sandwich—his gift to mankind.
Well, to make a bad column short, I got my venison sandwich finally, no thank you, McDonald's. It was Camembert and Elvis's gift to me. I was touched, right to the very heart. Girl Elvis apparently went and slaughtered a deer in the middle of the night just to make it for me. That's what Christmas means to me—deer meat, wrapped in a bow.
Their gift? I got them a subscription to Friday Magazine, the magazine for people who really like Fridays. It was the only thing I could get on Christmas morning at 7 a.m., they have a 24-hour subscription hotline. But I believe they both like Fridays.
What? Should I knock myself out for a gift on Christmas morning? I don't even have the sandwich anymore. I thought it was quite generous of me, considering. º Last Column: The Two-Car Garage Problemº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Let my nizzles go!”
-Moses Harper, on 19th StreetFortune 500 CookieIron lung, shmiron lung—that guy had it coming. Don't bother with that waiting list for Oxford—Kentucky Fried Chicken College wants you now. It's fish or die again this week—same ol', same ol'. Lucky religions: Buddhism, Paganism, Mormonism, worshipping Isaac Hayes
Try again later.Least Heard Mobster Euphemisms for Murder| 1. | Treat this guy to a steel sundae | | 2. | Make his shoes a lot heavier, more sinkable | | 3. | Invalidate his parking | | 4. | Go apeshit on this fuck | | 5. | Fill him full of holes like a Dade County ballot (2000 only) | |
|   Gonzales Clarifies "Feast on Terrorists' Bones" Comment BY roland mcshyster 1/10/2005 Look out below, America, Roland McShyster just honked and as usual, it looks like gravity will have its way. We're sicker than a Nine Inch Nails video here at Entertainment Police, and all bets are off within a fifty foot radius of yours truly. Anyone interested in staying well would do wisely to coat their computer screen in Vaseline and turn to the black power of voodoo for support, ladies and gentlemen. Now let's take a look at this week's movies, which like everything else at the moment, are something to sneeze at.
In Theaters Now:
Electra
As I anticipated in this very space years ago, celebrity shemannequin Carmen Electra has followed the well-worn path from extra bimbo on Good Burger to the director and producer's chairs, where she...
Look out below, America, Roland McShyster just honked and as usual, it looks like gravity will have its way. We're sicker than a Nine Inch Nails video here at Entertainment Police, and all bets are off within a fifty foot radius of yours truly. Anyone interested in staying well would do wisely to coat their computer screen in Vaseline and turn to the black power of voodoo for support, ladies and gentlemen. Now let's take a look at this week's movies, which like everything else at the moment, are something to sneeze at.
In Theaters Now:
Electra
As I anticipated in this very space years ago, celebrity shemannequin Carmen Electra has followed the well-worn path from extra bimbo on Good Burger to the director and producer's chairs, where she apparently perched gingerly with one cheek on each, or else had herself cloned using trick photography. Whatever the method, Electra has managed to inflict her strange autobiography on the world, an improbable geek epic with one cheek each in the worlds of science fiction and comic bookery. Apparently Electra's ass was too busy to star as itself in the film, so Eva Gardner's great-granddaughter was brought in to plausible effect, despite the fact that she's seven feet tall and looks slightly less like Carmen Electra than I do. All of this was of little importance, however, since the audience's geeklust was satisfied and the film served its purpose as a place-holder before the May release of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Nerds, and the highly anticipated Wookie Cookies tie-in promotion.
Hotel Rwanda
Seeking to hitchhike to the heights they once soared with their pervasively eternal gigantahit "Hotel California," the Eagles released the lesser-known desperate cash-in jingle "Hotel Rwanda" in 1981. Though it shared in many of the original's tasty licks and incomprehensible lyrics, the record-listening public was all "Horse with No Name"ed out by that point and the new tune was a sweaty flop. But leave it to Hollywood to mistake a dismal commercial failure for an underground cult favorite, as they did last year with the release of everything they released last year, so we're treated with a movie adaptation that unwisely drags on beyond the original tune's seven-minute running length. Don Knotts stars as the black guy from Traffic.
Racist Stripes
Finally, some genius has realized that CGI doesn't only stand for "Computers Generate Income" and has crafted an actual computer-animated film without any farting dinosaurs or showtunes-loving sidekicks. In fact, this modern-day retelling of Animal Farm is about as crowd-pleasing as an electrocuted elephant, daring audiences to examine the racist underpinnings of their own warped worldviews. When a naĂŻve zebra named Hitler shows up on the farm one day looking for refuge from a world fixated on his mixed-stripe heritage, he finds instead a powderkeg of simmering ethnic tensions amongst the charmingly celebrity-voiced assemblage of barnyard beasts. Over the next 84 minutes, Hitler teaches the assorted ethnic stereotypes a valuable lesson about equality by winning the county's annual racist races, before being made into glue to pave the way for the purification of the farm. This is one thought-provoking future classic that's perfect for kids you don't like.
Well, there you have it, and while you're holding it I'm going to duck out the back door. Hot potato on you, slow-reacting America. Check back next time and hopefully we'll have more movie reviewing magic, minus the iron lung. Achoo.   |
