Completely Useless Movie Previews: Alvin and the Chipmunks

Gentle readers, it's that time once again, wherein I tell you everything I think I know about a film based on a glance at the trailer. And then you trust me completely, as you are wont to do. Because you're gullible like that.

Alvin and the Chipmunks is a heartwrenching story of three small rodents taken from their natural habitat and rendered in less-than-convincing computer animation. Alvin, Simon, and Theodore desperately want to spread a message of environmental awareness and the dangers of global warming, but instead are enslaved by the cruel and heartless David Seville. Hopped up on goofballs and chained to a microphone, their screams of anguish are digitally altered into classics such as "Christmas Don't Be Late" and "The Witch Doctor."

Seville, whose hobbies include deep-fat frying underperforming chipmunks as bite-size nuggets, is played by Jason Lee. Lee was booted from the remake of Fletch because studio execs didn't think he had the persona to carry a film on his own as lead. When people compare your charisma to Chevy Chase and decide unfavorably on your behalf, this is a message. That message is, it's time to talk to your agent about that dancing rodent flick.

Big questions are presented in this movie, many left up in the air. Will Dave get rabies? Will the chipmunks take home the Grammy? Will their droppings lead the health department to condemn Dave's home, or will the Chipmunk saga ultimately end in a small cardboard box buried beneath some cigarette butts and a whiskey bottle in the backyard? You'd think the writers would care enough about their characters to supply us with this vital information, and not leave us without closure. We, as an audience, demand to see the horrible, grisly fate that awaits this trio. Especially if an owl is involved.

Fans of the 80's cartoon maybe disappointed that the Chipettes are nowhere to be seen. These proto-furry heroines were lusted after by many a lad who wished their figures were anatomically correct. Does Hollywood today not care about the money in the pockets (among other things in the pockets) of horny teenage boys who crave anthropomorphic sex idols? Their appearance would have catapulted this movie to blockbuster status. Especially in Japan, where themed panties could have been sold in vending machines.

So. The Chipmunks. A cautionary tale of animal abuse, the cold uncaring world of contemporary top-40 radio, and the career of Jason Lee. On my voodoo-cursed scale of 1 to 88 stars, with 12 or so being the general level of tolerance I can muster for any Jason Lee film, I give this movie three deep-fried chipmunk nuggets, a pair of Chipette panties, and time served. Now let us completely forget this cultural phenomenon for another couple decades at least.

Real Problems. Real Answers.

I have a plan to solve the energy crisis!

Okay, so Santa brings coal to children who are naughty, right? Okay, so we encourage all of the kids in the world to misbehave. Santa can't well give them toys, so he leaves lumps of coal in their stockings. We all know that Santa doesn't have mining operations, but rather has magic elves fabricate everything he dispenses. Thus, free coal! We take each lump of coal, put it together into a big stockpile, and voila! Enough to put a dent in the ever-growing energy void.

Yes, I know, my plan is, essentially, to steal Christmas. But I'd like to hear you come up with something more foolproof!

Completely Useless Movie Previews: Beowulf

Once again, I'm here to fill you in about a movie you don't have to see, because I've seen the trailer. This time out, the film in question is Beowulf, and left me guarantee, it's a Beowulf Cluster of fun.

Much like 300, large portions of the movie have been digitally created. Except Beo (as the cool kids will surely call it) takes the added step of digitizing the actors. Sure, this brings them creepily close to the Uncanny Valley, wherein almost-human creations are so close to humanity that their faults become exaggerated to the point of eeriness. But ignore those dead eyes and read on. The man behind them is none other than Robert Zemeckis, whose animated Polar Express certainly didn't give any children deep-rooted psychological problems.

Unlike other retreads of the source material, this one is, oddly-enough, not set in a "techno-futile world." Rather, it's the dark ages, and the Danes are up against the monster Grendel, and his mother, Angelina Jolie, who is really taking this adoption thing way too far. Grendel is played by Crispin Glover, which is a bit much, since merely casting Crispin Glover makes your villain plenty scary right there. Grendel's mommy likes to prance around nude in gold paint and stripper heels, which don't seem to be the best choice for mortal combat, but hey, times were different in ye olden days.

Beowulf is a very manly hero. Well, as manly as you can be fighting a girl. You can tell he's manly, because he does manly things, like yelling his name repeatedly ("I... am... Beowulf!") just in case you forgot who he was, therefore reminding you of his Shatneresque manliness. You know, just in case you happen to have heard about this manly guy named Beowulf, and need your memory jogged indirectly when you realize it's this guy. (It's him. HE'S BEOWULF.)

Taking a cue from 300, many other things are screamed in an important manner as well. Historical records show that, in the past, screaming was more culturally acceptable than it is today. Evidence comes in the form of the original, screamed Gettysburg Address, delivered by a half-nude Abraham Lincoln.

So, is it worth watching? Duh! Did you read about the nekkid Angelina Jolie? Granted, it's a computer reproduction, but it's as close as we can get while she's still employed by the United Nations. Or until such time as naked screaming becomes fashionable again.

As a bonus, watching the movie exempts you from reading the poem in an English class. It's true! Clip this out and give it to your teacher as proof. Even reading this review is enough to cut you some slack with the poem, letting you just read the good parts about the disembowelings.

So, on my medieval scale of 1 to 88 stars, with 15 being "good" and 87 being one shy of 88, I give this film two mugs of mead, the slain body of our enemy, and a computer-generated sex scene between two copies of Angelina Jolie.

Completely Useless Movie Previews: Lions for Lambs

It has been far too long since I, your author, have granted you assistance in deciding whether a film is worthy of your attention and debit card. Fear not! As part of my vow to entertain you while television falters under the crushing duress of labor protests, I am redoubling my efforts to keep you amused. So, Lions for Lambs. As usual, I am only using the film's trailer to inform me about its contents. Until such time as I am invited to press screenings, suck it up and deal.

Lions for Lambs is not, as the title would imply, either a film version of Edward Hicks' Peaceable Kingdom paintings, nor is it about the diet of a safari party. Rather, it stars Tom Cruise as a guy in a suit, which only happens in every other Tom Cruise movie. He says Important Things(tm), and says them loudly. Sometimes he'll bang his fist. Other people in suits stare intently. He ain't gettin' away with those words!

Oh yawn. By now we're all sick of Tom Cruise. I couldn't even make it through the trailer. Tell you what, let's start over and review Fred Claus, okay?

Now. Fred Claus is the story of Santa's hedonistic brother. Of course, Fred is jealous of the attention Santa gets. I blame his parents. If they're creative enough to name one child "Santa," where do they get off dropping the Fred-bomb on the other? They could have called him "Dewdrop" or "Rambo" or "Darth Vader." Those are names that predestine someone!

The plot involves Fred needing to borrow money from brother Santa to pay off gambling debts. It's a touching, heartwarming story of what happens when elves don't pay up, and how eventually they can only wish that one among them was indeed a dentist. Now, I know nothing else about the film, but let me wildly speculate that somehow Santa winds up in trouble, and Fred saves the day, healing their relationship for all eternity. They they wrestle in a manly, heterosexual manner to seal their mutual respect, and crack open a six-pack.

It must be tough to live in the shadow of a more successful sibling. But we've mined this material before. If the writers were really creative, they'd make a sequel where Fred and Santa discover a long-lost third brother- Jesus? Lincoln? Macho Man Randy Savage?

As it stands, this movie looks like it lacks creativity. It's Elf knocked up by any other Vince Vaughn film, and left abandoned on the curbside, where it was bitten by a spider infected with Bad Santa.

Still, it's not Lions for Lambs! It's completely devoid of Tom Cruise! Due to this fact alone, I'm giving it, on my patented scale of 1 through 88 stars, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, and two-and-a-half golden rings. It's got moxie, pluck, and spunk, and someday, science willing, there'll be a cure for that.

And what the fuck is up with Christmas movies being released this early, without the benefit of a Halloween tie-in?!

The Juice Isn't Loose Anymore

Ah, it feels like old times. Back in New England again, turning on the TV, and- what's this? Another OJ perp walk? It's just like 1995 again, only I have less hair!

Now I have to wonder who all will be back for the reunion tour. Kato is out, as I'm sure he's moved on to bigger and better things, and it would be a stretch to figure out how to involve him in the plot this time. Some of the Dream Team have died, so they'll either be replaced by lookalikes or CGI. Johnny Cochran, for instance, will be done by the same motion-capture guy who played Gollum in the Lord of the Rings films.

This time out, things will have to be slightly different, but still largely follow the same formula. Maybe next season, OJ can break back into prison, but this year let's not rock the boat too much. Episode II: Electric Boogaloo will instead involve boots that don't fit properly, a small green alien that only OJ can see and hear, and an American Idol-style competition to find the Next Big Judge Ito Dancer. Due to environmental considerations, the slow Bronco chase will now be performed in a Prius.

Thanks to the internet, this time out we can conduct live polling on IsOJGuilty.Com, watch streaming video on WatchOJFry.Com, and learn about the care and feeding of your own OJ on WhatOJsEat.com. You can friend OJ on MySpace and read his confessional "If I Did It" blog. Just be careful, he might try to kill you.

And so. It begins. Remember, we're just days into what promises to be months of speculation-fueled media frenzy. Savor it. If he goes away for thirty years, it's going to be an awfully long time before we're treated to another trial.

New: Old Britney

Last night, Britney Spears attempted a comeback, performing on MTV's video awards, the name of which only serves to remind us of the days when MTV showed videos. *sniff* Excuse me, I'm getting a little verklempt...

Brit was widely panned for being out of shape, forgetting her own lyrics, having her hair weave come undone, being outperformed by her own backup dancers, and generally looking and acting as confused as we were.

But! BUT, I say! These critics simply don't get it. See, Britney could have gone out and done a rehash of her stage career as it existed through the end of 2003. A "Young Britney" moment, full of faux-lesbian makeout sessions, horny writhing across the stage, and competent vocals. But that would be living in the past. Been there, done that!

No, instead she chose the more daring route- jumping straight to the "Old Elvis" stage of her career at the ripe age of 25! She even chose to kick it off in Las Vegas, where a similarly paunchy, drugged-out King twilighted his career trying to keep his breath while belting out "In the Ghetto" in gaudy sequins. And look! Britney has gaudy sequins too! Let's make a chart, for comparison's sake.

• Flabby belly? Check! (Although Elvis didn't expose his.)


• Dazed and confused look of incomprehension? Check! (Yes Brit, we know it's called "Music Television", even if their schedule is entirely My Super Sweet 16 reruns.)


• Unkempt appearance? Check! (Although Elvis' hair was real.)


• Slumping over from exhaustion, and having to be hoisted around by helpers? (Wait, even Elvis didn't need that...)


• Driven from venue in tears by Sarah Silverman's mocking? (Elvis never let Don Rickles follow him on stage.)

Forget matching the second phase of Elvis' career, she's topped it! And while Elvis croaked soon afterwards, all signs point to decades of innovation from Ms. Spears ahead of us. Where will her bright, shining star lead us and the industry next? I can't say I know for certain, but here's a hint- look out, Natasha Lyonne, there's going to be a new girl in the sewer!

Yo Gabba Gabba, or, The Party in My Tummy

Hey! Want to be scared? Sure, we all do! And it doesn't take a viewing of the Halloween remake to do it. Why, you can be frightened out of your wits in the comfort of your own home, and bring the kids along for the ride!

Somehow, Biz Markie (he's got what you ne-EEd) was allowed to have a career again. Only this time, he's appearing on children's television. He makes several appearances on Yo Gabba Gabba!, a freakish hybrid of Godzilla, Power Rangers and the Mr. Men books, conceived by the Aquabats.

The setup is this. DJ Lance Rock (think Mr. Rogers in a tracksuit, only more condescending, like he's dealing with the retarded) plays with and feeds his living action figures in a giant cut-out diorama. The figures come to life in the form of people in rubber monster suits, and the camera zooms into the diorama and shows them close-up, taking orders from the good DJ. They stomp around, dance, and shoot each other with lasers. Their costumes are particularly disturbing, with one appearing as a big, nubbed, rounded red cylinder that looks like a dancing dildo. Segments are broken up with retro 80's video game graphics set to hyperactive Japanese anime music. Sometimes Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo shows up to teach the monsters how to draw.

But to describe the show with words does injustice to the sheer terror that will envelop you as you watch this. Some clips are much more disturbing than others. Do you have a party in your tummy?

So. In about twenty years, we can expect the pharmaceutical industry to make record profits, as an entire generation tries to block out the damage incurred during their fragile, warped youth.

Road House 2, or, Why I'm an Atheist

Jenn tivoed Road House 2, which was airing on Spike at 2 in the afternoon today. You know a film is bad when you can't even convince Patrick Swayze to come back in a cameo. This is a straight-to-video fiasco of epic proportions. We tried to tackle it sober (Jenn is now fixing that situation...) and, as she mentioned in her post, we've managed to survive Battlefield Earth in its entirety. We only made it through about half an hour of RH2 before deleting it and popping in the original as a palette cleanser.

How bad is it? It's like aliens, completely ignorant of our culture, somehow got their hands on the original movie and decided they would communicate back to us using a similar, but entirely foreign duplication of the film. These aliens concentrated very hard on recreating every scene exactly, often using the same dialogue line for line, but missed the part about making it somewhat watchable. No more than thirty seconds can pass before a character knowingly spouts a familiar phrase, then looks at the camera and all but winks. Tee hee! We're in on it!

A loving god wouldn't allow such an affront to a classic of cinema. The original Road House looks like Citizen Kane in comparison. The classic RH had Ben Gazzara as a drunken, pink-bathrobed criminal mastermind. The sequel gives us Jake Busey (Gary was busy, but the Busey brand of insanity is well-known) sporting a Flock of Seagulls haircut and bling. The original had Jeff Healey as a blind guitar savant in the house band. The sequel gives us a soundalike band with a dancing midget. The original gave us Patrick Swayze as single-named philosopher-turned-bouncer Dalton, who had a man-sized mullet. The sequel gives us his mulletless son Nate, a DEA agent-turned-bouncer, who reveals his dad's first name was "Jack". That's like finding out Darth Vader is really just Steve, from Accounting.

Why, oh why?! If it was absolutely necessary to continue Dalton's saga, could it have maybe been done by technically competent people, who know how to place words together to form sentences? Who can frame a shot by placing the actors in front of the camera? Who would beat the living crap out of anyone who tried to pass this abomination off as being in any way linked to the cherished 1989 classic?

Excuse me, I have something in my eye.

Completely Useless Movie Previews: Who's Your Caddy?

Friends, Romans, gentle readers. Lend me your ears, er, eyes, and I will speak sooth to you about the Megacomedy of the Century, one which will define movie hilarity for decades to come. And when its rebroadcast on HBO eventually travels deep enough into space for sentient life to observe it, they will fall upon their tentacle knees and weep, for they will deem us muchly advanced in comparison to their puny, techno-futile civilization.

I speak, of course, about reruns of Caddyshack. But let's also give a little look at Who's Your Caddy?, the most blatant unauthorized rip-off in the slob-golf genre since Caddyshack II: The Disemboweling. Once more, I shall use only the knowledge garnered from the film's trailer to tell you everything you need to know about it. It's like seeing it in person, only at the absolute bestest theater in the world- my head! Sit back, enjoy. Just don't spill your drink everywhere, it makes my eyes watery.

Very little is known about Who's Your Caddy?. It's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, deep-fried in regret, with an embarrassment dipping-sauce. Antwan "Big Boi" Patton, a hip-hop star who wants the world to know he can wear big kids' pants now, plays C-Note, a hip-hop star who's comfortable about his potty-training. Jeffrey "I Can't Believe He's Employed" Jones plays the guy who you thought you'd seen the last of in his mug shot. Can this mismatched pair of ne'er-do-well gadabouts and raconteurs find love against the backdrop of a country club? No? Okay, can they film a cheap race comedy together? Really? Do they have to?

So anyway. C-Note wants to play golf. Whitey McCrackerpreppy and the stodgy country club elite don't want him to, fearing their home away from the Bahamas will be torn asunder under the pimped-out Humvees of C-Note and his crew. Will zaniness and wacky antics ensue? Can you hear Rodney Dangerfield rolling over in his grave? Seriously, he gets no respect.

Still, it's going to rock. You know why? Because the plant who posted a review over on the iMDB says so!

"People were laughing so hard you could barely hear the dialogue! There is one scene with Faizon (I won't spoil it for you) that had some people on the floor and some standing UP clapping and screaming with laughter. It was a HOOT! I'm going to see it again with all my friends on the 27th when it opens, it'll be even better with everything finished since in the test screening it wasn't complete. I'm telling you EVERYONE in that audience LOVED it! Some people were saying it was the best comedy they'd seen all year! Don't miss it if you love to laugh!"

Since I've only seen the trailer, and this producer average fan has seen the entire film, who am I to argue? I defer to his superior knowledge of the movie and its potential HOOT-iness, and will go out on a limb and say that EVERYONE will LOVE it. That elderly man standing outside, who's muttering about the rampant profanity? He loved it. That social organization shaking its head in disgust at race relations being set back twenty years? It made them cream their shorts. The desperate pleadings of Chevy Chase not to ruin his last remaining legacy? All an act. Trust me, Who's Your Caddy? will make you stop and really, really think about who the real caddy is in your life. And that maybe you should buy him or her some flowers and a nice steak. And for God's sake, shave. Didn't your mother teach you anything?

So, with all of that in mind, I have no choice but to give Who's Your Caddy? 88 stars on my scale of 1 to 88 stars, along with a small patch of astroturf and a pair of those ugly plaid pants that people think it's okay to wear when they're golfing. (It isn't.) You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll wonder why this version doesn't have Bill Murray wrestling a gopher. Or maybe it does? And the gopher speaks jive and wears bling? Go see it and let me know.

Captivity: Is Torture-Porn Dead?

Based on the poor box-office performance of Hostel 2 and Captivity, pundits everywhere are cheering at the death of the "torture-porn" subgenre of horror. Because of this, expectations and marketing for Saw IV are being cut back, and numerous other torture-porn films that were in the pipeline are being canceled.

So is torture-porn dead? I beg to differ. A quick look around the web at porn sites (and yes, I look a lot) shows the genre to be thriving. I think it's more a case of the same things that have slowed ticket sales industry-wide. I mean, who wants to pay $20 to sit in a cramped seat, listening to people cough and talk while you're trying to observe someone's head being slowly crushed! Seriously! Pipe down, you clod, we're trying to watch hot metal pincers rip out someone's vajayjay, and you're totally spoiling the mood! And the price of popcorn? That's more painful than what those incestuous mutants onscreen are doing to those men.

It could also be a case of "why buy the cow when you've got a hemophiliac virgin hanging upside down in the basement at home to slaughter, anyway?" If the popularity of torture-porn on the internet is any indication, people probably have their own victims tied up in lethal predicaments being filmed right in their own homes. Those poor souls are likely trapped in situations that are much more creative and messy than anything Hollywood could cook up in their ivory towers, far-removed from the streetwalkers you and I are abducting.

So, is torture-porn dead? No, it may be in a slump, and seemingly redundant and stagnant when compared to the many instruments of suffering its audience employs on a nightly basis on wayward Czech tourists. But all it needs is new innovation (can you say, "giant flaming corpse blender"?) to capture people's imagination, and it'll come staggering right back to the top, oozing putrid diseased lymphatic fluid to and fro, until it collapses and is devoured by rats.

Posh & Becks: What Do They Want From Us?

Posh & Becks are relocating to America! What? You have no idea who this famed British duo are? Not to be confused with other great Brit pairings such as "fish & chips", "bangers & mash", and "drawing & quartering", Posh & Becks are Britain's national supercouple. You can tell this, because they both have full sets of teeth, something to which all Britons aspire in their wet dreams.

To prepare you for their arrival, and inform you about critical things you'll need to know now that our country has been Forever Changed, I now present the Top 10 Facts About Posh & Becks.

1. David and Victoria Beckham come from a distant galaxy far, far away. Their mission? To drape their scantly-clad bodies across tabloids on every planet. And devour us from the insides to harvest our precious tungsten.

2. You may be familiar with the "Beckham" name from Bend it Like Beckham. David has the ability to bite down on steel girders and twist them like pretzels, using only his mouth and the power of his ego.

3. Victoria used to be one of the Spice Girls. She was "Implanty Spice."

4. David used to play football for Real Madrid. They should not be confused with their bizarro mortal arch-enemies, Fake Madrid.

5. The Beckhams are known for their ever-changing hairstyles and appearances. They can do this, because they are shapeshifters.

6. Like all immigrants, the pair will sail to Ellis Island, where they will be given new, Americanized names- Bob and Ann K-Mart.

7. The duo celebrated their move to America by doing a semi-nude photo shoot in W Magazine. This is the official magazine of George W. Bush, who thought the pair were lesbians.

8. Victoria recently announced her intent to reform the Spice Girls. This will make it easier to kill the others, for there can be only one.

9. Victoria goes by the nickname "Posh" not because of her Spice Girl persona, but because "posh" is the street name of the drug she snorts to remain thin.

10. Both Beckhams can combine to form a thirty-foot tall metal fighting machine whose only weakness is a direct hit to the crotch.

Now you know! And knowing is half the battle. The other half is vicious hand-to-tentacle combat in the streets, where our country's independence from Euro-trash celebricouples will be won or lost amidst the cries of our children and the blood of the damned.

The Metric Chachi

There's always room for one more standard of measure. Take, for instance, the smoot, a measure of length available on both the Longfellow Bridge and Google Earth.

It occurred to me that we, as a society, have no exact unit to measure the success of a television spin-off.

Proposed: I am suggesting the creation of the Chachi, a unit for measuring how successful a spin-off is in comparison with Joanie Loves Chachi.

JLC technically ran for two seasons between 1982 and 1983. The series was a midseason replacement that debuted in March, and then came back the next fall and ran on and off until the following spring. Thus there were only seventeen episodes.

The length of time that JLC aired is hereby equal to one Chachi (Ch).

Now, to measure in seasons or episodes? This is where it gets complicated. I propose that the measurement of Chachis in seasons shall be the Imperial Chachi (ICh), and the measurement in episodes will be the Metric Chachi (MCh).

Thus. Say a spin-off of Veronica Mars is created. This hypothetical series, called AfterMARS and following Veronica as she graduates med school and time-travels to work in a VA hospital shortly after the Korean War, runs on the CW network for two full seasons of 24 episodes each. AfterMARS's success could be measured as 1 Imperial Chachi, or 2.8 Metric Chachis.

The Jeffersons ran for 11 seasons for a total of 253 episodes. Thus it scores 5.5 ICh and 14.88 MCh.

The longer a series runs, the closer it gets to a hypothetical value of Absolute Chachi, an airing of infinite seasons. The most successful spin-off ever, and the closest mankind has been able to observe a series approaching Absolute Chachi, is The Simpsons, which is a spin-off of The Traci Ullman Show. At 18 seasons (401 episodes) and counting, it rates an astounding 9 ICh and 33.42 MCh!

Other spin-off values:
Frasier: 11 seasons, 264 episodes = 5.5 ICh (15.53 MCh)
Angel: 5 seasons, 110 episodes = 2.5 ICh (6.47 MCh)
AfterMASH: 2 seasons, 30 episodes = 1 ICh (1.76 MCh)
Joey: 2 seasons, 46 episodes = 1 ICh (2.76 MCh)
Law & Order: SVU: 8 seasons, 183 episodes (through today) = Minimum Chachi Value* of 4 ICh (10.76 MCh)
Law & Order: Criminal Intent: 6 seasons, 133 episodes (through today) = Minimum Chachi Value* of 3 ICh (7.65 MCh)
Law & order: Trial by Jury: 1 season, 13 episodes = .5 ICh (.76 MCh)

* A series still airing cannot be measured exactly. We can only observe it along a path towards Absolute Chachi, and estimate a Minimum Value of Chachi, which we know it cannot score below. Only after it is canceled can we tally an exact Chachi measurement.

There. Go now and use my creation for good.

Completely Usless Movie Previews: Harry Potter and the Lord of the Dance

Once again, for your infotainment, I present a hard-hitting review of a film I've yet to (and most likely, won't) see, based upon the knowledge garnered only from commercials and trailers. Rumor has it that a new Harry Potter film is coming up, and gosh darn it, you should know about it!

Harry Potter and the Chamber of the Order of the Half-Blood Sandwiches or something places now thirty-seven year old Harry in what must be his twentieth year at Hogwart's, a school that should really ask its PR department about a renaming initiative. Harry faces off against his old foe Bat-Boy, who you may remember from The Weekly World News. Bat Boy is really miffed that infant Harry and his parents sabotaged his previous attempts at world domination, and now he's back for vengeance. And this time, it's for profit!

It's no secret Harry has to live through the movie. For one, most of you read the book when it came out years ago, and already know. Also, there are two books after the one that inspired this film, and if Harry's going to be in the movies inspired by those films, then he'd best survive! But maybe there's a twist. Nobody's done anything with the idea of clones, replicants, or having the hero rebuilt as an evil cyborg, have they? Oh. Damn. Well, I'm sure they could think of something...

Anyway. I'm going to let you in on a big secret. See, this particular book/movie/merchandising scheme is crucial to the series, as a pivotal event happens here that changes how you'll think of what's transpired so far, and what is to come. If you don't want the movie spoiled for you, turn away now, scroll down, and then continue reading.

Harry finds out is parents were huge MASH fans, and named him after actor Harry Morgan, and his character, Col. Sherman Potter!

THERE. You can psychically know now to stop scrolling and pick up reading again.

What else happens? I hear Harry gets his nude on and sleeps with a horse. This isn't just idle gossip, I've seen pictures to back it up! Hermione finally offs herself after severe teasing over the name "Hermione." The One Ring is finally returned to Crack of Doom. Draco and Harry have hot, hot fanfic action, making creative use of their wands. The Ministry of Magic tries to take over the school. Snape inexplicably goes around acting like Alan Rickman.

Make no bones about it, Harry Potter and the Temple of the Attack of the Prisoner of the Romancing of the Stone will have plenty of stupid made-up words, animals that turn into other things, vibrating broomsticks, and obscure plot points pulled out of J.R. Rowling's ass. Most of this you can expect to be stolen and included in any sequel to Eragon, so if you miss it here, fear not. And why wouldn't you miss it, when I've so cleverly laid out everything that will transpire in the film?

So. On my enchanted scale of 1 to 88 stars, with 1 being a muggle and 65 or higher being worthy of a scraggly grey beard, I give Harry Potter and the Goblet of Deathly Sorcerers Strikes Back a "Can Miss" and nine and 3/4 owl droppings.

Blog Hits 4 Jesus

The Supreme Court has ruled that a student's unfurling of a banner reading, "Bong Hits 4 Jesus" is not protected speech, because it could reasonably be deemed as supporting drug use. (In case you didn't know, there's some fine print in the Constitution that exempts drug speech. Thus, Dude, Where's My Car? has absolutely no protections under the First Amendment.)

You know who the real loser is in all of this? No, not the student, who judging by the speed of the legal process is probably dead by now. No, not the general public. Eroding rights are something we should be used to by now. If you're able to speak freely, the terrorists will win. (Unless you're leaking secret CIA identities. That's cool.)

No, the real loser is Jesus. Because now, he'll have fewer stoners in his flock. And stoners are generally pretty fun to hang out with. Now that church and bong hits have been constitutionally separated, Jesus just isn't as cool to party with anymore.

Ah, Paris!

Ah, Paris. After three grueling days behind bars, wherein she surely engaged in numerous sud-soaked shower catfights and carved a shiv from her toothbrush, Paris Hilton has been sent straight outta Lynwood lockup, and home to the spartan confines of her palatial estate to serve out the rest of her sentence. That's hot.

The justification given was unspecified "medical issues," supposedly being that she refused to eat her prison-issue food (hot dogs!) and, already only weighing 25 lbs, it was feared she'd disappear altogether if she missed brunch.

Is that really how to get out of jail? I don't eat hot dogs, either. Heck, I don't even eat meat! I'll have to remember to inform the prison system of this next time they catch me on one of my oh-so-naughty killing sprees. Yes, I butchered all of those orphans, but your hamburger offends my sense of taste. Let me go!

I suppose it could be something else. She does have The Herp(tm), but she was in solitary confinement, so unless she was pole-dancing against the bars that shouldn't matter. Is being a heartless bitch grounds for release? "I'm sorry, doc, but I don't have a pulse."

Of course, a month locked up at home may give her plenty of time to record another album, film another reality show, or generally keep reminding us she exists.

The sheriff should have to take her place in jail for the duration of her sentence. This was supposed to be our break from Paris! 40 days of freedom, during which we could concentrate on more important matters, like Lindsay Lohan's new penchant for drunken knifeplay. You know who the real victim is in all of this? Bob Barker. His retirement as host of The Price is Right is being overshadowed by this tawdry spectacle.

If only Paris' parents had heeded his gentle advice, and spayed and neutered themselves, we wouldn't be in this mess now.

Completely Useless Movie Previews: Pirates of the Caribbean 3

It is time once again, gentle readers, for me to take you into the future, to experience a movie that I know nothing about asides from what I have witnessed in trailers. And I shall dub this experience "Completely Useless Movie Previews" as I always do, and you shall enjoy it, as you always do.

And so. On to Pirates of the Caribbean 3: The Search for Spock. As you may recall from not watching the last installment, famed pirate Jack Sparrow, tired of the graveyard shift at Long John Silver's, has found himself swallowed up by an enormous special-effect and sent to Davy Jones' Locker, where he reminisces with the former Monkee about how much of an ass Mike Nesmith was, and whether the movie Head still offers relevant commentary on society today. Meanwhile, the dude that done what got killed back in Episode I is now alive, eating apples, and hanging out with hot voodoo priestesses. You know. The guy with the hat. He said, "Arr" a lot.

This time out, we find Jack living in his own personal hell, the desert. As a soon-to-be-former desert dweller myself, I can sympathize. Jack has passed beyond the end of the world, which apparently not only involves being eaten by a giant octopus, but also getting flushed down a large toilet drain (maybe after coming out of the other end of the octopus?). Back in the real world of make-believe, Jack's boytoy love-elf Will Turner and his breastless sweetheart Natalie Portman, er, Padme Amadala, er, Keira Knightley are in hot pursuit, meaning that they are hot for each other while in pursuit. Pursuing them all is Squid-Face, rejected Dick Tracy villain, who blatantly appeals to the tentacle-fetish Cthulhu crowd that Hollywood and advertisers clamor for. Executives of the mega-conglomerate British East India Company (makers of rich chocolate Ovaltine) also appear as part of their sponsorship deal.

So, you may ask me. What happens? Well, the trailers aren't too clear on that. Apparently they enter an Archie-inspired costume contest and dress up like Genghis Khan. They attend a Pirates of the Caribbean convention. They say, "Arr" a lot. Oh, and they finally engage in a battle royale in which a hundred zillion CGI-created pirates enter, and only three or four that have top billing emerge from. Over the course of the film, everyone gets killed two or three times each, only to come back like Aeon Flux did on the very next page. (I hear that, if you watch it in reverse, everyone still dies and comes back, except that it happens in reverse.)

So, you may again ask me. Is it worth sitting through three hours and spending $20 on malted choco-balls now that we know what's going to happen? No. No it isn't. But that won't stop you. This film, you see, is Critic-Proof(tm). Meaning that Jerry Bruckheimer spent a lot of money to spray it down with preservative chemicals that cause stains like Gene Shalit's spittle and vitriol to wash right off with a simple application of a firehose. You will go, you will like it, and you will not kick my seat or talk over the dialogue. Understand?

On my Critic-Proof(tm) and UV-resistant scale of 1 to 88 Basho the Sumo Wrestlers (cast in quality designer resin for display in the home, garden, or World's End), I give this movie six of Keira Knightley's abdominal muscles, some self-tanning spray, and a bag of chips.

Yes, all that, and a bag of chips.

Playmania!

On the flight back from vacation, I ran out of things to watch on the seat-back TV after Cops ended. Mind you this was about an hour into a six-hour flight that ended near dawn eastern time (although we got home around midnight thanks to the zone difference.) The TV's were on the eastern feed.

Mind you, at 2am you take what you can get. And what I got was PlayMania. Let me tell you, gentle readers, about PlayMania, a marathon quiz-show aimed at nerds. Only more so than other quiz-shows.

PlayMania takes a page from the Book of Spike and G4. That is, if you have it hosted by hot chicks in tight clothes, and peppered with enough sound effects to drive a Foley artist to suicide, desperate trolls living in their parents' basements will watch devoutly and think they're as hip as the hosts, and that they have some sort of chance of fucking them. PlayMania is hosted alternately by Token British Woman (the Brits pioneered this field by having Cat Deeley host everything they broadcast over there) and Shandi Finnessey, former Miss USA, right-wing pro-war crackpot, and failed Dancing with the Stars contestant. Shandi fails to bare her oiled-up midriff like the did on Dancing. Although, in her favor, she appears to be quite drunk throughout the ordeal.

Here's how it works. Audience members at home (on eastern time only- it's live) pay good money to enter random contests via IM or a 900 number. Some of them are chosen to play along with our hostesses, doing things like guessing letters a la Wheel of Fortune, or identifying the missing parts of pictures (one of these was actually a cartoon car missing wheels, and yet several callers couldn't notice this either due to inebriation or retardation). For this, they almost earn enough money to cover the fifty calls they placed through the night trying to get on the air and mack on the girls.

Every once in a while, a buzzer rings, barely audible over the constant thumping of bad dance music that Shandi is waving her arms and freaking out to. That means it's e-mail time, and time for Shandi (Token Brit was largely absent- I later learned she was only in taped footage, since she quit and fled back home to England just a couple weeks ago) to read messages from viewers. The messages that make it to air are always slightly embarrassing, accompanied by pictures of the 40-year-old dweeb who sent them, and probably heavily censored. I'd hate to see what Shandi gets shielded from.

Even as a captive viewer (it was this or infomercials) PlayMania only became tolerable after I muted it. I could still follow along with the games visually, but didn't have to listen to the terrible techno incidental music, Shandi's bizarre whooping and squeaking, or the virgins calling in to propose to her. I could still watch her whoosh her arms around like she was batting away tiny elves, and can only guess that there are certain things she must do to stay awake at that hour, or that she was trying to hypnotize us. I don't think hearing her speak would have enlightened me on the subject.

Sadly, after two excruciating hours, the show ended and I had to spend the rest of the flight actually watching infomercials. That means PlayMania weighs in about six hours shorter than Sabado Gigante, but twice as long as people can stand being exposed to Howie Mandel. And unlike Howie, Shandi is doing this every damn night. That's a lot of desperate nerd calls.

Spamalot

Last night we saw Spamalot, the musical adaptation of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. This meant that the audience was packed with die-hard Monty Python fans who could recite lines and burst into laughter minutes before something that was going to happen actually did, and who probably should have been restrained.

This being the Vegas production, it was abbreviated to fit into 90 minutes, which they do for every show here. Jenn advises me that the cuts to Phantom have made it even less sensical than in its original format, and that disturbs me. But anyway, onwards to the Grail.

Our production starred John O'Hurley (J. Peterman from Seinfeld) as King Arthur. We were in the third row, about ten feet away from the stage, looking upwards at a sharp angle to see under the showgirls' skirts. Before the show, we (the audience) were crammed into the very small "Snackalot" area outside the theater, where water was $5 and Grail Ale was something more expensive.

The plot was pretty simple. Arthur recruits Knights. Galahad is vain, Lancelot is closeted, Bedevere is flatulent, and Robin is a coward (with chicken insignia on his robes). The Knights who say Ni won't let them pass to find the grail unless they stage a Broadway musical. but there are no requisite Jews to cast in medieval England. Hilarity and musical numbers ensue. Play ends much more coherently than the original film.

Not being a Python fan, I was still somewhat amused, although wicked annoyed at the guy behind us who had the movie memorized and felt the need to prove it, vocally. Cute pixie redhead in front of me provided extra entertainment when the showgirls weren't on stage. O'Hurley delivered his part in the Peterman persona, as the public will not accept him in any other role. It worked. You can rarely go wrong performing any part as J. Peterman.

So, this was our first non-Cirque show in quite a while. We've run out of Cirque shows, thankfully. No more mimes will prod us to help them take the lids off their jars of rainbows before shoving their spandexed crotches into the air. Unfortunately, there's really nothing else of note left playing here at all. We have officially used up Las Vegas.

Conservapedia

Love Wikipedia, but think the articles are just too left-leaning ("you got evolution in my science article!")? An elderly woman who led the charge against feminism in the 70's has put her money behind Conservapedia. Written primarily by her son, who lectures against vaccinations in quack medical journals, the encyclopedia has such whimsical quirks as banning the use of "CE" and "BCE" in order to tie dates firmly to Christianity.

Learn such interesting tidbits as, "Modern kangaroos originated in the Middle East and are the descendants of the two founding members of the modern kangaroo baramin that were taken aboard Noah's Ark prior to the Great Flood."

Unfortunately for the authors, conservative bloggers are mocking their efforts as being, well, embarrassing for their movement. Here are some highlights one pointed out...

What does Conservapedia think about Descartes?

"Descartes locked himself in a stove and meditated, arriving at the unsurprising conclusion that nothing existed. He then used Anselm's proof of the existence of God to decide that perhaps he wasn't deluded, and perhaps things did exist after all. He thought the soul lived in the pineal gland, and when you lift your arm it's just an accident because your brain doesn't control your body, God does. This 'god-robot' theory of consciousness got him into ferocious arguments with Hobbes, but then Hobbes loved a good argument and was usually wrong."

Yes, but what about Einstein?

"Nothing useful has even been built based on the theory of relativity.…'All things are relative' became popular as atheists and others used relativity to attack Christian values. There remains enormous political support for the theory of relativity that has nothing to do with physics, and Congress continues to spend billions of dollars unsuccessfully searching for particles predicted by the theory of relativity."

Or Washington?

"Washington is perhaps the person other than Jesus who declined enormous worldly power, in Washington's case by voluntarily stepping aside as the ruler of a prosperous nation."

I bet you have plenty to say about the Holocaust, right?

"The Holocaust was the massacring of the Jewish race during World War II. The Germans are not to blame for this but the Nazi are. Besides 6 million Jews dying, 3 million Christians were killed also along with many priests and nuns. This is a very touchy subject for the Jews and is not often discussed amongst them."

Yeah, what's with them and the touchiness?! Let's face it, Wikipedia has been going downhill since they started writing about hacks like me. From now on, I'm only citing Conservapedia in all of my academic articles. Nobel Prize in Righteousness, here I come!

Completely Useless Movie Previews: 300

Thinking of going to go see 300? Gentle readers, once again I'll spare you the need, by reviewing a film I haven't seen based solely on the content of the trailers.

300 is the story of the first X-Games, held in Sparta, Greece a couple thousand years ago with single one event: Mortal Kombat! Painstaking attention to historical accuracy has wrought a film that cannot be questioned at all. Everything you see on screen is how it happened in real life, from freaky masks to hovering Matrix-style kung-fu attack moves to ancient Greeks actually having sex with their wives, and certainly not prepubescent boys. To question the authenticity of this film is to question history itself.

Our protagonist? Well, his name isn't mentioned in the trailer, so let's call him Steve. Steve and 299 other Spartans are trying to fend off an attack by the Persians, who eventually decided to call themselves Iranians. So we can probably guess they're the bad guys. Rarely do you see Iranian heroes in our popular culture. Just look at Heroes. Any Iranians there? No? See!

Steve gets to do cool things like watch deformed lesbians make out, run around shirtless, and shove people into bottomless wells, which you'll find all over Greece even to this day. The other 299 guys? They don't matter. Actually, Steve matters very little, because I gather he (and his 299 understudies) gets killed by the Persio-Iranians. How could these 299 Brawny Towel mascots be wiped out by a bunch of dudes who obviously devote most of their time to smithing elaborate bronze fetish gear? Did I mention there are like a trillion Persians? Well, there are. Take my word for it, I paused the trailer and counted them. One trillion and seven.

The film is shot in a hazy sort of Sky Captain/Sin City style that doesn't give away the fact that it was all blue-screened one bit. I, for one, truly believed they had sent Steve and his 299 life partners back in time to defend Sparta, a city so comfy that to this day our best accommodations are described as "Spartan". But no, it's all done with computers. Real, sweaty Greek soldiers couldn't stand there for long hours reciting their lines, they'd be too busy sneaking off for butt sex.

On my trademark-registered scale of 1 to 88 stars, I give 300 299 stars and one Steve. I can do this because it's my scale and I can do what I want, just like the filmmaker did what he wanted to in his own movie and altered the highly-effective phalanx military maneuver to "look cooler".

Britney Shears

Overnight, a weepy Britney Spears (fresh from a grueling hourlong stint in rehab) was videotaped harassing the staff of a tattoo parlor and confiscating the clippers from a stylist to shave her own head bald, all the while while muttering about "people touching her" and acting erratically. What "erratic" means when one is referring to Spears is anyone's guess. The girl let K-Fed stick his you-know in her hoo-ha. Did I mention the Nyquil stains all over her clothing? Well, there. I just did. It's a look!

Still, I'm glad she's found Krishna Consciousness. Hopefully her new career of handing out flowers in the airport will be much more fulfilling than any comeback attempt, and give her the structure and discipline she needs in life. Perhaps she can sit in with the Polyphonic Spree, or go into acting with "The Young Miss Kojak Mysteries" on the Family Channel. The point is, no matter what she does, it has to be an improvement.

Welcome to Rock Bottom, Brits! Population: Dustin Diamond and you.

Completely Useless Movie Previews: Ghost Rider

I have heard your outcry, and decided to give you more of what you want. Heading into this all important blockbuster spring "would-never-succeed-in-the-summer" movie dumping time, you need to know what movies are worth seeing, based on the random guesses of someone totally unfamiliar with the films.

I give you Ghost Rider.

Ghost Rider is apparently the older brother of Speed Racer. By day, he's Nicolas Cage, who is really Nicolas Coppola, but I digress. Ghost Rider, you would think, would be preordained by the name his mother gave him to become some sort of friendly ghost like Casper. Instead his toupee catches fire every night and he rides really fast on a motorcycle in an effort to put out the flames. From what I can tell, this has little effect. Maybe he should keep a fire extinguisher handy, or see a doctor about that?

One clip I saw had Ghost going to a strip-mall accountant to do his taxes. Oh wait, that was a commercial? Man, Ghost is already slumming, and his movie hasn't even come out yet! That's not a good sign. He should really be aiming for those Target ads with the spinning red and white things. Those are classy.

Anyway, Ghost rides around on his bike, his head on fire and the bike itself emitting noxious fumes that would probably bar it from being licensed in California. So the movie doesn't take place in California. Good to know. There are lots of trees around. Does Ghost find excitement and intrigue in Michigan? Who knows? Do you want to pay $11 to find out? Good for you!

I just made a typo and called him "Gjost". I think I'll stick with that spelling. It makes him sound Icelandic, like Bjork. Or Gjost could be his visiting cousin from Scandinavia, and they can have zany Perfect Strangers-style misadventures when Gjost comes to visit. They can be identical cousins and try to trick Ghost's parents into reuniting! Hey, Nicolas! I have a sequel idea for you. Yes, your wig can be even more stupid-looking the second time around. Does Donald Trump have a patent on his hairstyle?

I'm sure Ghost has some sort of archnemesis he must face, but since he or she doesn't appear in any of the commercials, I'm not familiar with them. He probably has to face down a state trooper for a littering fine, or apologize to a little girl after he runs over her puppy on the way to Taco Bell. There's another crossover ad campaign, as Ghost reimburses her for her loss with a three-taco meal deal (crunchy). It could be that talking chihuahua they used to have. They never explained where he went. Was he deported?

On my Mexican-assembled sliding scale of 1 through 88 stars, I give Ghost Rider a three-taco meal deal (crunchy), an extra packet of hot sauce, and a mega-size Mountain Dew to help quench those flames. Pull around to the second window, Mr. Rider, and try not to ignite the speaker box. Timmy just got that thing working again.

Completely Useless Movie Previews: Hannibal Rising

Gentle readers, it has been too long since I indulged your need for a completely useless movie preview, based only on the knowledge garnered from a cursory viewing of a movie's trailer. Well, here you go. Don't ever say I don't do anything for you.

Hannibal Rising, from what I gather, is a delightful family film about a young Lithuanian orphan and his struggles to keep his family together during the dark days of World War II. Finally, a film with real family values! Hannibal struggles against all odds to protect his young sister, and later moves to France and takes care of his adoptive Japanese aunt.

This may or may not be a musical. Lots of old-timey movies about children during World War II are musicals. If so, expect excellent production values as a clone of Anthony Hopkins engages in a dance-off aboard the Good Ship Lollipop with Shirley Temple and a couple of the lesser Von Trapp kids.

Anyway, with only the trailer to go by, I've been able to tell that one of the problems facing young Hannibal (or "Hanny", as I'm sure he's called by his school chums) is proper diet. I've seen a lot of Afterschool Specials, and something gives me a hunch that Hanny is dealing with an eating disorder.

It must be a hard-knock life to have to deal with foreign occupation, caring for a younger sibling, and finding good, nutritious food in a war zone, but since the character comes back in several other films, (Silence of the Lambs, for instance, a whimsical fairy tale about sheep learning to use their indoor voices) we know he'll make it through somehow. Never you worry for Hanny, he's good people.

A lot of reviewers, in reviews I haven't read, seem pretty taken aback by the movie. I don't know what their complaints are about, since I haven't seen it and therefore am fully qualified to pass judgment. Maybe they just can't stomach an old-fashioned tale of family togetherness. Maybe the anti-Iraq peaceniks are just offended by any depiction of war, even when it is being fought by the Greatest Generation against the forces of darkness. Hannibal is the exemplar of those brave men and women who saved the world from evil, and for all I care, he could disembowel and feast upon the innards of those who have wronged him, and that still wouldn't taint his good spirit and pure demeanor. But that's crazy talk!

On my patent-pending scale of 1 to 88 stars, with the absolute values of -1 being the minimum and -88 being the maximum, I give Hannibal Rising a nice plate of fava beans (a wartime staple) and the tasty giblets of those who would speak ill against him and the values he represents. We would all do so well as to be as brave as young Hanny.

Anna Nicole, We Wish We'd Hardly Known Ye

So, Anna Nicole Smith has shuffled off this mortal coil.

Now come on, seriously, who didn't see this coming? You? In the back? Were you not paying attention during the Train Wreck chapter? Not even during the filmstrip ("When Bimbos Attack", courtesy of the Fox Network)?

Actually, I prefer to think of it as her marrying off to that rich old white guy in the sky. Right now she's like, "Come on, Jesus, wanna watch me dance?" and in a few hours he'll be adding her to his will and giving her his whole inheritance (tablets, arks, all that jazz) and pretty soon will come the inevitable custody and paternity suits over whether her child is really the son of the Son of Man or not. So that's something to look out for in the future.

Do you know who the real loser in this messy affair is? No, not her infant daughter. Sheesh, people. Think of poor TrimSpa! They've been insisting their diet drug is perfectly safe and effective. Now their spokesmodel is dead, and all signs point to an Elvis-esque final visit to the toilet with a mouthful of pills. Faster than you can say "Phen-Fen," these people are going to be out of business.

Who are the winners? Well, the field is wide open for America's Next Top Crusty Aging Chihuahua-toting Bimbo Sweetheart. Will it be Tara Reid? Paris Hilton? My money's on Britney. As the only one of the three who spent her day denying rumors of lesbian heroin orgies, I think she's off to an excellent start.

Harry Potter and the Horse of Ill Repute

Oh, Daniel Radcliffe. All grown up and doing your very first naked horse-sex play. Cherish this time, Danny, when the world was new, and horse-sex was still fresh and exciting. It will get tiresome after a while, and you'll grow jaded and move on to porcupines. But it won't be the same. Cherish, Danny, cherish.

So Radcliffe has taken a role in Equus, playing a horse-fetishizing, hairy-tummied stableboy. We're not sure if this is a break from Harry Potter, since we've never seen Harry's tummy. Middle America (in the western hemisphere of Middle Earth) is shocked and appalled that he'd do such a thing. That's the sort of behavior that you keep on the down-low, behind the barn.

I see one flaw in this play. The horse is pretty much a silent partner in all of this. Granted, in general porn dialogue leaves something to be desired (even if all other desires are fulfilled) but I'd think it'd be creepy for one half of the pairing to be totally silent, not even a whinny of approval.

The only way to solve this is to recruit Mr. Ed.

Ed, if I may call him by his first name, could infuse the character of the horse with real gravitas, pathos, and his famous catchphrase, "WILLLLLLBURRRRRRRRRR!"

And that wouldn't distract from the story at all.

Maybe throw in some hobbit sex, too. Know your audience, Danny.

Dude!

Almost five years ago, Apple ran a campaign of "Switcher" commercials, with supposed real-life stories of people who had bad experiences with Windows and switched to using Macs. The most famous of these featured then 14-year old Ellen Feiss, the "stoned" girl in my icon. Feiss was a friend of the commercial producer's son, and was thrust in front of the camera at the last moment while she was visiting his house. According to Feiss, she was tired from school and had taken a lot of allergy medication. Because of her red eyes and loopy mannerisms, viewers suspected she might have been on something stronger than Benadryl.

Now in college, a Mac publication tracked her down and got her to give an interview, in which she swears that she was in fact sober that day (although she has used pot since then), that her story of losing her term paper on a PC was real, and that she's still using the same Mac she had back then today.

Feiss goes to to explain how Apple was so concerned that people might identify them with drug use based on her appearance (the preferred platform for musicians and artists associated with drug use?!) that they approached her and asked that she refrain from doing any publicity or further acting, and that she please fade quietly into obscurity. Feiss credits creepy obsessed internet fans with keeping her in the limelight. One movie producer tricked her high school into giving her home phone number to him, so he could recruit her for his film about shroom-trippers vacationing in France.

Although her reasoning for doing the interview was to put to rest rumors about her drug use, now that her fellow students have Googled her and discovered her past, her answers to questions about her personal life have sparked a new controversy about whether she is in fact a lesbian or not. Her creepy basement-lurking fanbase is appalled at the thought that, now a hot legal redhead coed, she won't run away with them now simply because she may prefer to chew the shag carpeting.

Grasping the Obvious

Having failed to pay a $208 bill on her storage unit, Paris Hilton's belongings in it were auctioned off and fell into the hands of infamous celeb sex tape collector David Hans Schmidt, who immediately put them up on the internet to view for a fee. Schmidt is the man you have to thank for the release of Screech's Dirty Sanchez movie.

Of course, only one person has to pay the fee, see the content, steal the content, and repost it. Thank you, anonymous Good Samaritan.

Among the items now available for public viewing are medical records detailing miscarriages and herpes treatments, numerous collages of herself she crafted from tabloid photos, fake ID's from Ohio identifying her as "Amber Taylor" and "Superstar," diaries of her booze and pot hallucinations, and porn videos filmed by the creator of Girls Gone Wild. In one, she declares herself, "the hottest person alive."

And Pauly Shore's cell phone number scrawled on a dirty napkin?!

Oh, Paris.

Well, I guess that's it. Now my eyes are open. You really are a Britney-class skank, and not the sweet, innocent, herpes-free virgin I thought I knew. That's why I have no other choice but to take down my website, ParisIsntASkankySlutAssHoBag.com. All these years I convinced myself that it was someone else in that grainy, night-vision footage, wasted! My sympathy for her in her feud against Tara Reid? Completely obliterated by the new video of the two of them snorting coke of a fat guy's belly! I'm beginning to suspect that her feud with Nicole Richie was faked for publicity too!

Oh well. For the time being, I can keep up my other site, MotherTeresaIsntASkankySlutAssHoBag.org, unless there's something I haven't been told yet.

The Ghost of Popcorn Past

WHAT THE BUTTERY FUCK IS UP WITH THE REANIMATED CORPSE OF ORVILLE REDENBACHER?!

At first they were content with doctoring his old commercials to change the product packaging, but now I swear they're cutting his face out and pasting it onto some sort of unholy CGI Jar-Jar thing and making him listen to iPods and dance around. Except it doesn't work right, so it looks like he's stretched out taut on a mesh skeleton, and his forehead is going to split open if he doesn't come through the TV and disembowel you first.



Who are the ad wizards who came up with this one?!

He's disturbing! I don't want to buy popcorn from him, I want to run screaming, grab a shotgun, and shoot him in his zombie face before he eats my brains! Why are they doing this to poor Orville Deadenbacher? Oh, the humanity. Oh, the popcornity!

Cirque du Blasé

Another day, another Cirque show. This was "O", our fifth Cirque production if you count "La Nouba" from our honeymoon. The rest we've seen here in Vegas.

I'm getting really jaded about these shows. People on fire, million-gallon water tanks with moving platforms, death-defying acrobats. None of it fazes me now. I was incredibly bored through the whole thing, and wishing I had a bingo card to check off all of the rote Cirque trademarks. Annoying mime pre-show, check. Black guy sent out alone to stomp the yard for ten minutes while sets change, check. Planted "audience members" invited onstage and turning out to be acrobats, check. Do we have any takers for people riding on enormous animal-shaped head floats? How about people whose sole job in the show is to lurch around slowly and vogue? Yes, and yes!

Yawn.

I needed "French-Canadian performer asks audience member to remove lid from jar of rainbows" to get bingo, and I almost had it, since there was a book called "Colors on Parade" in the gift shop that was full of wacky tightrope walkers playing with rainbows. Whimsical! Less so was the book on the Cirque du Soleil method of achieving proactivity in business, or some such cheese-moving executive inspirational nonsense. I guess after $15 mugs, $12 programs, $24 soundtrack CD's, and $50 T-shirts, their paradigm was the last thing left to sell. Except maybe the little Asian gymnasts, but you have to remember to put air-holes in the box and never feed them after midnight.

Do you think I'd really get in trouble if I punched one of the mimes? If so, how much? It might be worth it.

As Seen on Billboards

This being a city with no advertising restrictions or zoning laws, you get a lot of interesting things plastered on large signs everywhere you look. Nevermind the terror of giant Alan Thickes telling me where to buy timeshares, or close-ups of womens' asses promoting strip clubs. Those at least make sense to me. These do not...

First up, one for Peep One Erotic Drink. What makes it erotic? Let's ask the poorly-translated website!

"The drink innovation peep one represents a novelty on the market. Otherwise, there is no equivalent drink neither in direction nor in product quality. peep one is clearly differentiated from the traditional Energy drinks on account of his effect, contents cloths and the product statement."

"It closes a gap at the market concerning the combination of eroticizing and beverage innovations stimulating at the same time. The stimulating effect is to be divined during the first odour test already. Odour is harmonious, combined without blemish tones and synthetic taste analogies with purely natural associations. Through the balanced game of acid and sweetness, the request for further pleasure grows up very fast."

Now we know. Are you turned on yet? Apparently it contains New Zealand stag horn. "The New Zealand stag horn which is employed in peep one the natives ascribe a strong positive effect, potence increasing clearly and stimulating sexually." I, for one, am shocked they've managed to find an ingredient scarier than anything in Mountain Dew.

Another billboard was for La Preciosa, a Mexican radio station here in town. Click on the link and check out their Flash banner at the top of the page. See the mustachioed guy in the bullfighter costume? He features prominently on their multiple billboards throughout the city. Can anyone familiar with Hispanic culture answer me this? Is he a major player in the Latin community, their equivalent of say, Madonna or K-Fed? Do people cling to his every sombreroed adventure, and do the matador suit and mustache speak volumes about his masculinity and rugged virility? Somebody, fill me in!

Unmatched

Match.com is running a commercial promising that if you don't find a match within six months, they'll give you six months free.

Wait a minute. You just wasted half a year trying to find a mate on there, and failed miserably. The last thing on earth you need is to spend another six months sitting in front of your computer and weeping because every guy you find is sexually attracted to elves. Why the hell would you want to endure that, when virtually any other avenue (singles bar, church mixer, flashing a hobo) would surely prove more fruitful in that case? So you can ring in a new year after that knowing that for all of 2007, even prisoners were getting more action than you? After all, it's shower time at least once a day in jail.

Jakers!

In the process of once again revamping and recasting the ill-fated Goodnight Show, Sprout has imported a new batch of children's shows from the UK.

One of these is Jakers! The Adventures of Piggley Winks. We caught a snippet of this in a hotel in London when we visited a couple years ago, and I knew even then that, as British childrens' television programming, it was destined to wind up on public television here in America eventually when the Teletubbies jumped the shark. And now, that time has come.

Jakers! (an exclamation I must manage to work into my everyday speech more often) is about the now-elderly Piggley Winks, and his tendency to narrate the events of his Irish childhood to his grandkids in neat twenty-minute blocks. He spent his childhood in the company of a cow and a duck, who, much like himself, walked upright and spoke English with an Irish accent.

Okay, so far, so good. But then this anthropomorphic fun takes a turn towards the bizarre.

Piggley's best friend is a cow, Fernando Toro. Fernando is male, but referred to as a cow. His father is a male and a bull, who also stands upright and speaks English. But the Toro family also keeps cows, who act like real cows and moo and walk on four legs!

Piggley's family keeps sheep. The sheep, when out of Piggley's view, speak English and walk upright, living out their own subplots until Piggley arrives on the scene again, at which point they behave like regular sheep again. The sheep's leader, Wiley, is voiced by Mel Brooks, because he was available.

Of course, one good reason an Irish farm family in the 1950's would be keeping sheep would be for meat. So the pigs are likely slaughtering animals just as intelligent as they are, merely because the sheep don't want to reveal that they're really living secret lives of excitement while the pigs are out of sight. If you ask me, the sheep need to think things over a bit.

But my real concern in poor Fernando. While I applaud his liberation from traditional gender roles, I can't help but worry that the guy is seriously messed up as an adult by the whole cannibalism thing his family had going on back in the day. Shemale Fernando, a disappointment to his hypermasculine blacksmith father, is forced to chow down every night on potential members of his own family! How messed up is that?! Does he drink milk? Does he drink it from his mom, his slave-cows, or even himself?!

Piggley as a child was reasonably well-adjusted, and yet now spends his time exaggerating boring anecdotes until his grandkids try to put him in a home. What has become of poor Fernando fifty years out? Is he wearing the leather skins of his victims and carving up hookers in Whitechapel?

Run, Piggley, run!