"That was when I had the idea to attack 21st.com..."

I find myself more than a little bothered by the space-time continuum paradoxes I keep seeing in the ads for 21st.com. I'm not even sure what it is that 21st.com actually sells/does/claims, since I'm too angered by the lapses in logic I keep finding to notice, and I'm not about to go look it up. Let's just assume they kill kittens, okay?

Anyway, let me cite examples for you, gentle readers, so as to rile you up as well. First up, we have an ad that purports to show a guy in 1985, stranded on a desert highway where his car has broken down. Inbred, ass-raping hicks pull up and answer his pleas for assistance the only way they know how. Cut to the present, and our victim is explaining how that night gave him the idea for 21st.com. Except he's still freshly-bruised, injured, and in a cast. Are to understand that he was so severely beaten by the repressed homosexual thugs that 21 years of healing haven't helped? Is the "21st" in honor of the 21 years that it took for him to recover enough to star in a crappy flashback ad?

Here's another. A pregnant woman in 1986 has some sort of issue, and then we see her in 2006 explaining that she had the idea for 21st.com that day. Let's put aside the fact that Ass Rape Man(tm) says that he was the real founder of the company. Her child is still a tiny newborn when we see her in the present! Has she had more kids since then, and the current one stoked her memory of the first? Or has the child not experienced a singular cell division since its birth?

There's another I've only seen once, set in the relatively recent 1990's, wherein another woman says that she founded the company in 1996. But a simple trip through the Wayback Machine shows their site didn't exist back then, and the actual company was founded in 1958. LIES! ALL LIES!

Why does a flashback have to go back twenty years if the world of two decades ago looks exactly the same as the world of twenty minutes ago, down to the same, unaged characters?! Why are there at least three deluded individuals claiming they founded the company, apparently in parallel universes to our own?! Why are large ads for 21st.com visible on the walls in years when the internet as we know it didn't even exist yet?!

I feel dirty I'm even mentioning the company's site, because it's helping these idiots in some small manner through free publicity. Promise me you won't go look anything up or buy the dead kittens or whatever they're hocking. Can you do that for me?

Mystere

So last night we ventured out to see Mystere, one of about 368,000 Cirque du Soleil shows performing in town right now. The conceit of this one is that French-Canadian acrobats are re-enacting the dreams of a demented baby. Baby is played first by a cooing spotlight in a carriage, and later by a woman into infantilism.

As you can imagine, those French-Canadian circus babies have scary, frightening dreams involving giant inflatable snails on a turntable stage, muscular men sweating buckets while positioning their heads into each others' crotches, and trampline women dressed in rainbow-colored pregnancy suits replete with strap-on dildos.

Seated next to us by coincidence was one of my coworkers. Jenn thought he was drunk, but I later explained that he was quite in character, as I'd dealt with him earlier in the day, when he wore his clubwear into the office and disabled the ceiling fluorescents, opting instead for mood lighting he'd brought in. I can best describe the guy as a ladies' man of indeterminate Turkish-ish origins, drenched in bad cologne, shirt unbuttoned down to his navel, and hair piled high with gel to mimic what one would wear to a dance club circa 1997. He kept screaming, "NO WAY!" as a reaction to everything that happened onstage. Example: "The muscular guy lifted the other muscular guy with one arm while twisting himself into a ball, and then put his face in the other guy's crotch?! NO WAY!"

Apparently the muscle guys' act was lifted out of Zumanity, where it was deemed too erotic to exist in a musical about gay men having sex while being beaten by dominatrixes. Instead, Zumanity was changed so that muscle men instead fight each other in a cage and then make out, and Mystere got got the balancing act, only now the muscle guys wear pants instead of g-strings. Got that?

Oh, French Canada. Full of wonder, and whimsy, and colorful homoerotic infantilism. When will you declare your independence and set up your own nation dedicated to the quadruple ideals of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, and Weirdness?

Tom vs. the Volcano, Part I

Tom vs. The Volcano
(With apologies to T.S. Eliot)

- I have seen with my own eyes Mr. Cruise hiding in the closet, and when his agent asked him, "What do you want?" He answered, "Show me the money."

I. THE MISSION IMPOSSIBLE

Xenu is the cruellest overlord, sending
Jet planes full of Thetans towards earth, zooming
Through the emptiness of the vast galaxy, careening
On a one-way trip to destruction.
The 80's kept us busy, watching
Hit after hit, coming
Until we thought he could do no wrong.
Scientology surprised us, coming out of the blue
With a wild-eyed rant; we stopped to stare at the wreck
And looked on in disbelief, on our couches
And shrugged, and laughed uncomfortably.
Hey Raymond, am I using you? Am I using you, Raymond?
And when we were children, sneaking into the theaters,
Loews, we watched him fly his jet plane,
And we cheered. He said, he felt the need,
The need for speed, and to hold tight. And down we went.
In the air, there you feel free.
It all seemed a little homosexual.

What eyes are wide shut now, what pre-crime
Do we await from this career? Mr. Mapother,
We cannot say, or guess, what you think
A heap of broken chat show couches lie in your wake,
And we've yet to see the baby, does she really exist,
And the tabloids have no blurry photos. Only
There is the shadow of the walk-in closet,
(Come out from inside the walk-in closet),
And I will show you something different from either,
Aliens attacking from outer space before you,
Or vampires prancing and mincing behind you,
I will show you abs in an obscenely tight shirt.

What's that, Nicole?
Don't wear the elevator shoes?
I need to, I'm not standing next to you otherwise,
How about you squat down instead?

'You gave us a few good men;
'They said you could not handle the truth.'
- Yet the truth you did handle, and you fucked with the wrong Marine,
Your veins bulging and your eyes bugging, we could see
You were acting very hard because you looked constipated, we were not
Sure that you were as good as Nicholson, but that's besides the point.
Act, and we will watch, we know nothing,
Looking into the glow of the warm flickering screen, the trailers.
Mission Impossible looks kind of good.

Anne Rice, famous gothic pornographer,
Has questionable skills, nevertheless
Is known to be the richest woman in New Orleans,
With a rack full of identical vampire books. Here, she said,
You'll dress in period garb and bite men.
(Those teeth are so perfect. Look!)
Here is Brad Pitt, he'll be big some day,
Stare at his ass longingly, but not too much so,
The ass that sold a thousand seats.
Here is a lawyer movie, and here is a NASCAR one,
Let us cover all of the bases of machismo. I do not find
Any chick flicks. Fear death at the box office.
I see crowds of people, exiting the theatre,
And wanting to have sex with you. If you see Tom,
Be sure to rip off a piece of his tight shirt.
Tell him to sign your boobs.
I've told him to smile as he does it.

Unreal Hollywood,
A land far and away,
A crowd formed on the studio walk, so many,
I had not thought they would stand in line, so many.
Cheers, occasional, when they thought they saw me,
Joan Rivers fixed her beady eyes upon my tuxedo.
The limos snaked around the Kodak Theater,
To where Mr. Blackwell criticized the cummerbunds,
With a tired forced effort to sell In Touch Weekly.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Goose!"
'You who were with me in the vanilla sky over the sea!
'That corpse who died because I was the hero and could not,
'Has your career recovered? Will it bloom this year?
'Or will you always be the dead doctor from ER?
'Oh keep quiet, stop bothering me, o toothy hotshot,
'Or I will file that restraining order I threatened!
'You! You are not my wingman anymore,- mon frère!'

II. A DAY OF THUNDER

THE Chair Sumner sat in, it had a cool remote installed,
E! glowed on the hi-def screen, lit in plasma
Held up by shiny polished black plastic with inset controls
Along the bottom a news ticker scrolled along
(The picture-in-picture showed Fox)
The walls were of good quality mahogany
And the couches rich Corinthian leather
His dew-coated bottle of scotch slammed down on the table,
From the satin cushions of his Barcalounger he sighed;
And poured another shot of courage down his throat
Unstoppered, the bottle would last twenty minutes, tops.
Musky, smooth, or beechwood-aged, burny
It drowns the liver in liquid fire; on the rocks
Cruise appeared at his threshold, ascended on platforms
Sheepishly wondering what exactly this was all about,
Cigar smoke seeped into the velvet curtains,
And left tobacco stains on the ceiling.
Huge sculptures of peeing satyrs stared
Cast in marble, coloured with money,
Next to which sad Tom sat.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
Commissioned caricatures of studio has-beens,
The visage of Tootie, the joyful coed
So rudely unemployed now; there was Mapother
Asking questions about the intent of the meeting
And still he smiled, and still his teeth glistened,
'Polident' to blinded eyes.
Katie's waiting in the lobby
He told the withered stump; the old form
Leaned out, leaning, hushed his guest.
Asking what the hell his publicist was thinking.
Into the teethlight, under the brush, his hair
Eyes glowed out in fiery points
Tom sat frozen, then savagely still.

'Germany won't let me film there. Yes, bad. But people like me.
'Speak to me. Why engage in risky business? Is this a Hubbard thing?
'L. Ron? What's he got to do with it?
'You opened fourth behind a cartoon bee. Think.'

I think we are in Xenu's alley
I read that in a class, and it sounded nice.

'What is that noise?'
I didn't try to brainwash Keri Russell!
'What is that nonsense now? That distracts the public from your films?'
Well, it's not like she went along with it, anyway.
'Do
'You you read the papers? Do you watch the magazines? Do you know your
'Q-score?'
I remember
That people cannot resist my handsomeness.
'Are you here, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Tabloidian Rag—
It's so voyeuristic
So fantastic
'What shall I do now? Who will show me the money?'
'You will not film for me again, you will hit the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall I do to-morrow?
'Write a tell-all and beg for forgiveness?'
Access Hollywood airs at ten.
And if you're lucky, people will forget in time.
And we shall play a game of public remorse,
The interviewers make company between celebrities
Pressing camera lenses and waiting for a faux-sincere confessional.

While Katie's husband got fired, she said—
She didn't mince her words, she said to herself,
HURRY UP PLEASE LET'S GO
Now Tom's coming back, buck up, pretend to smile.
He'll want to know if Suri has audited yet
And if I whitened her teeth. I did, she has two now.
She will have them all someday, Tom, and they'll gleam like yours,
I said, I swear, I'm not worthy to look at you.
Lamb to your lion, I said, and think of poor Mimi,
She's been gone for years, I don't want to go back to the Creek,
And if I don't give it to him, there's others that will, I said.
Oh there are. I ran in the marathon because loves me, I said.
I know who to thank for getting me in Batman.
HURRY UP PLEASE LET'S GO
Don't worry about Paramount, you can start your own studio, I said.
You can greenlight anything and cast me.
You haven't done a lawyer film in a while, it would be fun.
I can flash the goods, I said, I've done it in the past.
(And me only twenty-eight.)
You can't help it, I said, oh last of the samurai,
It's the world's fault, not yours, I said.
(South Park didn't help, you really should sue them.)
The doctor said not to, but I flushed the antidepressants.
Narconon will be so proud.
Well, Tom let's head home, to get started, I said,
Travolta made ten comebacks, why can't you?
HURRY UP PLEASE LET'S GO
United Artists is for sale, they were hot once,
Chaplin made them something, you can too—
HURRY UP PLEASE LET'S GO
HURRY UP PLEASE LET'S GO
Goonight Sumner. Goonight Brooke. Goonight Goose. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, sanity, good night, sweet thetans, good night, good night.

To be continued...