Monday, February 23, 2004
& here we go:
There's a very disturbing advertising campaign on the air waves right now. To put things in perspective, the imagery in these new commercials is creepier than the 'morphing' technique used in Michael Jackson's Black and White video.
It's AT&T's bizarro attempt at making the ampersand more than a squiggly line of punctuation used by teenage girls and greedy marketers. Basically, they pair up two halves of different people's faces. ON PURPOSE.
Trust me, you will never forget how retarded this shit is. Hell, the only benefit for AT&T is that you'll want to call friends just to ask them if they've seen the commercial that makes Batman's Two-Face proud.
"Uhh, yes, sign me up for a 2-year contract with that telecommunications company that shows me a bunch of 2-faced motherfuckers?"
Idiots. This is further proof that cellular phones do, in fact, cause brain damage.
Reached by gramophonetical satellite somewhere off the coast of Turks & Caicos, the AT&T ampersand had this to say, "I am the face of AT&T. & I can't be replaced by little computer effects. Without me, they're fucking AT T. Shit, I don't need them. I still get residuals for Speak & Spell, Bartles & James, Ben & Jerry's, Martini & Rossi, etc. I could go on for days. Even law firms & ad agencies would be nothing without me. & what?!?"
There's a very disturbing advertising campaign on the air waves right now. To put things in perspective, the imagery in these new commercials is creepier than the 'morphing' technique used in Michael Jackson's Black and White video.
It's AT&T's bizarro attempt at making the ampersand more than a squiggly line of punctuation used by teenage girls and greedy marketers. Basically, they pair up two halves of different people's faces. ON PURPOSE.
Trust me, you will never forget how retarded this shit is. Hell, the only benefit for AT&T is that you'll want to call friends just to ask them if they've seen the commercial that makes Batman's Two-Face proud.
"Uhh, yes, sign me up for a 2-year contract with that telecommunications company that shows me a bunch of 2-faced motherfuckers?"
Idiots. This is further proof that cellular phones do, in fact, cause brain damage.
Reached by gramophonetical satellite somewhere off the coast of Turks & Caicos, the AT&T ampersand had this to say, "I am the face of AT&T. & I can't be replaced by little computer effects. Without me, they're fucking AT T. Shit, I don't need them. I still get residuals for Speak & Spell, Bartles & James, Ben & Jerry's, Martini & Rossi, etc. I could go on for days. Even law firms & ad agencies would be nothing without me. & what?!?"
Friday, February 20, 2004
Here's a confession: I never made it past track 1 of Madonna's latest CD. So I was pleasantly surprised to hear a track free of bad white girl rap in some Estee Lauder commercial. You know the song.
"And a love profusion. (Isn't that some hair care shit or a flavor of mystic?) It makes me feel like..."
Nice tune, perfectly suited to model/spokesperson Carolyn Murphy's stroll through a CGI rainbow paradise. What any of this had to do with the product, who knows? But hey, it was well-executed, but for one thing I can't help but point out.
While Ms. Murphy may have 'face' as modeling circles say, what she lacks considerably is the ability to dance. Her clumsy hand jiving to the sky makes the Lillith Fair man-hater bop look like the fucking Soul Train line.
So that commercial comes and goes, when lo and behold, I see a clip of Madonna's newest music video. It's the fucking commerical all over again! And I don't think this is a case of marketing synergy.
The only difference is this time the white women in the clip (Madge) can dance, but has absolutely no 'face'. Her aged gap-tooth grins sapped all my fucking love profusion, that's for damn sure.
So Carolyn Murphy, please enroll in a dance class somewhere.
And Madge, um, how are your children's books selling?
"And a love profusion. (Isn't that some hair care shit or a flavor of mystic?) It makes me feel like..."
Nice tune, perfectly suited to model/spokesperson Carolyn Murphy's stroll through a CGI rainbow paradise. What any of this had to do with the product, who knows? But hey, it was well-executed, but for one thing I can't help but point out.
While Ms. Murphy may have 'face' as modeling circles say, what she lacks considerably is the ability to dance. Her clumsy hand jiving to the sky makes the Lillith Fair man-hater bop look like the fucking Soul Train line.
So that commercial comes and goes, when lo and behold, I see a clip of Madonna's newest music video. It's the fucking commerical all over again! And I don't think this is a case of marketing synergy.
The only difference is this time the white women in the clip (Madge) can dance, but has absolutely no 'face'. Her aged gap-tooth grins sapped all my fucking love profusion, that's for damn sure.
So Carolyn Murphy, please enroll in a dance class somewhere.
And Madge, um, how are your children's books selling?
I must be getting old, because until yesterday, I didn't know my Lindsey Lohan from my Hilary Duff. Lohan's the hottest thing with the tweeny-boppin' set at the moment. Her and Duff both sing and act. And both hail from Nickleodeon projects.
How to tell them apart? Lohan looks like a healthy Kate Hudson, while Duff used to date Aaron Carter. (How soon before he bloats up, develops a nasty coke habit and kills his manager mom? Actually methinks Nick'll get there first.)
Why do I know this?
How to tell them apart? Lohan looks like a healthy Kate Hudson, while Duff used to date Aaron Carter. (How soon before he bloats up, develops a nasty coke habit and kills his manager mom? Actually methinks Nick'll get there first.)
Why do I know this?
Spotted a red mid-90's model Chevy Lumina...
...WITH them rims that spin!
C'mon, what the fuck was running through this guy's mind?
"Ain't no other Loomenah gotz deez. I'ma be the hot shit fo real! Next time, I'z get that blazin' sticka sayes LUMA on my winshill. 1!"
I swear, the manufacturers should direct after-market car shops to resist putting their rims on any fucking lemons.
...WITH them rims that spin!
C'mon, what the fuck was running through this guy's mind?
"Ain't no other Loomenah gotz deez. I'ma be the hot shit fo real! Next time, I'z get that blazin' sticka sayes LUMA on my winshill. 1!"
I swear, the manufacturers should direct after-market car shops to resist putting their rims on any fucking lemons.
I made the strangest connection today.
Check it:
JC Chasez
and
Norman Lache-Simpson (Nick's brother-in-training)
are both suffering from the pretensions of their surnames.
JC (What is that anyway? Jesus Christ? Jeri Curl?) Chasez forces you to make this 'say' sound when pronouncing his last name. Same thing with Norman's maiden name.
And just look at what it costs them.
JC got booted off the Pro Bowl, and his album must compete with the solo debut of fellow 'Sync'er JT's (We're cool like that. Ha!) From what I've heard, it ain't bad but his performances are about as sexy and exciting as that hip-hop violin chick or that group of classically trained violinists who dress provocatively. And his backup dancers are busted. Always a sign of bad news. Seems JC knows this. You can read it on his face. Poor kid. He should know, you can't half-step the fashion mullet! You must commit or snip snip. None of this gel shit.
Now Norman Lache is also suffering, just not on such a grand scale. He's been relegated to supporting character in his brother's reality show. And even that ain't working too well. Could be worse though. At least he ain't releasing Soul-O Too.
Moral of this insanity.
Chasez should rhyme with Pez unless you have some weird squiggly shit or a beret on it. And Lache has the root word ache in it. I'll say no more.
Check it:
JC Chasez
and
Norman Lache-Simpson (Nick's brother-in-training)
are both suffering from the pretensions of their surnames.
JC (What is that anyway? Jesus Christ? Jeri Curl?) Chasez forces you to make this 'say' sound when pronouncing his last name. Same thing with Norman's maiden name.
And just look at what it costs them.
JC got booted off the Pro Bowl, and his album must compete with the solo debut of fellow 'Sync'er JT's (We're cool like that. Ha!) From what I've heard, it ain't bad but his performances are about as sexy and exciting as that hip-hop violin chick or that group of classically trained violinists who dress provocatively. And his backup dancers are busted. Always a sign of bad news. Seems JC knows this. You can read it on his face. Poor kid. He should know, you can't half-step the fashion mullet! You must commit or snip snip. None of this gel shit.
Now Norman Lache is also suffering, just not on such a grand scale. He's been relegated to supporting character in his brother's reality show. And even that ain't working too well. Could be worse though. At least he ain't releasing Soul-O Too.
Moral of this insanity.
Chasez should rhyme with Pez unless you have some weird squiggly shit or a beret on it. And Lache has the root word ache in it. I'll say no more.
A few weeks ago, one of the 'Extended Universe' line of Star Wars books (Y'know, for the literate fan whose thirst for light sabers, justice and the Mon Calamarian way goes unquenched by the 15 billion licensed doo-dads approved by el jefe Jorge on a weekly basis.) posted a cover featuring the first image of a supposed Episode III villain. Some egg-head thing with a cloak (Ooh, mysterious!) and spear, a black-and-white precursor to the red imperial guard who make up the Emperor's entourage. (You think Hammer had a large group of freeloaders? Meh, the Emperor employs half the galaxy just to stand around and say, "You Rebel Scum!", in Olde English. Now that's a goode day o worke!)
At first, I thought Georgie Porgie may be trying to pull the wool over our eyes, like the time everyone thought the bounty hunter with a thermal detonator in ROTJ was the coolest five foot-tall tough guy in pleated Cavaricci's ever, when in fact, it was only Leia in disguise, foreshadowing Carrie Fisher's eventual psychological problems.
So there I was thinking Luca$ was set to pull a Crying Game on us and what do I read today? The new villain is part robot, part life form or some shit. WTF? And the new picture of the bioengineered mess shows what could only be described as the Spiderman villain Carnage in black-and-white wearing a cape.
Oh, and this hodgepodge CGI fucker is also noted as being a master strategist. Um...right. Grand Admiral Thrawn meets the body suit guy from Electric Company. Me no think so.
But the best part is the animated fucko's name. Get this: General Grievous. Hey, at least Luc-ass is consistent. All the names he gives to characters in his prequels make the Power Ranger's Rita Repulsa sound like the coolest name ever! Well-researched and alliteration aplenty!
At first, I thought Georgie Porgie may be trying to pull the wool over our eyes, like the time everyone thought the bounty hunter with a thermal detonator in ROTJ was the coolest five foot-tall tough guy in pleated Cavaricci's ever, when in fact, it was only Leia in disguise, foreshadowing Carrie Fisher's eventual psychological problems.
So there I was thinking Luca$ was set to pull a Crying Game on us and what do I read today? The new villain is part robot, part life form or some shit. WTF? And the new picture of the bioengineered mess shows what could only be described as the Spiderman villain Carnage in black-and-white wearing a cape.
Oh, and this hodgepodge CGI fucker is also noted as being a master strategist. Um...right. Grand Admiral Thrawn meets the body suit guy from Electric Company. Me no think so.
But the best part is the animated fucko's name. Get this: General Grievous. Hey, at least Luc-ass is consistent. All the names he gives to characters in his prequels make the Power Ranger's Rita Repulsa sound like the coolest name ever! Well-researched and alliteration aplenty!
Thursday, February 19, 2004
I'm not much into politics, unless you consider pointing out which candidates are funny looking, and laughing being 'into' politics.
But guess what? My wife seems to be a pretty astute political analyst. Just last night she tells me, "Y'know that Kerry guy kinda reminds me of Honkey from The Jeffersons."
Oh, how I love this woman.
But guess what? My wife seems to be a pretty astute political analyst. Just last night she tells me, "Y'know that Kerry guy kinda reminds me of Honkey from The Jeffersons."
Oh, how I love this woman.
Some movies suck so much ass, their marketing campaigns are pointless. For example, the new Meg Ryan/Omar Epps flick (simply typing those names together creates the stench of fecal matter on my screen; serious, try it), entitled um...let's say Doesn't Matter. No one-sheet design, no trailer before blockbusters, no free admission mailed to every household in the world can save this movie from opening to empty theaters.
I'll bet Doesn't Matter can't even get the critics who provide blurbs for dreck like EuroTrip to do the same for it's stank ass.
In case you don't know what I'm yakking about: Blurbs are the lines on movie ads set in 256 point type with numerous exclamation points, while the critic and his or her media outlet's name require a monocle to decipher.
Doesn't Matter won't even get 60-Second Preview's film expert (Ha!) to say one good thing. If I'm wrong, I've seriously underestimated the power of cashola.
Why am I writing Doesn't Matter off?
Quick synopsis: Meg Ryan plays a boxing promoter. Nothing further needs to be said.
Was Ali's daughter too booked or still stuck in the 60's with that retarded commercial?
Let's get this out of the way. Meg Ryan is no Don King. Hell, she isn't even a Lou Duva. They are way smarter than her for one thing. More importantly, neither of these promotional titans of the ring have ever gone under the knife. (Backstabbing boxers doesn't count.)
The only connection between Meg Ryan and boxing is the putty mess smack in the middle of her face. Only the pummeling power of a heavyweight could explain those new lips. Her recently inflated pair has Lisa Rinna AND Harry Hamlin shaking in their designer boots.
I mean, what, first Ms. Ryan corners the cutesy roles, now the freakishly large mutant-lipped roles? Gawd, someone stop this Ryan beast!
I wonder if Nora Ephron is working on another script just for the new sexed-up Ryan. When Colagen Met Meg?
Onto the appeal of Ms. Ryan. Sorry, can't find any.
Onto who watches her cutesy performances? Must be women who feel she's safe. I figure most females of the human race find Ms. Ryan cute enough to get noticed by the average male human. But not in that sexually desirable kind of way. More like the okay she's thin and speaks English kind of way.
Ms. Ryan possesses an odd noggin', one more at home on the shoulders of a Keebler elf. Worse, her hair looks like shit. Plus, her button-cute facial features could be found on the majority of homeless children, teenage prostitutes and your average runaway. Basically, nothing special.
I feel for her though. She can't hold her own against other actors, and her looks...let's just say she hit the wall harder than the fucking Kool Aid guy.
Wait a minute. What about Omar Epps you say. He was okay in Juice. Other than that, all I know is that when approached at local pizzerias, Mr. Epps is genuine and friendly. In other words, he hasn't quite made it yet.
If you insist on throwing away your money and actually watch Doesn't Matter on the big screen (even after reading this), please do me a favor: Let me know the title so as to avoid it like the motherfucking plague.
I'll bet Doesn't Matter can't even get the critics who provide blurbs for dreck like EuroTrip to do the same for it's stank ass.
In case you don't know what I'm yakking about: Blurbs are the lines on movie ads set in 256 point type with numerous exclamation points, while the critic and his or her media outlet's name require a monocle to decipher.
Doesn't Matter won't even get 60-Second Preview's film expert (Ha!) to say one good thing. If I'm wrong, I've seriously underestimated the power of cashola.
Why am I writing Doesn't Matter off?
Quick synopsis: Meg Ryan plays a boxing promoter. Nothing further needs to be said.
Was Ali's daughter too booked or still stuck in the 60's with that retarded commercial?
Let's get this out of the way. Meg Ryan is no Don King. Hell, she isn't even a Lou Duva. They are way smarter than her for one thing. More importantly, neither of these promotional titans of the ring have ever gone under the knife. (Backstabbing boxers doesn't count.)
The only connection between Meg Ryan and boxing is the putty mess smack in the middle of her face. Only the pummeling power of a heavyweight could explain those new lips. Her recently inflated pair has Lisa Rinna AND Harry Hamlin shaking in their designer boots.
I mean, what, first Ms. Ryan corners the cutesy roles, now the freakishly large mutant-lipped roles? Gawd, someone stop this Ryan beast!
I wonder if Nora Ephron is working on another script just for the new sexed-up Ryan. When Colagen Met Meg?
Onto the appeal of Ms. Ryan. Sorry, can't find any.
Onto who watches her cutesy performances? Must be women who feel she's safe. I figure most females of the human race find Ms. Ryan cute enough to get noticed by the average male human. But not in that sexually desirable kind of way. More like the okay she's thin and speaks English kind of way.
Ms. Ryan possesses an odd noggin', one more at home on the shoulders of a Keebler elf. Worse, her hair looks like shit. Plus, her button-cute facial features could be found on the majority of homeless children, teenage prostitutes and your average runaway. Basically, nothing special.
I feel for her though. She can't hold her own against other actors, and her looks...let's just say she hit the wall harder than the fucking Kool Aid guy.
Wait a minute. What about Omar Epps you say. He was okay in Juice. Other than that, all I know is that when approached at local pizzerias, Mr. Epps is genuine and friendly. In other words, he hasn't quite made it yet.
If you insist on throwing away your money and actually watch Doesn't Matter on the big screen (even after reading this), please do me a favor: Let me know the title so as to avoid it like the motherfucking plague.
Truly sad news.
Howard Dean has pulled out of the presidential race.
Where will we get our political comedy from now? Bush's dyslexic speeches are so tired already.
Dean was a beacon of unintentional humor in a sea of polished orators more concerned with addressing 'serious' issues than with strecthing the collective American smile from coast to coast.
And for this, I salute you Howie!
Thanks for the memories.
I doubt I will ever see as dignified a man go completely ape-shit whilst on a podium delivering a speech. You came closest to realizing my dream of a real-life Bonkers commercial. I could almost envision a huge pack of Grape candy falling out of the sky, smashing you on the head, and giving you the inspiration to yelp for days.
But your accomplishments amount to more than this.
Who could ever forget how your howls singlehandedly got us through many a bored afternoon. And the remixes! I hate to come off sounding like that Lipton guy from Inside the Actor's Studio, but you my friend, have elevated Crazy Train and Welcome to the Jungle from mere rock songs to classics of the modern era. Somewhere in heaven, there are seraphim prancing to your every screech. Your post-puberty relapse is an inspiration to us all.
I pray to God that in my later years, when the wife and I plan our lives around Friday Night Bingo, we enjoy a number caller suffering from something similar to Dean mania.
Howard Dean has pulled out of the presidential race.
Where will we get our political comedy from now? Bush's dyslexic speeches are so tired already.
Dean was a beacon of unintentional humor in a sea of polished orators more concerned with addressing 'serious' issues than with strecthing the collective American smile from coast to coast.
And for this, I salute you Howie!
Thanks for the memories.
I doubt I will ever see as dignified a man go completely ape-shit whilst on a podium delivering a speech. You came closest to realizing my dream of a real-life Bonkers commercial. I could almost envision a huge pack of Grape candy falling out of the sky, smashing you on the head, and giving you the inspiration to yelp for days.
But your accomplishments amount to more than this.
Who could ever forget how your howls singlehandedly got us through many a bored afternoon. And the remixes! I hate to come off sounding like that Lipton guy from Inside the Actor's Studio, but you my friend, have elevated Crazy Train and Welcome to the Jungle from mere rock songs to classics of the modern era. Somewhere in heaven, there are seraphim prancing to your every screech. Your post-puberty relapse is an inspiration to us all.
I pray to God that in my later years, when the wife and I plan our lives around Friday Night Bingo, we enjoy a number caller suffering from something similar to Dean mania.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Last minute update.
Reuters is reporting that Sex and the City may continue on the big-screen. Knee-jerk (emphasis on jerk) reaction:
For all those who felt Sarah Jessica Parker's nose was too big for their television sets... A fucking HDTV broadcast couldn't capture the genetic freakiness known as her proboscis.
Reuters is reporting that Sex and the City may continue on the big-screen. Knee-jerk (emphasis on jerk) reaction:
For all those who felt Sarah Jessica Parker's nose was too big for their television sets... A fucking HDTV broadcast couldn't capture the genetic freakiness known as her proboscis.
Here are two albums I've been listening to, and some thoughts.
David Bisbel - Buleria
Picked this up somewhere and was surprised. This kid performed on the Latin Grammys (?) and pumped some life into the bloated telecast. It was right up there with that one time Ricky Martin didn't suck. Anyway, from what my research department has uncovered, this kid won the Spanish equivalent of American Idol and his first album sold millions.
A shame his name is as bad as it is. You half expect it to be the first album by that skinny, greasy flamenco dancer el greco (or whatever the fuck he calls himself). The title of the disc doesn't help. Listen to the title track and you'll swear it's the catchiest ode to Bulgaria (?) ever penned.
On a whole, the disc ain't half bad. In fact, it's pretty good. 6 tracks are ballads, of the Enrique or Alejandro variety. 6 tracks are fast ala Ricky Martin. Throughout all 12, there's that annoying cleft palette sound perfected by Spaniards since the dawn of gum disease and nasal cavity afflictions. Good news: There's a bit of Gypsy Kings-style shit in everything.
Give it a spin; you may surprise yourself. Whatever you do, don't look the kid up. As soon as you see him, unless you're a 13 year-old girl or just feel like a 13 year-old girl, you will be faced with the uncontrollable desire to vomit. He's (fingers as quotes) cute as a button (fingers as quotes). Just what you'd expect from our new generation of pop stars. But hey, I don't care. 's long as it sounds aight, I'm cool -- even if it is just studio magic.
Kanye West - College Dropout
Speaking of studio magic, this cat's supposed to be the fucking Gandalf of the ghetto. Dunno about that, but his name kicks ass. Kanye West sounds like a respectable porn star, or the African Batman's real name.
On the first listen, one track stood out like Yao Ming in the Shirewood. Kanye's Workout is as catchy as Hey Ya without being nearly so innocent. Shit is hilarious. Buy the album just for this track. That's how funny it is. I don't know why his label didn't lead with it instead of that my-jaw-wired-shut track set to a sample of Through the Fire. Regardless, the whole album felt like a black Eminem with Kanye beats and samples. Not a bad thing. No, no, far from a bad thing. Peep it!
David Bisbel - Buleria
Picked this up somewhere and was surprised. This kid performed on the Latin Grammys (?) and pumped some life into the bloated telecast. It was right up there with that one time Ricky Martin didn't suck. Anyway, from what my research department has uncovered, this kid won the Spanish equivalent of American Idol and his first album sold millions.
A shame his name is as bad as it is. You half expect it to be the first album by that skinny, greasy flamenco dancer el greco (or whatever the fuck he calls himself). The title of the disc doesn't help. Listen to the title track and you'll swear it's the catchiest ode to Bulgaria (?) ever penned.
On a whole, the disc ain't half bad. In fact, it's pretty good. 6 tracks are ballads, of the Enrique or Alejandro variety. 6 tracks are fast ala Ricky Martin. Throughout all 12, there's that annoying cleft palette sound perfected by Spaniards since the dawn of gum disease and nasal cavity afflictions. Good news: There's a bit of Gypsy Kings-style shit in everything.
Give it a spin; you may surprise yourself. Whatever you do, don't look the kid up. As soon as you see him, unless you're a 13 year-old girl or just feel like a 13 year-old girl, you will be faced with the uncontrollable desire to vomit. He's (fingers as quotes) cute as a button (fingers as quotes). Just what you'd expect from our new generation of pop stars. But hey, I don't care. 's long as it sounds aight, I'm cool -- even if it is just studio magic.
Kanye West - College Dropout
Speaking of studio magic, this cat's supposed to be the fucking Gandalf of the ghetto. Dunno about that, but his name kicks ass. Kanye West sounds like a respectable porn star, or the African Batman's real name.
On the first listen, one track stood out like Yao Ming in the Shirewood. Kanye's Workout is as catchy as Hey Ya without being nearly so innocent. Shit is hilarious. Buy the album just for this track. That's how funny it is. I don't know why his label didn't lead with it instead of that my-jaw-wired-shut track set to a sample of Through the Fire. Regardless, the whole album felt like a black Eminem with Kanye beats and samples. Not a bad thing. No, no, far from a bad thing. Peep it!
Oh, the ongoing saga of William Hung. Last night ET had him in the studio with a vocal coach as he went through verbal exercises and renditions of the inevitable "She Bangs" by Ricky Martin and "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" by Elton John. All of which he proceeded to mispronounce and stutter. Shit. If Corky from Life Goes On cut an album, it'd sound better than Mr. Hung.
The keeper, which ET played about 312 times during the segment was when Mr. Hung sang a line involving the word 'vagabonds'. It sounded closer to wagabonds, and I doubt Mr. Hung is of Austrian or German descent.
Yet through it all was Mary Hart, cheering him on through more facial wrinkles than your average shar-pei. (I think her grill should definitely cancel out whatever insurance policy her gams may have left.)
The whole thing was just wrong.
Though I can't help but wonder where the fuck Senor Vida Loca is. Smell the free publicity through your Sun-In bangs, you fucking ambassador of Menudo. Ricky should have been on a plane to meet the kid ASAP. On second thought, considering Ricky's feeble singing ability, maybe not. There is the possibility of Mr. Hung upstaging him. Now that would be an act of goodwill, worthy of our cheers.
The keeper, which ET played about 312 times during the segment was when Mr. Hung sang a line involving the word 'vagabonds'. It sounded closer to wagabonds, and I doubt Mr. Hung is of Austrian or German descent.
Yet through it all was Mary Hart, cheering him on through more facial wrinkles than your average shar-pei. (I think her grill should definitely cancel out whatever insurance policy her gams may have left.)
The whole thing was just wrong.
Though I can't help but wonder where the fuck Senor Vida Loca is. Smell the free publicity through your Sun-In bangs, you fucking ambassador of Menudo. Ricky should have been on a plane to meet the kid ASAP. On second thought, considering Ricky's feeble singing ability, maybe not. There is the possibility of Mr. Hung upstaging him. Now that would be an act of goodwill, worthy of our cheers.
Right about now, even Don King must feel like baseball's somehow fixed. This week, the NY Yankees acquired one Alex Rodriguez, the best player in the majors. I forget the details of his contract, but I'm sure he's getting more per season than the GNP of several island nations combined.
See what happens when the Bronx Bombers lose! It's really a no-win situation for the rest of the teams out there in Bumfuck, South Dakota. Just give up. Of course, I jest. But the latest addition to the Yankee empire does bring up a few questions.
Like where the fuck did the nickname A-Rod come from? That has got to be the lamest nickname in the history of professional sports. For NY, a town rich in colorful nicknames like Mr. October, Dr. K and the Lion Lady, A-Rod is a step-down. I can only assume that the name is the result of some strange tactic to make Alex Rodriguez more accesible to the average Gringo Q. Public. (For some reason, I'm picturing Lou Diamond Phillips as Ritchie Valens. A guy changing his name to play another guy changing his name! Kudos to the casting department on La Bamba! Your glory is long overdue!)
It must have been the last name that forced the issue. Everyone can pronounce Alex. Not the case with Rodriguez. That rolling of the R always stumps even the most polished of baseball announcers. Then again, the Yankees could afford to hire Andres Cantor (the lovable Latin lug who screams GOL!, while announcing futbol matches across South America) to pronounce A-Rod's God-given name whenever he does anything. Shit, that would prolly get Cantor the biggest payhike in the history of Latino television announcers, going all the way back to Teh Cum Se Buffer, whose silky voice and expert line delivery made every decapitated head flying through rings of fire really come alive!
As I was typing this, a fellow coworker caught some of it over my shoulder. He proceeded to disagree with me, claiming A-Rod was a great nickname. This man's name is Jim.
Somewhere in Havana, or the Dominican Republic aka Washington Heights, there is a set of parents who spent weeks weeding through book after book of baby names, finally settling on Alex, and for what? Fucking A.
Correction. I believe A-Rod's true father can still be found Monday-Friday on daytime television. Veteran of countless soaps, A Martinez has kept his son in the dark for far too long. Years of minimal SAG pay and a sagging career dictate the time is ripe for A to let A know where he got his A from.
A-Rod? Like Hot Rod? Like Rod & Todd?
Sad but true, it will take all of one poor at-bat for NY'ers to baptize him A-Hole, if Texans haven't already done so.
Last night on the evening news, a group of sports reporters cornered Steinbrenner leaving the Bomber's Spring Training facilities down in sunny Florida. Wearing his CHIPS sunglasses and a toothpick firmly between teeth, he proclaimed the addition good news. More importantly, he managed to hide his true message inside one of bullshit family. Haha. Right. He called A-Rod a great person and his wife 'a nice girl'. What the fuck is that? A nice girl? Dunno about you, but I don't want my boss referring to my wife as a 'nice girl'. Fresh off his sensitive appearance on Donald Trump's The Apprentice, where Ol Steinbrenner managed to win over countless women, he goes and says this?!
And how the fuck does Jeter feel? Kinda like me if Shakespeare were my new intern. Well, at least Derek's still got the whole biracial thing all to himself.
Without further ado, I present the A-Rod alphabet:
A-Team
B-Real
CT (some caveman from Road Rules/Real World)
D-Nice
EE Cummings
F150 (Yee-haaw!)
G-Unit
HHH (Or Mr. Triple H, if you prefer.)
I-Pod
JC Chasez
K9
LL for the urbanites, L Ron Hubbard for the Scientologists
M Night Shamalamading-Dong
NSync
O-Town
PDiddy
Q-Bert
R&R
SNL
T Coraghassen Boyle
UB-40
VD
WD-40
XTC
Y15 (I sunk your battleship! Sorry, couldn't think of any.)
ZZ Top
One last thing about A-Rod,
Let's Go Mets!
See what happens when the Bronx Bombers lose! It's really a no-win situation for the rest of the teams out there in Bumfuck, South Dakota. Just give up. Of course, I jest. But the latest addition to the Yankee empire does bring up a few questions.
Like where the fuck did the nickname A-Rod come from? That has got to be the lamest nickname in the history of professional sports. For NY, a town rich in colorful nicknames like Mr. October, Dr. K and the Lion Lady, A-Rod is a step-down. I can only assume that the name is the result of some strange tactic to make Alex Rodriguez more accesible to the average Gringo Q. Public. (For some reason, I'm picturing Lou Diamond Phillips as Ritchie Valens. A guy changing his name to play another guy changing his name! Kudos to the casting department on La Bamba! Your glory is long overdue!)
It must have been the last name that forced the issue. Everyone can pronounce Alex. Not the case with Rodriguez. That rolling of the R always stumps even the most polished of baseball announcers. Then again, the Yankees could afford to hire Andres Cantor (the lovable Latin lug who screams GOL!, while announcing futbol matches across South America) to pronounce A-Rod's God-given name whenever he does anything. Shit, that would prolly get Cantor the biggest payhike in the history of Latino television announcers, going all the way back to Teh Cum Se Buffer, whose silky voice and expert line delivery made every decapitated head flying through rings of fire really come alive!
As I was typing this, a fellow coworker caught some of it over my shoulder. He proceeded to disagree with me, claiming A-Rod was a great nickname. This man's name is Jim.
Somewhere in Havana, or the Dominican Republic aka Washington Heights, there is a set of parents who spent weeks weeding through book after book of baby names, finally settling on Alex, and for what? Fucking A.
Correction. I believe A-Rod's true father can still be found Monday-Friday on daytime television. Veteran of countless soaps, A Martinez has kept his son in the dark for far too long. Years of minimal SAG pay and a sagging career dictate the time is ripe for A to let A know where he got his A from.
A-Rod? Like Hot Rod? Like Rod & Todd?
Sad but true, it will take all of one poor at-bat for NY'ers to baptize him A-Hole, if Texans haven't already done so.
Last night on the evening news, a group of sports reporters cornered Steinbrenner leaving the Bomber's Spring Training facilities down in sunny Florida. Wearing his CHIPS sunglasses and a toothpick firmly between teeth, he proclaimed the addition good news. More importantly, he managed to hide his true message inside one of bullshit family. Haha. Right. He called A-Rod a great person and his wife 'a nice girl'. What the fuck is that? A nice girl? Dunno about you, but I don't want my boss referring to my wife as a 'nice girl'. Fresh off his sensitive appearance on Donald Trump's The Apprentice, where Ol Steinbrenner managed to win over countless women, he goes and says this?!
And how the fuck does Jeter feel? Kinda like me if Shakespeare were my new intern. Well, at least Derek's still got the whole biracial thing all to himself.
Without further ado, I present the A-Rod alphabet:
A-Team
B-Real
CT (some caveman from Road Rules/Real World)
D-Nice
EE Cummings
F150 (Yee-haaw!)
G-Unit
HHH (Or Mr. Triple H, if you prefer.)
I-Pod
JC Chasez
K9
LL for the urbanites, L Ron Hubbard for the Scientologists
M Night Shamalamading-Dong
NSync
O-Town
PDiddy
Q-Bert
R&R
SNL
T Coraghassen Boyle
UB-40
VD
WD-40
XTC
Y15 (I sunk your battleship! Sorry, couldn't think of any.)
ZZ Top
One last thing about A-Rod,
Let's Go Mets!
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
I couldn't help but notice Marc Anthony's troubles as of late. Some chippy has come out and said her baby was sired by none other than Skeletor's nuyorican cousin hisself.
Then his wife left him. No one saw that coming? Hmm. Ms. Universe and one of the undead's greatest salsa stars, seemed like a perfect match.
This after deceiving all of us who watched In Style's Celebrity Weddings!
This after serenading his baby daughter on some HBO special!
The nerve of this pair!
Hey, if this baby mommma actually did lay with the crooning cadaver, she deserves at least a thorough physical examination as necrophilia can lead to some nasty infections, if you know what I mean.
Marc should have known better. All you had to do was look at the former Mrs. Marc Anthony's name to see there'd be a problem sooner or later.
I believe it's something like Dayonarra Torres. Now if that don't sound like a bullfighter that wins by chewing the nuts off a bull, nothing does. Shit. If Wonder Woman was constantly menstruating and hated all men (even the singing skeletal variety), she might have been named Dayonarra Torres too.
Then his wife left him. No one saw that coming? Hmm. Ms. Universe and one of the undead's greatest salsa stars, seemed like a perfect match.
This after deceiving all of us who watched In Style's Celebrity Weddings!
This after serenading his baby daughter on some HBO special!
The nerve of this pair!
Hey, if this baby mommma actually did lay with the crooning cadaver, she deserves at least a thorough physical examination as necrophilia can lead to some nasty infections, if you know what I mean.
Marc should have known better. All you had to do was look at the former Mrs. Marc Anthony's name to see there'd be a problem sooner or later.
I believe it's something like Dayonarra Torres. Now if that don't sound like a bullfighter that wins by chewing the nuts off a bull, nothing does. Shit. If Wonder Woman was constantly menstruating and hated all men (even the singing skeletal variety), she might have been named Dayonarra Torres too.
Here's a headline featured on Yahoo that piqued my interest:
Device Helps Blind Navigate Streets
Would you believe, they failed to include a fucking picture of the newfangled gizmo!?! Aargh!
Hello Yahoo, I am not one of the aforementioned blind. Apparently they think us visually proficient dumb as rocks.
I mean, that's like giving a blind person those candy dots and telling him/her, guess what it says? It's just wrong?!
By the way, if your average blind guy comes down with a bad case of warts, how the fuck does he work his braille mojo? Must be like having pink eye.
And what happens if said blind guy has a blind pen pal, right. So he wants to type up a letter to this friendly chap. I imagine they have special printers that print the raised dots, more commonly referred to as braille.
But what if his machine breaks? Is it possible to manually create braille marks? Wait. I'm getting ahead of myself.
How would the motherfucker know the machine broke, or even ran out of toner for that matter? Or do blind people have special printers that keep them from having to run to Staples for 4500XYZs BLK at three in the morning?
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against blind people. Their dogs rock.
On a similar note, over the weekend I caught a bizarre street sign. It read, Deaf Persons Crossing.
Are we supposed to only use the middle finger then?
Device Helps Blind Navigate Streets
Would you believe, they failed to include a fucking picture of the newfangled gizmo!?! Aargh!
Hello Yahoo, I am not one of the aforementioned blind. Apparently they think us visually proficient dumb as rocks.
I mean, that's like giving a blind person those candy dots and telling him/her, guess what it says? It's just wrong?!
By the way, if your average blind guy comes down with a bad case of warts, how the fuck does he work his braille mojo? Must be like having pink eye.
And what happens if said blind guy has a blind pen pal, right. So he wants to type up a letter to this friendly chap. I imagine they have special printers that print the raised dots, more commonly referred to as braille.
But what if his machine breaks? Is it possible to manually create braille marks? Wait. I'm getting ahead of myself.
How would the motherfucker know the machine broke, or even ran out of toner for that matter? Or do blind people have special printers that keep them from having to run to Staples for 4500XYZs BLK at three in the morning?
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against blind people. Their dogs rock.
On a similar note, over the weekend I caught a bizarre street sign. It read, Deaf Persons Crossing.
Are we supposed to only use the middle finger then?
Friday, February 13, 2004
Young people don't read newspapers. Plain and simple. Just like members of AARP would never peruse the latest High Times or Electronic Gaming Monthly.
Why not, you ask. I shall proceed to explain.
Newspapers are big, dirty, feature too few photos and way too many words. Plus, no fine ass in sight. Old politicos, fatcats, and corpses do not woo the young and fabulous set, unless featured in a Diesel ad of course.
To a young person, any issue of the New York Times looks like fucking Ulysses.
Where am i going with this?
Oh. So sometimes I read the Times. Most times, however, I enjoy the good old Daily News. Or if I'm really lucky, The New York Post.
And what I couldn't help but notice is that, well I'll be damned, it's Fashion Week again. Is it just me, or wasn't there a Fashion Week like two weeks ago? Fucking A. There are more Fashion Weeks than there are weeks in a fucking year. What's worse, I don't recall seeing much for Black History Month yet Fashion Week gets entire sections devoted to koo-tour. Something ain't right in the world.
And no, that token Alek Wek, model africanus, does not make up for it.
Why not, you ask. I shall proceed to explain.
Newspapers are big, dirty, feature too few photos and way too many words. Plus, no fine ass in sight. Old politicos, fatcats, and corpses do not woo the young and fabulous set, unless featured in a Diesel ad of course.
To a young person, any issue of the New York Times looks like fucking Ulysses.
Where am i going with this?
Oh. So sometimes I read the Times. Most times, however, I enjoy the good old Daily News. Or if I'm really lucky, The New York Post.
And what I couldn't help but notice is that, well I'll be damned, it's Fashion Week again. Is it just me, or wasn't there a Fashion Week like two weeks ago? Fucking A. There are more Fashion Weeks than there are weeks in a fucking year. What's worse, I don't recall seeing much for Black History Month yet Fashion Week gets entire sections devoted to koo-tour. Something ain't right in the world.
And no, that token Alek Wek, model africanus, does not make up for it.
Victoria's Secret supermodels paid a visit to the Herald Square store to sign autographs and get this, 'give advice on buying baubles for that special someone'.
Dunno about you, but of the countless descriptors that can be applied to supermodels, gift-giver is not one of them.
Must be backwards logic at work here. These women are not in the habit of giving. Shit. They get paid to look pretty. What in god's name have they ever given to anyone? A hard-on. A credit card bill. Lazy sex. Nothing I'd consider a bauble anyway. And who the fuck uses the word bauble?
They are takers. Fucking new age succubi who leech fame and fortune from the hapless well-to-do midlife crisis male variety.
But I'm not bitter.
I wonder if some poor slob had them sign a pair of panties.
Dunno about you, but of the countless descriptors that can be applied to supermodels, gift-giver is not one of them.
Must be backwards logic at work here. These women are not in the habit of giving. Shit. They get paid to look pretty. What in god's name have they ever given to anyone? A hard-on. A credit card bill. Lazy sex. Nothing I'd consider a bauble anyway. And who the fuck uses the word bauble?
They are takers. Fucking new age succubi who leech fame and fortune from the hapless well-to-do midlife crisis male variety.
But I'm not bitter.
I wonder if some poor slob had them sign a pair of panties.
In another classy move by PR agencies this week, some schmucks decided Barbie and Ken should split. I shit you not. The press release likens the plastic pair's demise to that of other celebrity couples like Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck.
Apparently Ken will move on to 'other waves', whatever the fuck that means. Who knew Ken was a surfer anyway?
Ken and Ben has a nice ring to it.
I just don't get why Kenner or Hasbro or whoever the fuck owns Barbie would fuck with a good thing? Is it to reflect the 21st century woman's new ideals?
Bitch has her own car, boat, dream home, etc. and she still leaves Ken's ass. Something's wrong in Barbieland.
Plus, he's put up with her indecision. I mean not knowing what to major and minor in as a freshman in college is one thing, but when your 20-some-odd blonde girlfriend tries her hand at being an astronaut, a lifeguard, a cowgirl, a Baywatch girl--AND still fails to find her calling, methinks there may be something to the blonde as bimbo thing.
Maybe Ken will hook up with one of the Bratz, a new line of superdeformed ghetto rats that drive the girlies wild.
Is nothing sacred nowadays. What's next, Ashford & Simpson breaking up? C'mon that fucking black version of the scared lion from the Wizard of Oz would be lost without his rock.
Apparently Ken will move on to 'other waves', whatever the fuck that means. Who knew Ken was a surfer anyway?
Ken and Ben has a nice ring to it.
I just don't get why Kenner or Hasbro or whoever the fuck owns Barbie would fuck with a good thing? Is it to reflect the 21st century woman's new ideals?
Bitch has her own car, boat, dream home, etc. and she still leaves Ken's ass. Something's wrong in Barbieland.
Plus, he's put up with her indecision. I mean not knowing what to major and minor in as a freshman in college is one thing, but when your 20-some-odd blonde girlfriend tries her hand at being an astronaut, a lifeguard, a cowgirl, a Baywatch girl--AND still fails to find her calling, methinks there may be something to the blonde as bimbo thing.
Maybe Ken will hook up with one of the Bratz, a new line of superdeformed ghetto rats that drive the girlies wild.
Is nothing sacred nowadays. What's next, Ashford & Simpson breaking up? C'mon that fucking black version of the scared lion from the Wizard of Oz would be lost without his rock.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
This just in. Men's Journal magazine has included Senator Hilary Clinton in their '25 Toughest Guys in America' piece.
Which leads me to believe:
1. Readership is down.
2. Even the wimpiest guys in America wouldn't stoop so low.
3. Men's Journal may have a large bisexual readership?
Haha. Fucking PR stunts.
Which leads me to believe:
1. Readership is down.
2. Even the wimpiest guys in America wouldn't stoop so low.
3. Men's Journal may have a large bisexual readership?
Haha. Fucking PR stunts.
As a patron of the arts, I ride the subway every day. So I'm familiar with the horrible Captain Morgan's ads, the Gain 30 Lbs./Lose 30 Lbs. in 30 Languages, the English Language schools, basically every form of communication. Lately, I've noticed a trend. Two separate ad campaigns champion the notion that New Yorkers are fucking insane! (Where's Crazy Eddie when you need him?)
First, there's Chock Full o' Nuts, which is running ads showing black and white photos of city life with the painfully flat line of Chock Full o (Insert word that ties in to visual in a fairly obvious and lazy way). The one that stuck in my head (Gawd knows why?! Hey, better than the fungal nail diagram.) features a group o New Yawkas riding the Cyclone, a rickety wooden coaster famous for being rickety and wooden. Line reads Chock Full o' Nuts. Tada. Product as headline.
The very next week, I spot the latest out-of-door (bus shelters, subway stops, etc.) campaign for the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey and if there's another and I kill something circus. These ads feature montages of the circus freaks, er, um, I mean performers such as Annoyo, petite clowne de France and assorted others. White guy with tigers, y'know the usual along with the line: Crazy. Even by New York standards. Not bad. Not awe-inspiring.
But more importantly, what the fuck with this New Yorker crazy schtick?? Somehow, I know this is a lame marketing guy's attempt at making the circus 'relevant' to jaded urbanites. Dunno if it's enough.
Leads me to the latest Apple iPod spot, which I think trumps the ones that came before it. Why? For starters, the song used is not some DOA top 40 single. Plus, white guy 2-step might have cut it for the rubes out there, but having a bboy go nuts really lets the silhouette technique come alive. Just watch when that fucker does the dead-man freeze. 'll make you consider plunking down the three beans for the overpriced garage door opener with headphones.
First, there's Chock Full o' Nuts, which is running ads showing black and white photos of city life with the painfully flat line of Chock Full o (Insert word that ties in to visual in a fairly obvious and lazy way). The one that stuck in my head (Gawd knows why?! Hey, better than the fungal nail diagram.) features a group o New Yawkas riding the Cyclone, a rickety wooden coaster famous for being rickety and wooden. Line reads Chock Full o' Nuts. Tada. Product as headline.
The very next week, I spot the latest out-of-door (bus shelters, subway stops, etc.) campaign for the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey and if there's another and I kill something circus. These ads feature montages of the circus freaks, er, um, I mean performers such as Annoyo, petite clowne de France and assorted others. White guy with tigers, y'know the usual along with the line: Crazy. Even by New York standards. Not bad. Not awe-inspiring.
But more importantly, what the fuck with this New Yorker crazy schtick?? Somehow, I know this is a lame marketing guy's attempt at making the circus 'relevant' to jaded urbanites. Dunno if it's enough.
Leads me to the latest Apple iPod spot, which I think trumps the ones that came before it. Why? For starters, the song used is not some DOA top 40 single. Plus, white guy 2-step might have cut it for the rubes out there, but having a bboy go nuts really lets the silhouette technique come alive. Just watch when that fucker does the dead-man freeze. 'll make you consider plunking down the three beans for the overpriced garage door opener with headphones.
As a patron of the arts, I ride the subway every day.
So I'm familiar with the horrible Captain Morgan's ads, the Gain 30 Lbs./Lose 30 Lbs. in 30 Languages, the English Language schools, basically every form of communication plastered inside the cars.
Lately, I've noticed a trend. Two separate ad campaigns champion the notion that New Yorkers are fucking insane! (Where's Crazy Eddie when you need him?)
First, there's Chock Full o' Nuts, which is running ads showing black-and-white photos of city life with the painfully flat line of Chock Full o (Insert word that ties in to visual in a fairly obvious and lazy way). The one that stuck in my head (Gawd knows why?! Hey, better than the podiatrist with the fungal nail diagram.) features a group o New Yawkas riding the Cyclone, a rickety wooden coaster famous for being rickety and wooden. Line reads Chock Full o' Nuts. Tada. Product as headline. Client ecstatic.
The very next week, I spot the latest out-of-door (bus shelters, subway stops, etc.) campaign for the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey-and-if-there's-another-and-I-kill-something circus. These ads feature montages of the circus freaks, er, um, I mean performers such as Annoyo, petite clowne de France and assorted others. White guy with tigers, y'know the usual along with the line: Crazy. Even by New York standards.
Not bad. Not awe-inspiring.
But more importantly, what the fuck with this New Yorker crazy schtick?? Somehow, I know this is a lame marketing guy's attempt at making the circus 'relevant' to jaded urbanites. Dunno if it's enough.
Leads me to the latest Apple iPod spot (on television; sorry no segue here.), which I think trumps the ones that came before it. Why? For starters, the song used is not some DOA top 40 single. Plus, white guy 2-step might have cut it for the rubes out there, but having a bboy go nuts really lets the silhouette technique come alive. Just watch when that fucker does the dead-man freeze. 'll make you consider plunking down the three beans for Apple's overpriced garage door opener with headphones.
So I'm familiar with the horrible Captain Morgan's ads, the Gain 30 Lbs./Lose 30 Lbs. in 30 Languages, the English Language schools, basically every form of communication plastered inside the cars.
Lately, I've noticed a trend. Two separate ad campaigns champion the notion that New Yorkers are fucking insane! (Where's Crazy Eddie when you need him?)
First, there's Chock Full o' Nuts, which is running ads showing black-and-white photos of city life with the painfully flat line of Chock Full o (Insert word that ties in to visual in a fairly obvious and lazy way). The one that stuck in my head (Gawd knows why?! Hey, better than the podiatrist with the fungal nail diagram.) features a group o New Yawkas riding the Cyclone, a rickety wooden coaster famous for being rickety and wooden. Line reads Chock Full o' Nuts. Tada. Product as headline. Client ecstatic.
The very next week, I spot the latest out-of-door (bus shelters, subway stops, etc.) campaign for the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey-and-if-there's-another-and-I-kill-something circus. These ads feature montages of the circus freaks, er, um, I mean performers such as Annoyo, petite clowne de France and assorted others. White guy with tigers, y'know the usual along with the line: Crazy. Even by New York standards.
Not bad. Not awe-inspiring.
But more importantly, what the fuck with this New Yorker crazy schtick?? Somehow, I know this is a lame marketing guy's attempt at making the circus 'relevant' to jaded urbanites. Dunno if it's enough.
Leads me to the latest Apple iPod spot (on television; sorry no segue here.), which I think trumps the ones that came before it. Why? For starters, the song used is not some DOA top 40 single. Plus, white guy 2-step might have cut it for the rubes out there, but having a bboy go nuts really lets the silhouette technique come alive. Just watch when that fucker does the dead-man freeze. 'll make you consider plunking down the three beans for Apple's overpriced garage door opener with headphones.
After hours and hours of pointless reality programming, finally something to redeem our society has arrived in the diminutive form of The Littlest Bachelor (or some title like that) from Fox. This inspirational vehicle will bring you to tears and motivate you to consider autoerotic asphyxiation. Or just asphixiation if the sight of scantily clad lil people doesn't rub you the right way.
On a serious tip (slightly), it's The Bachelor done with little people/midgets/dwarves/lawn gnomes/whatever the fuck you call them.
I hope they have a number where we can vote the show off.
But just in case you need some melodrama with your shorties, Fox will also air My Big Fat Hairy Sonuvabitch (or something like that) right after The Littlest Bachelor.
It's a night of small folks and big jokes!!! (Can't you just hear that line in the promos?)
On a serious tip (slightly), it's The Bachelor done with little people/midgets/dwarves/lawn gnomes/whatever the fuck you call them.
I hope they have a number where we can vote the show off.
But just in case you need some melodrama with your shorties, Fox will also air My Big Fat Hairy Sonuvabitch (or something like that) right after The Littlest Bachelor.
It's a night of small folks and big jokes!!! (Can't you just hear that line in the promos?)
Last season of Friends and Sex and the City.
(Ed. Note: There is a god!)
Joey gets his own sitcom.
(Correction: There is no god.)
(Ed. Note: There is a god!)
Joey gets his own sitcom.
(Correction: There is no god.)
So this year Valentine's falls on a Saturday. I guess that's cool, but nowhere as exciting as being off on Monday.
Nothing against sweethearts out there, but V Day is pretty lame. It must be a manufactured event to stimulate sales in certain industries. Because buying chocolates and flowers is really not that romantic. Matter of fact, by now, it's so cliche that you should be thorned to death for merely considering to do either.
I say write something of the heart. Or say something of the heart. That's some true love shit. Then again, I'm poe.
One good thing about it being on the weekend: You won't have to bullshit your coworkers with the, "Aah, they sent you (insert cliche V-Day gift)!"
Would be fun to spice shit up though. Like Kris Kringle, do a V Day stunt, where you had to give someone at the office some bullshit. That'd be funny. Though I'd prolly call out sick.
Crap, just realized, come Monday, everyone will be buzzing with, "How was your weekend?" with the added, "Do something special?" D'oh!
Nothing against sweethearts out there, but V Day is pretty lame. It must be a manufactured event to stimulate sales in certain industries. Because buying chocolates and flowers is really not that romantic. Matter of fact, by now, it's so cliche that you should be thorned to death for merely considering to do either.
I say write something of the heart. Or say something of the heart. That's some true love shit. Then again, I'm poe.
One good thing about it being on the weekend: You won't have to bullshit your coworkers with the, "Aah, they sent you (insert cliche V-Day gift)!"
Would be fun to spice shit up though. Like Kris Kringle, do a V Day stunt, where you had to give someone at the office some bullshit. That'd be funny. Though I'd prolly call out sick.
Crap, just realized, come Monday, everyone will be buzzing with, "How was your weekend?" with the added, "Do something special?" D'oh!
Onto something that's been bugging me: The sudden fame thrust upon William Hung, the Asian Ricky Martin of American Idol.
He presents me with a most uncomfortable situation. Y'see, I laugh. But I can't laugh too hard. Reason? Simple. In case you're unfamilar, let me go into the particulars.
Mr. Hung makes the geeks on Average Joe look hunky by comparison. The kid speaks in machine gun barrages similar to anyone who's ever been dubbed. And he has some funky shit going on with his teeth.
Yet he's not a 'plant' by the producers, to the best of my knowledge. Ha. Fuck. I mean the guy is straight outta 'Joe's cousin from Facts of Life, Corky from that Life Goes On' land. I don't know if he's paulsey, slow or what. But I hate myself for laughing so hard at his rendition of 'She Bangs'.
I can't be alone on this. I mean laughing at the wheelchair-bound and the mentally stricken kids on the holiday Toys R Us catalogue is one thing, but this is sacrilege.
He presents me with a most uncomfortable situation. Y'see, I laugh. But I can't laugh too hard. Reason? Simple. In case you're unfamilar, let me go into the particulars.
Mr. Hung makes the geeks on Average Joe look hunky by comparison. The kid speaks in machine gun barrages similar to anyone who's ever been dubbed. And he has some funky shit going on with his teeth.
Yet he's not a 'plant' by the producers, to the best of my knowledge. Ha. Fuck. I mean the guy is straight outta 'Joe's cousin from Facts of Life, Corky from that Life Goes On' land. I don't know if he's paulsey, slow or what. But I hate myself for laughing so hard at his rendition of 'She Bangs'.
I can't be alone on this. I mean laughing at the wheelchair-bound and the mentally stricken kids on the holiday Toys R Us catalogue is one thing, but this is sacrilege.
What the fuck with the Westminster Dog Show? Maybe I'm a rare breed (aargh!) but I don't get a few things. First of all, why in God's name or doggy God's name do they broadcast it live on tape? Doesn't this defeat the whole purpose? Are we not to think less of this event when newspapers and news shows broadcast the winner a full 24 hours prior to the TNT (or whoever the fuck 'won' the rights in a marathon bidding war. Yeah, right.) telecast? We don't watch any other animal show live-on-tape. Lookit the Super Bowl for chrissake.
Speaking of which, I saw multiple teet and testicle on the TNT show. And I don't hear any complaints.
True story, yesterday I'm on the elevator, going down for some vitamin D. A pack of way-too-cheery-to-be-New Yorkers boards. I overhear the following exchange:
Tall guy: "Did you say Westminster?"
Fat gal: "Hmm-huh."
Tall guy: "I was at the Kennel Klub last night."
(Kennel Klub, where only the most connected dog people play. Or some shit. Must be run by that Petland guy with the horrible toupee.)
Fat gal: "Really? How?"
Tall guy: "Well, my friend and her partner have a Nowegian sheepdog. And they entered her. And she actually won Best of Breed!"
Fat gal: "Wow!"
Cut to me doing my best not to laugh. They almost forced my hand and had me do the thigh-squeeze trick to not piss myself. Now hat I think of it. I should have raised one leg and pissed just like that Norwegian sheepdog does.
Fucking A. This shit was straight out of Best in Show. I wonder if they even knew how much of a joke they were. Because I would have gladly let them know. Oh well. Next time.
Speaking of which, I saw multiple teet and testicle on the TNT show. And I don't hear any complaints.
True story, yesterday I'm on the elevator, going down for some vitamin D. A pack of way-too-cheery-to-be-New Yorkers boards. I overhear the following exchange:
Tall guy: "Did you say Westminster?"
Fat gal: "Hmm-huh."
Tall guy: "I was at the Kennel Klub last night."
(Kennel Klub, where only the most connected dog people play. Or some shit. Must be run by that Petland guy with the horrible toupee.)
Fat gal: "Really? How?"
Tall guy: "Well, my friend and her partner have a Nowegian sheepdog. And they entered her. And she actually won Best of Breed!"
Fat gal: "Wow!"
Cut to me doing my best not to laugh. They almost forced my hand and had me do the thigh-squeeze trick to not piss myself. Now hat I think of it. I should have raised one leg and pissed just like that Norwegian sheepdog does.
Fucking A. This shit was straight out of Best in Show. I wonder if they even knew how much of a joke they were. Because I would have gladly let them know. Oh well. Next time.
