loompawrangler

27 July 2009 @ 10:44 pm

MBA Prep Week
Monday—Accounting

When all else fails, smile and accept your fate.

This is the mantra I repeated to myself as my knowledgeable, kind accounting prep professor spoke to the class about ratio of fixed assets to long term liabilities.

Since nothing makes me chuckle more than math mashed-up with a heaping spoon of popular culture insanity, I considered the Hollywood application of this accounting formulas.

The ratio of fixed assets of long term liabilities basically tells a lender, such as a bank, whether or not a company has enough valuable stuff to warrant a long-term loan. Will it be able to make its payments?

You calculate the ratio using this formula:

Fixed Assets ÷ Long-Term Liabilities =

Ratio of Fixed Assets to Long-Term Liabilities
(or as the kids call it, the “how good a long-term borrower are you ratio?”)

For our purposes, let’s say Lindsey Lohan is not a human (insert joke here), but a corporate entity.

Lindsey’s Fixed Assets:

Property—A vomit soaked condo somewhere on the Hollywood strip, complete with cocaine showered carpet and crystal meth lab in the bathroom.

Vehicles—Whatever car she’s jacked in recent days

Equipment—I had a zinger about breast implants here, but let’s go with unopened Amazon Kindle instead.

Lindsey’s Long-term liabilities:

Notes Payable (i.e. a mortgage payment)—Has a small mortgage payment. She had a huge amount of cash to put down on her building because of all the money’s she’s saved by not eating.

Bonds Payable—In order to fund its insatiable appetite for 151 Rum and cigarettes, Lindsey Corp. sold over 3,000 bonds at $10,000 pop. This means she owes 3,000 Mean Girls fans (they were the only ones who’d buy it, (sorry L-Bone)) $10,000 each. In addition, she has to pay those bondholders interest on that $10,000 every six months. A major ouchie in Lindsey Corp’s wallet.

Contingent Liability—This is the worst of all. Contingent liability is the probability and estimation of if and how much a company might have to payout in repair work for their products (if they’re guaranteed or under warrantee), or how much the company might have to cough up if they get sued.

Unfortunately for Lindsey Corp, the company has a bit of a dangerous reputation. She blows off movie shoots, shows up for work impaired, and carjacks Los Angelino motorists so that she can chase down her personal assistant.

All very bad things for Lindsey Corp.

So, you add up Lindsey Corp.’s fixed assets…divide that by the sum of her long-term liabilities…(carry the one, round to the nearest hundredth…)

Lindsey Corp.’s ratio is...(and now we'll have a competition to finish the blog! The most creative entry wins my eternal admiration!)

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02 July 2009 @ 02:30 pm

The Way You Make Me Feel

Michael Jackson is dead. No more dancing on cars outside of courtrooms. No more competitive baby danglin’ in Berlin. No more nose reconstructions so that he can “breathe better.” No more putting on some Barry White, turning down the lights, and curling up with a few attention starved adolescents.

Yes, Neverland Ranch is permanently closed. Peter Pan will not frequent Lisa Marie’s or Brook Shields’ or Debbie Rowe’s room another time. Unless he can channel is inner Thriller zombie, MJ is now moon walking on that great dance floor in the sky, or beneath our feet. Or I supposed he might now be that gnat that keeps buzzing about your eyelashes.

Whatever your take on the afterlife, there should be no pretense or revisionist history when it comes to Michael Jackson’ actual life. He was an alleged abuse victim, a talented performer who made two great albums and many singles, a drug addict, an alleged child abuser who paid off his accuser, and a compulsive liar (go back and watch him tell Martin Bashir that he only ever had TWO plastic surgeries done in his whole life, or that the surrogate mother of his third child was black. Unless the King of Pigmentation had his sperm whitened as well, there is no way the third child could have two African American parents and be that fair-skinned.)

Why am I being so harsh? Why speak ill of the dead? I’ll tell you. Every time a celebrity dies, we immediately proceed with the whitewashing (pun intended) of their lives and careers. We act as some collective minister and absolve them of all their sins and transgressions. Even O.J.’s jury thinks we go too easy on celebrities. A few examples:

JFK, Jr. was a child of privilege who loved the spotlight and whose reach far exceeded his grasp. His political magazine, George, had a spirited run of a whole six years. Finally, after being warned not to fly out into a storm, he died as a modern day Icarus. Only this time Icarus sank his wife and dogs into the depths of the Atlantic.

And yet, because he is that cute little kid who played at JFK’s feet in the oval office, we offer his memory the same reverence that was given to princes in 1500’s England.

Marylin Monroe. She was an exceptional pin-up girl at best, and an overrated, average actress at worst. She loved painkillers, and openly flirting with her lover-President of the United States. Many find her breathy version of Happy Birthday Mr. President to be a sultry moment in American politics. As her rendition was about as subtle as a stampede of rabid elephants, I wonder how Jackie Kennedy felt as she watched Monroe song-rape her husband.

But now she is remembered as a starlet, one of the all-time Hollywood beauties and actresses.

Let’s not forget America’s biggest celebrity president. No, not libido Bill. And Obama still has a way to go. I’m talking about the only President who actually was an actor—Ronald Reagan. Here are a few highlights from his administration. A trickle down economic policy that widened the gap between the rich and the poor. The only thing trickling down was drunken Wall Street investors’ urine atop the heads of the NYC homeless. He “defeated” the Soviet Union by outspending them on nuclear arms, using money we didn’t have and running up a deficit that would even make General Motors proud. Looks like big bad Evil Empires can go broke. I would’ve thought Evil Empires, if they were so big and bad, would have plenty of money. I never heard Darth Vader complaining about a lack of funding for the second Death Star.

But here’s the bad news. Guess what country now has thousands of nuclear weapons stashed all over the place—and has little security to protect it? Russia. Or as I like to call it, Home Depot for terrorists.

Not to mention, Reagan ignored the threat of HIV and Aids, dismissing it as a holy plague cast down on homosexuals. Forget how medically irresponsible it is for the President to ignore such a potentially catastrophic virus; every Christian knows that the only disease God has used in the last fifty years is the swine flu. To kill Miley Cyrus fans.

So what’s the debate now that he’s dead? Whether or not we should boot FDR off the dime and replace him with grandpa Ron.

Before you leave any nasty comments, understand that I’m not refusing MJ his proper credit. Every hip-hop act in existence, from Black Eyed Peas to Justin Timberlake, owes Jackson their careers. He made hip-hop digestible to the masses. He was the only cool thing about disco. He made dancing a requirement for anyone who wanted to be a successful hip-hop or pop act. Do you really think all those unathletic white boys from the Backstreet Boys wanted to dance it out? No. They knew how lame they looked. But after Beat It and Thriller, it was required for credibility.

And he has plenty of decent excuses for his bizarre behavior.

Clearly, daddy wasn’t a nice guy. And after he became rich and famous, no one in Jackson’s life ever called him out on his insistence on being treated like an eight-year old.

Or his belief that he should be held to the same behavioral expectations as an eight-year old.

Or his staunch proclamations that those lily-white kids actually belonged to him.

Hell, he had so many enablers he was able to get hospital grade sedatives sent and administered to him at home—just so he could sleep. Who needs sheep when you have ditropan?

So let’s give MJ his due. Maybe even shed a tear over his early life and career. But let’s stop short of Sainthood.

Then again, Saint Peter couldn’t moonwalk.

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28 January 2009 @ 11:02 am

Loompa Wrangling at the Movies: A Depressing Dose of Deep Despair

In one of my earliest posts here in Loompaville, I stated that Brokeback Mountain was the single most depressing film I'd ever seen.

And it has valiantly held that title for several years.

Through I Am Legend's cheap murder of the dog. It held up.

As I watched Mr. Plainview mentally destroy his adopted son in There Will Be Blood, the mountain-filled tale of ill-fated love reigned supreme.

Even as I finally rented Mystic River, and watched two families be ripped apart by a tragic misunderstanding, Brokeback refused to lose.

Until this afternoon. January 27, 2009. A date that will live in melancholy.

The date I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button do for tear-jerkers what The Texas Chainsaw Massacre did for horror.

The Oscar nominated film, directed by edgy filmmaker David Fincher, plods along at a sluggish pace and seems only interested in waking you when something terrible happens. And I don't mean "ooh look at that train wreck" terrible. I'm speaking of "here, watch the person or animal you love most in this world die a slow death" terrible.

Fast facts about Button:
5--The number of times (at different points in the movie) Brad Pitt and his love interest Cate Blanchett say goodbye.

3--The number of parents we get to see die.

2--The number of children abandoned by their fathers.

1--The number of times I've had the opportunity to watch a woman hold the infant version of the man she loved most in the universe--as he died.

Button opens with Daisy's (Cate Blanchett) daughter huddled by her deathbed telling her how much she's going to miss her. We then quickly flashback to the death of Benjamin's birth mother.

The next 15 minutes showing us Benjamin as an old man behaving like a toddler provides the only levity in the film. After that, when someone isn't dying or leaving, the film grinds to a halt.

We're shown countless vistas of the world. They're beautiful, but more at home on the Travel Channel than in this film. They feel forced down my throat, as if Benjamin wants to shake me by the shoulders until I realize how beautiful life and everything in it truly is. I only wish he could have visited Nazi Germany or present day Mumbai, India.

Even when not begging for a best cinematography Oscar, the movie slinks along with the urgency of an obese sleepwalker. Many times I found myself wishing I could fast forward through scenes and get on with the action. Brad Pitt is a handsome man, but if I had to watch anymore lengthy close ups of him being pensive, or lost in wonderment at the cyclical nature of life, I was going to drown myself in my gallon-sized Hi-C.

The acting is serviceable, but not what the Academy has made it out to be. Cate Blanchett looks very sultry in youth and very sad in old age. Yawn. There simply wasn't much meat on Daisy's character for her to sink her acting chops into. I wasn't shocked she didn't receive a nomination.

Brad Pitt is sedate, melancholy, and honestly, quite distant. He succeeds in delivering the few comedic lines in the film, highlighting where this movie wasted much of its potential. Brad Pitt's acting genius, much like that of his manfriend George Clooney, shines through in come

dies. Why he does so few of them I don't know. I've read he's envious of Leonardo DiCaprio's film choices. But he shouldn't be. Making people laugh is much, much, much, much more difficult than making them cry. Kill a dog. Give a mom or child a terminal disease. Whip up a teenage suicide. Have a love affair end in tragedy. Get Sean Penn to act retarded. The formula isn't complicated.

But making an audience laugh for an hour and a half (see Tropic Thunder) or playing a half-witted physical trainer to goofy perfection (see Brad Pitt in Burn After Reading) requires immeasurable skill.

George and Brad should leave the uber-drama to DiCaprio and Day-Lewis, and use their own enormous gifts of comedic timing. I love Brad Pitt--but his nomination feels more like a thanks for all your great work nomination than something earned in Button.

(And an "it's about time clap" to the Academy for nominating Robert Downey Jr. for best supporting actor in Tropic Thunder. Maybe if the Academy acknowledged the greatness of comedic acting a little more often, Brad Pitt would do more comedies and I wouldn't be stitching up my wrists right now.)

Back to Button. The finest performance belonged to Taraji P. Henson, who was nominated for a best supporting actress for her role as Queenie, Benjamin's mother. She is the only actor who pops off the screen and is still memorable after they've flooded New Orleans and you've snot-soaked your final tissue.

The script, adapted from the novel of the same name, was penned by Eric Roth. I wasn't surprised to read he also wrote Forrest Gump. Button, which desperately wants to be Forrest Gump, is the exact inversion of Forrest Gump. Little charm. F

ew ancillary characters worth caring about. And far more loss than triumph.

Button is the Bizarro to Gump's Superman.

Ultimately, the film is so desperate to make the audience feel true sadness, that it accomplishes very little in between tragedies. And at a run time of three hours, feels longer than Reagan and Princess Di's funerals combined.

And I almost forgot.

Button ends as Katrina floods New Orleans.

Hooray.

For being an emotional snuff film, I give The Curious Case of Benjamin Button two out of five Loompas, both of them

teary-eyed and crestfallen.

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14 January 2009 @ 10:44 pm

Season of Sickness

Just as anyone else who works in a school, I’m exposed to all manner of germs. But the bacteria bonfire I face is considerably more potent. I’m tasked with seventh graders. That’s right. Every day, armed with only demerits and a scented expo marker (Chocó-mint. It’s friggin’ sweet), I do battle with hordes of pubescent adolescents.

I fight desperately to keep them locked away from the hours of 7:30a.m.-2:45 p.m. All so that you regular workin’ folk, like Joe Sixpack and DUI Danny, can go to work unmoles

ted by gangs of smelly preteens demanding candy and full disclosure of your personal life.

There’s a reason Jack Bauer never takes on public education for 24 hours. He’d never make it past 9:00-10:10a.m

(That’s a 24 reference and shout out to all loyal fans who are giving 24 one more try this season. Through the first four hours we’re good. Jack’s at his surliest, ass-whoopinest best.)

But recently I developed a marble-sized knot in the back of my skull. In the past day it’s deflated a bit, and none of my literary genius appears lost. But I am thoroughly ready for the “season of disease” in public schooling to be over.

Note: the season of disease is much like summer TV. It’s filled with reality base

d crap you never wanted to see, like green snot sickles or milky vomit covered in mint-fragranced sawdust. Really. What’s the difference between seeing that or watching Temptation Island?

Very little. That’s how much.

The season runs from about January to March, and I’m already tired of it. Even more tired than drunk David Hasselhoff is of YouTube. So today, whilst dodging the latest uncovered, mucus-drenched cough from one of my students, I tried to temper my annoyance by thinking of three things that irritate me more than the season of the sickness.

3-->Brad Pitt and his wife-Can they not just act? Can they just not enjoy their jobs as make

believe characters and stop commenting on societal issues? I know, I know. It’s great when celebrities use their star power to further causes, like rebuilding New Orleans or helping impoverished children.

But they blew off Ryan Seacrest at the Golden Globes. And that pisses me off. What did Seacrest ever do to piss somebody off? For God’s sakes, he was the funniest thing about Knocked Up. So let them have as many twins as they want. And let them adopt all the children they can snag until they successfully reenact the It’s a Small World ride in their living room. But maybe they just shut the hell up for a while and at least act like they’re not so damn put out all the time. Well, I know Brad can pull that off.

His wife’s not so much on the acting.

2-->Brittney Spears-Don’t give Brittney any more money! It will only go to two

places, Kevin Federline and her Beverly Hillbillies white trash family, or liposuction so that she can keep sucking down pies to calm herself after she bashes in another car window.

Get her off the iPod screens in the Best Buy inserts! You listen to music

on iPods. You watch train wrecks on CNN and VH1. And that’s all she is now. A talentless exhibitionist of the highest class.

Hell, even Taylor Swift thinks Brittney can’t sing.

1-->Twilight-Maybe this is just because I’ve finally been over

come with enough curiosity that I am almost 100 pages into the first novel (I use that term loosely) and am finding myself more bored than Hillary Clinton at Obama’s first cabinet meeting.

If I have to read her cook dinner for her father one more time (we’re up to two in about a 30 page span) I’m going to microwave the book, cover it in hot sauce, and pretend I’m devouring the heart of the literary agent who cast this plague upon us. (Writers House, I’m staring in your direction).

I honestly don’t blame teens and preteens for their captivation. Edward is designed to be the perfect male. And Bella is the perfect helpless Lois Lane. Yes, she talks tough, but seems to clearly need Edward to save her and make her happy.

But to those over 20, I bite my thumb at you. The Buffy the Vampire Slaver loves Angel

(haunted vampire with a soul) storyline is better love story by miles. Yes, it’s a little edgier and doesn’t necessarily end happily, but at least it’s believable—as far as human vampire romances go. Honestly, there’s no comparison. This is like Michael Keaton Batman versus George Clooney Batman, or Daddy Bush versus W. Sometimes newer does not mean better.

Or maybe this knot on my head just has me in a foul mood…I hate this season.

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23 December 2008 @ 02:43 pm

Thoughts from Beneath the Christmas Tree

As I attempt to dive back into the scalding hot pool that is thankless, barely read blogging, I think I’ll start off small. Not small like Miley Cyrus's pitch range small. More like Thomas Jane’s star power small. (Come on, you’ve seen Deep Blue Sea, Original Sin, The Punisher, and The Sweetest Thing, haven’t you?)

(Haven’t you?!)

(God I’ve seen too many movies.)

So, much like Kiefer Sutherland on a bender, I’m going to leap on top of your Christmas Tree and share a few impressions of the Holiday season thus far.

(Watch him go 24 all over this tree’s ass! Terrorist Tree)

First, there are no “can’t get items.” I’ve seen everything. Wii’s. Playstation 3’s. Don’t Molest Me Elmos (Scout Master Mace Repellent Included), and High School Musical flashlights. Everything is gettable. Think Lindsey Lohan if you’re a mammal with a pulse.

But if I thought one item would be a tough grab, I wagered it would be the Elvis-Priscilla Presley Getting Married Barbie Set. This was also high on my mom’s Christmas List. High as in number one.

Yes, she’s still obsessed with Barbie. No, she isn’t currently on any medication.

Back in September, nobody had it. Until I called a Wal-Mart in Deliverance, Tennessee. Some kindly, professional butcher of the English language had Bobby Joe check the security cage and, eureka, they found it. So at 2 in the morning I drove thirty minutes into no man’s land, armed only with a tank top and a scowl, and bought the sixty dollar doll set.

Why am I angry? I checked Amazon and Ebay last week. They’re currently selling at retail price…and below.

Second, I’ve discovered the key to happiness. It’s the introductory scene in Alvin & the Chipmunks. Go ahead. Think of something that will enrage you. Billion dollar handouts to senators’ corporate chums. Bush refusing to place the polar bears on the endangered species list. Baseball players scoffing at 8 year, 23 million dollar per year contracts. Tim Tebow circumcising little Philippine boys in the college football off season.

Good and mad? Watch the first minute of this.

Had a Bad Day

Are you not happy? Good, I thought so. Because the only creatures who wouldn’t enjoy that are Satan, Oprah, and Dick Cheney.

No, I'm being too harsh. Satan might like it.

Lastly, the American Movie Classic Channel has officially gone Tom Cruise crazy. You know how they always run the “if you like (insert movie), then check out (insert another similar movie).”

Here’s the last one I saw: If you are enjoying Karate Kid, then watch Million Dollar Baby next Friday night.

Makes sense.

If you enjoy a family movie about a sweet kid overcoming his own weaknesses and defeating a gang of bullies, then you'd love a film centered upon assisted suicide. Not since Sarah Palin combined a press conference with turkey executions have two such dissimilar things been paired together. (Sarah the Barbarian)

This got me thinking. What could be a worse suggestion on AMC’s part? Let’s try a few.

If you’re enjoying Enchanted, then check out Fatal Attraction.

If you’re enjoying My Dog Skip, then watch Old Yeller.

If you’re getting into Fiddler on the Roof, then flip over to Schinlder’s List.

Feel free to make your own suggestions. The winner of the most terrible double feature suggestion will win a shout out on my blog. Read by myself, and occasionally Christian Slater.

He has nothing better to do now that his laughable show has been canceled.

OH! And did you read my Name Game post? Did I not so totally call the demise of My Own Worst Enemy?

Why am I not consulted about network programming.? Ah well, happy holidays.

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29 October 2008 @ 09:37 pm

Magical Funtime Election 2008: Wonka Violates Helpless Animals

Ladies and gentlemen, loompas and elves, a lot has been made of my record on skin wash. Let me assure you that I want all skin-blemished loompas to have affordable access to facial cleansers.

Now let me give you some direct talk from the direct talk express.

Willy Wonka fornicates with reindeer.

Fifteen years ago he sat on a board that studied the effect of gaseous Reindeer anal emissions on the ozone layer.

He and his hippie buddies, no doubt high after slurping down shots from the infamous Butterscotch Schnapps River that runs through the center of that Gomorra he calls a chocolate factory, had gathered to promote a scientific theory that reindeer emissions are causing some kind of global warming.

First off, other than the increased number of polar bear carcasses washing up on my front door, my increased comfort level in cargo shorts and Hawaiian t-shirts, and the new orange groves sprouting up in my backyard, there is no proof that this “warming” exists.

Heck, only 99,999,999 out of 1,000,000,000 scientists believe it’s anything more than a fanciful, merit less theory.

Second, we have camera footage of him violating a Reindeer to prove this egghead theory.

All in the name of science. Whatever the hell science is.

While it’s true the footage was lost in an unfortunate sled crash, you can believe this happened because I said it.

Willy Wonka.

He prods reindeer in the pooper.

What in God's name will he do to your children?

I’m Santa Claus, and I approve this message.

Paid for by Reindeer Against Cold Thermometers.

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15 October 2008 @ 04:37 pm

Magical Funtime Election 2008: Santa Claus Won't Help Loompas

The only thing fatter than Santa Claus’s waistline are the lies he vomits from his fat mouth.

Fact: Willy Wonka has done more for the Loompa community than any other leader.

Fact: All skin bleachings were voluntary and done to cure impoverished Loompas stricken with Volcano’s disease. A rare acne related illness that causes Loompas to develop orange sores that spew green puss.

Fact: The whitening is a harmless side effect.

What has Senator Claus done about this? We’ll let him answer.

“I think Volcano’s disease is an illness of the vain...we ought to make those filthy Loompas take a bath every now and then, then taxpayers wouldn’t have to pay for their little midget Clear-a-sil treatments!”

Santa Claus. An obese, hateful old man who’s out of touch.

And wants Loompas to have puss dripping down their face.

Gross.

Paid for by Friends of Volcano Be Gone Face Wash.

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13 October 2008 @ 03:23 pm

Magical Funtime Election 2008: Santa Claus Attack Ad

I’m Santa Claus and I approve this message.

Willy Wonka can’t be trusted to lead. Just look at his record as Candyland Governor.

Raised taxes ten times on peppermint stick income, leading to an unprecedented rise in halitosis cases throughout the Republic.

Supported the Healthy Skin Initiative, wherein 2,000 Loompas had their green skin forcibly bleached white.

Used taxpayer dollars to fund the rebuilding of his glass ceiling elevator shaft ten times—at a cost of 20 million dollars.

Agreed with current Magical Funtime Republic President Yosemite Sam that Funtime had to invade Cerealatoria, despite any real intelligence that proved Count Chocula had acquired weapons of mass marshmallows.

He sings creepy little songs that make children cry.

Willy Wonka.

A racist who sings weirdly, breaks things, and likes bad breath.

Paid for by Reindeers for Santa.

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13 October 2008 @ 02:32 pm

Magical Funtime Election 2008: Willy Wonka Attack Ad

I’m Willy Wonka, and I approve this message.

Thinking of voting for Santa Claus for funtime President? Maybe you should think twice.

Who is this Santa Claus?

He prefers the company of small children. And he really prefers them on his lap.

He and his wife aren’t legally married, but were joined in a “civil union” presided over by radical Icelandic Fundamentalist and known Magical Funtime Republic hater, Frosty the Snowman.

His cheeks are always ruby red because he has a substance abuse problem.

He has committed breaking and entering over 109,272,292,292 times and still has yet to serve one day for his crimes.

He refuses to seek medical treatment for his reindeer Rudolph, whose nose is afflicted with a staff infection.

Claus still hasn’t offered health insurance to his elves, who work 60+ hours a week and reside in milk crates—with big wheel tires for roofs.

Who is Santa Clause?

A tyrannical, animal-hating, unmarried, drunken pedophile that will break into your house.

Paid for by the Committee to Promote Everlasting Gobstoppers.

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13 October 2008 @ 10:18 am

Loompa Wrangling at the Movies: Burn After Reading

Seen the commercials for Burn After Reading? The film seems like it would be genuinely funny. Although, what’s with the dead body sticking out of the closet?

That’s the corpse of what could have been.

Before I get specific, I should probably lay down my barometer for Coen brothers movies. In my opinion they have made two great films. O Brother Where Art Thou? and No Country for Old Men. Comedy and drama. Two genres as distinct as motor oil and chocolate syrup.

While I have seen nearly every other one of their movies, they almost all have the same flaw—severe schizophrenia. They are creatures that can’t settle on one personality, and suffer because of it. Kind of like Lindsey Lohan, Tom Cruise, or Kanye West. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Intolerable Cruelty got all liquored up and chased me down the highway, or if The Man Who Wasn’t There converted to the First Church of Afterbirth Eating, ahem, excuse me, Scientology.

Burn had the potential to be every ounce as funny as O Brother. Brad Pitt is as hilarious as he seems in the previews. His crack-like addiction to his iPod was something familiar to

most of us, and his ignorant enthusiasm made his every scene pop. J.K. Simmons, who many of you know as Juno’s dad or The Closer’s boss, or Spider-Man’s mean editor-in-chief J. Jonah Jameson, nearly stole the film with about fifteen lines. His closing monologue at the end of the film is well written and comedically perfect.

As for Clooney, he was entertaining for sure, but unlike O Brother, and a lot like Intolerable Cruelty, his character was quirk simply for the sake of quirk. It brought a few laughs, but ultimately felt like one of Sarah Palin’s speeches, hollow and programmed.

Frances McDormand, who, shockingly, still has one more Oscar than I do, was tolerable. Still, after seeing her thrust upon me in yet another Coen movie (six altogether), I’m left wondering how many parts she would have snagged had she not been Joel Coen’s wife. I suppose I should just be glad she didn’t show up in No Country, though I would have felt some sick sense of satisfaction had she been another victim of psychopath Anton Chigurh.

As for John Malkovich, no character best sums up Burn than he. The first scene of the film concerns his firing, and his visceral response to his bosses in their office. His lobbing of f bombs and uncomfortable, unbridled rage brought several gut-busting, laughs from the crowd. Imagine

those moments on NBC’s The Office. The ones that are awkward yet completely hilarious, now let Steve Carell tell everyone to f-off and run wild with any other combination of expletive he likes.

But quickly his character begins to mope, to soul search. And since I paid seven bucks, I get to watch. Yipp and Eee. After a high energy, comedic start, the movie comes to a grinding halt for about the next twenty minutes (the runtime for this film said 96 minutes, but it felt much more like 120.) And I wasn’t alone. My special friend leaned over and said, “They sure are taking a looong time getting this thing started.”

Sweeping, melodramatic music is rushed in as Malkovich’s character contemplates his future. At first I thought this was meant to be sarcastic, a clever touch by the Coens, mocking the very idea that this could be a drama. But then they do it about ten more times and you start to feel like a visitor to a Pentecostal Church, the only one laughing when the person next to you starts drooling and speaking as if the dentist accidentally deadened their bottom lip.

After the third booming entrance of music, I stopped laughing and quietly thought about how against the grain this mood music seemed for such a film.

The film then continues on and has a hard fought civil war. It battles itself, comedy versus drama, much as I’ve witnessed in other Coen brother movies. Movies that should have spent less energy trying to be so damned smart and nuanced and more simply giving in to where the story and characters naturally wanted to go.

It’s like this. Imagine if O Brother Where Art Thou? murdered one of the main three guys, or if No Country for Old Men had Tommy Lee Jones telling jokes every ten minutes. It wouldn’t have worked. O Brother committed to the laugh and succeeded. No Country committed to a serious edgy tone, and was Oscar’s best picture.

But with Burn After Reading, well-acted and chuckle-packed it might have been, I was mainly left wondering what might have been had this script seen a psychiatrist and figured out what it truly wanted to be in life.

Rent it, but don't pay theater prices. It gets 3 out of 5 loompas, all with hatchets in their heads.

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29 September 2008 @ 07:57 pm

Ways of the Domesticated Male, Part I

Recently, I bragged to a female coworker of mine that I was fully domesticated. She looked at me quizzically, so I informed her that I did not mean I don’t tinkle on the carpet or scratch up the sofa (though believe it or not, I don’t), but that the path of manhood does have a higher plane which can be reached. Something beyond the easily achieved, somewhat valuable altruisms of remembering one out of every three anniversaries or an annual foot massage.

No, I’m referencing the higher order of male accomplishment, with specific regards to the familial front. I now present to you, the traits of a truly domesticated male.

1. Realizes that ketchup (and all condiments) are located in the space directly between their eyes and noses, on both the pantry and refrigerator.

2. Knows the sheer terror of sitting onto a toilet, and finding oneself plummeting into a watery abyss.

3. Understands that any gift involving plastic cards and a predetermined amount of funding will not result in romance.

4. Understands that it is the end result that counts, not the thought.

5. Does not elbow a woman awake so that she can take care of his child.

6. Comprehends that women see the transparency in a present meant for them that is any of the following: golf clubs, weapon, Sports Illustrated subscription, or most any other gift that he himself would enjoy.

7. Knows a night at O’ Charley’s and the matinee showing of Blade 4 is not appropriate for anniversaries or birthdays.

8. Will buy separate gifts for mate even if her birthday coincides with any holidays or anniversaries. Also knows that in that case “lump sum gifts” which claim to be the value of all special days combined will not be fully appreciated.

9. Stops to ask directions before running out of gas, or ending up in Alabama. Though some credit must be given if it is the former and not the latter.

10. Never, ever, ever attributes any domestic argument to the menstrual cycle, or any other facet of the mysterious female body. Which, if it were a board game, would be most comparable to Mouse Trap.

More to come...

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10 September 2008 @ 10:33 pm

Mascara on a Scarecrow

Sarah Palin thinks Barak Obama called her pig. Don’t know the story? Here’s a quick recap.

Governor Palin, a.k.a. the Scourge of the Polar Bears, said in her now recycled speech—the same spiel she’s recited at every stop since the convention; she’s kind of like one of those broken animatronic dinosaurs they have on the Jurassic Park ride at Islands of Adventure; well, not exactly, the dinosaur said it wouldn’t force it’s hatchling to have a baby if it was raped—she said in her speech that the only difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull was...lipstick. Bad dum dum.

Several days later Obama said that McCain promising to invoke change while simultaneously promising to continue Bush’s polices was like putting lipstick on a pig, or wrapping an old fish in newspapers—it stills stinks.

Can you guess what the McCain-Palin camp did next? Come on, you can guess it. They’ve been playing the victim card better than fake handicapped Eddie Murphy in Trading Places. Think. Think hard. They’re good at this. They’ve had to be.

Otherwise the public might actually pay attention to the following facts (and yes, these are research based and vetted, unlike Palin. If even one of these facts isn’t true, I’ll delete my blog account forever. And I don’t mean true in the mirky, maybe there’s a one in a million chance you could interpret it this way true that McCain and Bill O’Reilly operate by. I mean completely true and accurate. Like red, white, and blue are colors of the flag that the Republicans so eagerly drape themselves in true.)

1. She was for the infamous Bridge to Nowhere and still pursued state funding for it when it federal dollars fell through.

She’s not a reformer.

2. She has said that the Iraq War is God’s task for America. Palin asked students to pray for the troops in Iraq, and noted that her eldest son, Track (his honest to God name), was expected to be deployed there.

"Our national leaders are sending them out on a task that is from God," she continued.

She’s not in touch with the average person.

3. She told churchgoers that God wanted a 30 billion dollar pipeline built though Alaska.

"God’s will has to be done in unifying people and companies to get that gas line built, so pray for that," she said.

She’s not in touch with reality. Plus, it didn’t get built, so whoever she hears in her head sure ain’t God.

4. She did not actually sell the jet on eBay. First off, it is common for Alaska to sell big ticket items every few years. Her move wasn’t that of some maverick reformer cutting out wasteful spending, just simply following established procedure. Nine days after she took office, the Alaskan government already had three planes on eBay.

Unfortunately, her luxury jet never sold (big shock). So who’d she sell it to? Tee hee. She didn’t actually sell it, either.

Dan Spencer, director of administrative services at Alaska's Public Safety Department, informed the media that John Harris, the speaker of the Alaska House, arranged a sale to Larry Reynolds, a businessman who made campaign contributions to both Mrs. Palin and Mr Harris. He ended up paying only $2.1m for the aircraft, and now wants $50,000 from the Alaskan taxpayer to cover maintenance costs.

She twists the truth to her own political advantage, the same as those she’s aiming to replace have for the last eight years.

5. Her “executive” experience as governor of the sparsely populated state of Alaska, all two years of it, does not make her better equipped to deal with serious issues, if something should happen to John McCain.

Want to know her thoughts on Iraq? "I haven't really focused much on the war in Iraq."
That’s an exact quote.

She is dangerously uncurious about the grave conflicts threatening our national security.

This contradictory record, a record that would have doomed her candidacy had she been in this election for more than a couple weeks, is starting to be unearthed by reporters. So the McCain camp has cried sexism. Deployed Fox News, right wing radio (both of which skewered Hillary Clinton on a regular basis) and other Republican media to yell into their microphones that a hatchet job is being done to poor, innocent, she-is-perfect-and-has-never-done-anything-wrong-so-don’t-look-plus-she-has-the-same-chromosomes-as-Hillary-so-all-of-her supporters-should-vote-for-us-Palin.

But now they’ve outdone themselves. Truly. In an era when energy is of grave concern, when our brave young men and women are being left to police a fatally dangerous country indefinitely, when our economy has more holes than one of Mrs. Palin’s convention anecdotes, the McCain camp has all media debating whether or not Obama’s lipstick comment was “directed” at Palin.

And now, considering all this attention it’s gotten, I think I agree.

Yes, of course it was aimed at her. And, after a little time to think about it, I discovered several more instances where I think Mrs. Palin is being disparaged by Obama. Let me share them with you.

Last year Barak Obama said Ho-Ho-Ho at Christmas. He must have been calling Mrs. Palin a ho! That jerk!

It’s rumored that Obama told his kids they could watch Disney’s Lady and the Tramp. You just know he meant his wife was the lady, and Mrs. Palin was the tramp! That chauvinist!

Obama’s campaign slogan is “Yes we can.” But he doesn’t explicitly state that Mrs. Palin can, too. He thinks Mrs. Palin can’t! That pig!

Barak Obama said he loves his wife. But he doesn’t say that Mrs. Palin is deserving of love! That woman hater!

We don’t know if Obama loves hockey, so Obama must hate hockey. Mrs. Palin’s a hockey mom! That evil man!

Obama repsonded to criticism by saying "you just have to brush your shoulders off." He's implying Mrs. Palin has dandruff! That monster!

(Stopped to puke in my mouth.)

When candidates do absolutely nothing but attack their opponents, make up stories like middle schoolers, pleading “but I was picked on” so that they won’t be held accountable for vandalizing a locker, it means they have no good ideas themselves. This is how Bush stayed in office. With short stories about swift boats.

This is also how McCain and Palin would slither into office.

Gleefully skipping down the red state road, all the while ginning up wildly fantastical charges of sexism, and screaming, “pay no attention to the frauds behind the podiums!”

Go here. Watch Obama’s comments and judge for yourself. If you think he’s calling Sarah Palin a pig, you’re a total idiot and shouldn’t be allowed to vote or operate a motor vehicle. In fact, you’re brain dead and should seek immediate medical attention.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBmd_OujjKM)

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09 September 2008 @ 10:45 pm

The Name Game

What’s in a name? A lot.

Recently, I was watching a little football and, as usual this time of year, bombarded with commercials for fall shows that are destined to be short-lived clunkers.

So many things can bring about the destruction of a show. Poor chemistry amongst the actors, bad writing, a FOX sitcom that’s non-animated, or it airs on CBS. Truly, it seems like a crapshoot. Who knows what’s gonna happen?

Who would ever think Joey from friends (you know, Joey—dumb like Homer Simpson, only not funny in any way) couldn’t carry his own show, or that Ray Liotta’s Smith, a CBS tale of thieves who were less likeable than the Kardashians and Hiltons put together, would get the heave after three episodes? (Can I just ask, what the hell happened to Ray Liotta’s face? Where did all that pasty white skin and pitted acne scars come from? They weren’t there in Goodfellas. They weren’t. Ugh...these are the things that keep me up at night.)

But there is one surefire way to tell if a show will make it or not. It’s not the star appeal of the lead actresses, like on Desperate Housewives, and it’s not overbearing but emotionally cathartic music, like on Grey’s Anatomy.

The sink or swim measure is the Title Test.

Does the title roll off your tongue in a way where you can see easily see yourself saying, “Hey, I’d love to come hang out, but I gotta watch (insert title here) tonight.”

And not only must you be able to see yourself saying it without hesitancy or embarrassment, you must see yourself able to repeat it on a regular basis. Let’s give it a try.

“Hey, I can’t make it to the pick up basketball game because there’s a new Lost on tonight.” Okay, it works.

“I’m so stoked, there’s a new Pushing Daisies on at nine!” Feels good out the mouth.

“Can’t talk now, Nip-Tuck is on.” “I’ll be late, have to catch the Office.” Nice.

Let’s try the new action show starring Christian Slater on NBC (I know, I thought he was dead too.)

“I’ll have to come along next time, My Own Worst Enemy is on tonight.”

Huh? Feels like I’m coughing up globules of snot-covered gravel. And how many syllables is that? Three or four hundred? This show won’t make it to the spring.

Let’s try a couple of CBS shows (though we already know how this movie’s going to end). “Sorry I missed the P.T.A. meeting last night, I had to check out Gary Unmarried and Eleventh Hour.”

Eleventh Hour. What happened to the first ten? And they must not have much to do if there’s only one hour left. Feels like I missed too much already, or the show won’t be around very long. Either way, I’m not watching.

As for Gary Unmarried, they should re-title immediately. Sitcoms that work have an easy to follow noun or a strong verb.

Seinfeld. Family Guy. Friends. Everybody Loves Raymond. Curb Your Enthusiasm. (Yes, I love It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Yes, it’s the only exception).

The title test works for actors and actresses as well. For example, yeah you loved Knocked Up. But can you ever see yourself saying, “I’ve GOT to see that new Katherine Heigl comedy!” (Change the name with Will Ferrell and the point leaps from this page and smacks you on the face.)

Want to know how the new thriller, Eagle Eye, will do at the box office? Say this out loud. “I’m going to make sure I buy tickets on fandango for that new Shia LaBeouf movie.” That film’s going to do worse than Sheeeeeeaaaaaaaaahhhhh’s right thumb after he decided to take Optimus Prime out for a fun night of drinking and driving. (For more on this, read here http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/07/27/shia-labeouf-dui-arrest-a_n_115205.html)

Now we’ll gage the new picture, Burn After Reading, which works on multiple levels. “Can’t wait to see the new Brad Pitt movie.” “I’ve got to check out that new George Clooney film.” “I have to see the new Cohen Brothers flick.”

Brightens my day just to say it.

Of course, the sad thing is, Sandra Bullock, George Lucas, and Robin Williams all once passed this test.

Ah well. I better stop. The Secret Diary of Desmond Pfeiffer is about to come on.

Oh wait. It’s not.

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27 July 2008 @ 02:55 pm

Top 5 Movies of Summer 2008

While perusing the old blog, I came to the realization that readers may get the impression I hate and mock all movies. So here is my list for the top summer (as in May-July) films of 2008. And unlike Colin Powell at the United Nations, you can trust my reporting. One caveat, there was an enormous scarcity of dramas this summer. So no smart alec comments like, "Summer of the Super Hero." Which it was.

5. Iron Man
Unlike A

my Winehouse, Robert Downey Jr. has always said yes, yes, yes to rehab, and I’m glad he has. The sometimes sober thespian created the coolest comic book hero since Michael Keaton’s Batman and his snarky Tony Snark routine never gets old. His smart mouthed Iron Man is what Toby McGuire’s sissified Spider-Man should be. While the movie did get bogged down in too much of Iron Man’s birth, the action scenes were tight and near perfect. The most surprising aspect the film? Gwyneth Paltrow was attractive and charming.

4. Hancock
Half comedy, half action flick, half love story. Sorry, President Bush was my math tutor

. The idea of Superman as bitter, brooding, and drowning in Wild Turkey is certainly the most original concept to come out of Hollywood since Britney Spears had facial reconstructive surgery and restarted her career under the alias Miley Cyrus. Will Smith delivers the one liners as seamlessly as he displays the dramatic, Jason Bateman brings comedy and heart, and Charlize Theron is strong without trying to steal the spotlight from Smith. As a topping cherry, there is an excellent plot twist that anyone who isn’t an old crotchety lemon sucker will love. I would have liked to see more of Hancock while he was the drunken a$$hole, but then I wonder if that would have made it less funny and more monotonous.

3. Stepbrothers
The question for you, the reader, is simple. Did you like Talladega Nights and the 40 Year Old

Virgin? If the question is no, STAY AWAY from this movie. And if the answer is no you should also probably see a doctor about whatever long, sharp item it is you have lodged between your buttocks. Recently, I’ve been forced to watch cliché filled, predictable romantic comedies (most of them starring Ryan Reynolds, who I really liked until seeing We’re Just Friends and Definitely, Maybe) and was ecstatic to view an R-rated, adult comedy. Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly have more chemistry than Bill Clinton and...no. No intern jokes. They’re too easy. Come on, Brad. Think. Oooh, oooh! More chemistry than Bill Clinton and poorly thought out free trade agreements. (See, that’s why I stick to Lewinsky. NAFTA jokes never kill. They just don’t.)

Quick side note. Microsoft Word has Lewinsky plugged into the Spell Checker. Don’t believe me? Go ahead and test it. I’ll wait...

See! Isn’t that awful? Does Hillary’s torture never end?

Back to the movie. The stepbrothers conjure laughs in every scene they’re allowed to dominate. But sometimes Apatow, the writer behind all these movies like Knocked Up and Wedding Crashers, becomes a little self-obsessed and wastes our time with a homage to the popular culture of his youth, such as one supporting character’s family singing Sweet Child of Mine. And while the stepbrothers’ scatological humor is always funny, the truth cannot be said for the supporting characters. Overall, you’ll laugh 84 percent of the time.

1 B. Batman: The Dark Knight
Dark. The movie is dark. Did I mention its dark? Yes, this isn’t your daddy’s Batman and it is

undoubtedly not your mother’s Joker. Heath Ledger gives the last and greatest performance of his life as a maniacal sociopath. This murderous anarchist version of the Joker is as far from the 70's version as knock off purple drinks are from grape Kool-Aid. He’s not watered down sugar and food coloring, he’s pure, concentrated evil without a cause. If Anthony Hopkins deserved a best supporting Oscar for his small role in Silence of the Lambs, then Ledger should receive one for Dark Knight. And yes, I’d say this if he was alive. Two of his scenes—his monologue to Dent about chaos, and his speech to Batman as he hangs off the side of a building, are two of the finest bits of cinema I’ve ever seen. Th

e special effects for Two Face’s mangled face are spot on and creepy. Christopher Nolan, the film’s director, obviously took some cues from the animated series that ran in the late 90’s. The film is gritty, on the edge, and without sympathy for its characters. On a more sour note, can we all stop pretending that Maggie Gyllenhaal is attractive? She’s not. Not in any way. She's like a skull wearing a brown wig. Her bitter scowls and frowns are about as endearing as the old lady version of Snow White’s witch, and I’m tired of her being forced into movies I want to see. All this said, she was a sliver better than Katie Holmes in Batman Begins. But since Mrs. Cruise became a scientologist robot, her acting chops are somewhere between a comatose gorilla and a box of Wheat Thins.

1A. Kung-Fu Panda.

That’s right. Kung-Fu Panda. Didn’t see that one coming, did you? The movie was hilarious from start to finish. The martial arts scenes were the coolest ones I’ve scene since the Matrix, and the voice acting was perfect. I mean, Angelina Jolie played a tigress and wasn’t even outlandishly breathy (see Beowulf). Like Hancock, this was a gem of originality in a summer that sorely lacked it. Jack Black voiced the Panda with...subtlety. Yeppers, he was nuanced and didn’t blast every line from a bazooka, as he’s prone to do in live action films. I will buy this on DVD the DAY it’s released, and this is the only movie on this list I’ll say that about. My single complaint was that it ended too quickly. The runtime was 1:31, but I could’ve sat there another hour or two.

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16 July 2008 @ 07:03 pm

Unwanted

I recently viewed the movie Wanted. The special effects appeared neat and a friend wanted to go, so I went.

God help me. I went.

This film is a crapfest in the truest sense of the made-up word. The movie opens (and continues on like

a steam engine into a concrete wall) with an awkward narrative by the film’s main character, played by the dentally challenged (no, that’s not a typo) James McAvoy. The Scottish accent, his only charming trait, is hidden, though his troglodyte chompers are not. There is a reason I couldn't find a single pic of him smiling and showing his teeth. But perhaps I'm being too superficial.

Back to the narrative. Ever seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? Notice how well his narration and lines aimed at the film’s audience worked? Wanted is like that, only if Paris Hilton and a retarded monkey—no, that’s not accurate—only if Paris Hilton and M Night Shyamalan wrote the script. Meaning it’s utterly stupid and boring to the point where I actually prayed the hyperactive statue of pubescence running the projector would spill his Code Mountain Dew and end my torture.

The story plods along with ridiculous concepts, such as the loom of fate (ba buh buh!

) Yeppers, that’s what decides who Morgan Freeman’s secret society of assassins must kill. A literal textile loom weaves binary code, which is then checked with a magnifying glass by Freeman, and translated into an ordered assassination. That’s not sarcasm. That’s actually what the writers came up with. (Quit looking ath the loom! He'll kill ya!)

The other great farce is how they bend the bullets—the one thing that looked cool about this celebration of suck. Want to know how they do it? Here’s Freeman’s explanation.
“If no one ever told you bullets only shot straight, why would you think you couldn’t curve the shot?”

The Oompa Loompa Wrangler would think that you can be as ignorant as you want of basic physics and aerodynamics, but he’ll wipe your butt and call you Sally if you can make the bullet bend just because you decided to cup your ears during freshman Physical Science 101. Honestly, how can these writers not slit their wrists and rid the world of their hackery?

The film, after one or two scenes that met my approval only because they took screen violence to knew heights (such as all the explosive headshots, or the part where McAvoy shoots three guys with a gun he has lodged in another man’s eyesocket) ends with a mass suicide/killing and McAvoy insulting the audience. He drones on about how boring the average person’s life is, shoots someone, then says, “What the fu—did you today?” Roll credits and lame, testosterone drenched rock song.

The acting was magnificent in its atrociousness. Angelina Jolie cashed in on a paycheck and sleepwal

ked through the film, making it a long time since she showed off any true acting chops. Morgan Freeman became a caricature of a good guy you know is secretly bad, and uttered an expletive at the end that was so out of character it would be like Michael Vick doing a voice over for Pound Puppies.

If you see this movie showing at your theater, you should consider burning the theater down. It’s what the Loom of Fate demands!

My Grade: D--(Why not an F? Because I got to see a dude firing a handgun that was located in another dude’s skull, blowing out holes and chips of bone and brain AND hitting other dudes with the same shots. That’s good for two minuses.)

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19 June 2008 @ 12:31 pm

The Fertile Myrtle Experience

The summer vacation is one of the quintessential American experiences. The beach. The salt water swelling and coating your skin like some piece of sausage being preserved on the Oregon Trail. Noticing that you’re on the fourteenth floor, then realizing that there is no thirteenth floor, which means you’re on the thirteenth floor. So, because I’m a lazy American and like things boiled down to their most basic structure, here is a list of things I encountered on my South Carolina Odyssey.

1. Large men screaming on elevators are scary. A tall man tried to break the awkward silence of the elevator by shouting at the top of his lungs, then saying with a wry grin, “gotcha.” My gut instinct was to shove him through the glass window and watch with self-satisfaction as he plunged to his shocking, well-deserved death. Instead we all enjoyed an exhausted laugh. There hadn’t been that much relief in a confined space since Magic Johnson’s doctor informed that rich people can’t die of A.I.D.S. (Don' be so sensitive. Why do you think he's always smiling?)

2. Alcohol buzzes don’t last when battling six foot waves. After you’ve been drinking, most any idea sounds like a great one. Here are some responses that you might normally hear from people who are a bit inebriated:
“I don’t know, I think he/she is pretty hot.”
“What could one more hurt?”
“As long as it doesn’t explode, we’ll be fine.”
“You’re right, I am tired of living in Texas. I think I’ll run for president.”

This beach trip, I christened a new one:
“Undertow? I don’t believe in undertow.”

Needless to say, after a few mai-tais, and half an hour of battling for my life in the Atlantic, I kind of felt like a cross between Lindsey Lohan and Mark Walberg when he was staring up at the sun in The Perfect Storm. You know, when he was trapped in the eye of the hurricane...just before he drowned.

3. Putt-putt is taken way too seriously by my family. While I like to take my time working out a shot, I do realize that this is still a game where the only necessary skill required is the ability to smack a little white ball into the mouth a mountain lion or clown, and hope that fate spits the ball out somewhere near the cup and not into the tiny stream of dyed-blue water.

My mother and father, however, view this as the U.S. Open. Between my father’s painstakingly intense analyzation of every hole, to my mother’s Tiger Woods like ability to finish off every cup in two strokes, I was too intimidated to compete for even second place.

4. My brother, who for some reason was driving faster than Ted Kennedy after a date, genuinely believes he can defeat a wild bear in hand to hand combat.

As we were careening through the mountains of Ashville, North Carolina, the following conversation occurred:
Wrangler: “If Al Cowlings had driven this speed, O.J. would have made it to Mexico. You’re missing all the pretty scenery. Like those mountains up there.”
Kyle (deadly serious, glaring from the corner of his right eye): You think there are bears up there?
W: I imagine so.
K (still Tom Cruise intense): I could take one.
W: Take what?
K: A bear. Like a grizzly bear.
W: You mean like in a fight? If you had a gun, or maybe a giant sword?
K: No. With my hands. (Slowly lifts BOTH hands off steering wheel.)
W: Put your damn hands back on the wheel! And that bear’s claws would rip off your lower jaw and eat it in one gulp. With your freakin’ hands. You’re out of your gourd.
K: (shakes head in disagreement) No. I could take him.

5. Toilets may also double as bidets. Emergency bathroom visits can be categorized into levels. One day, when I don’t have a manuscript, or manny in Wrangler speak, to revise, I’ll blog that one out for both of my readers. On the way to a putt-putting destination, I was hit with a level 8—The Sickness.

The Sickness is when your stomach writhes, and it feels that everything below your waist is in imminent danger of spontaneously combusting. I imagine this is what it feels like to swallow a helium balloon. As I have made it a personal goal to frequent every toilet in the southeast, I chose the Food Lion. And my time on the porcelain throne went well. Until I depressed the shiny metal lever.

To say that the toilet erupted would be an understatement. Like saying that John McCain’s oratory style reminds me of the Crypt Keeper bin Tales from the Crypt. It didn’t erupt, it detonated. As my bare behind was drenched in toilet bowl water (yes, you should feel nauseous right now), I tried the retreat and hover technique. But the geyser’s strength knew no limits and followed me the six inches into the air.

Needless to say, I did not enjoy my Food Lion enema.

But I did enjoy the game of cutthroat putt-putt afterwards.

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04 June 2008 @ 06:56 pm

The Great Plague of Washington D.C.

Politics is my second passion, just behind stealing toilet paper from upscale restaurants. And while you won’t see me on Hardball being covered in Chris Matthews shout-slobber, or doing interviews with CNN’s very own Duke of Dull, Anderson Cooper, you are privileged to have me reporting live from the wrangler’s den.

Briefly, I’d like to discuss a frightening new disease that’s sweeping through D.C. and infecting politicians on both sides of the isle. I’m talking, of course, about Lasting Inability to Accept Reality, or LIAR’s.

First Case Study: George W. Bush, President (R), United States

On May 1st 2003, aboard the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln, the great dumbass cowboy of our time said: “In the Battle of Iraq, the United States and our allies have prevailed. And now our coalition is engaged in securing and reconstructing that country.”

However, insurgents from Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and every other Middle Eastern country that ends in the two letters –AN did not agree with this assessment. They also forgot to mention this to the Sunni and the Shiite, who seem to get along slightly less well than FEMA and coastal cities.

Reality: Nearly 4,000 troops killed as of May 1st 2008.

Dubya Reality: This is an interesting case because his divergent reality is two-fold. First, he...ahem...his spokespeople say that he only meant combat operations were over for that particular ship. I know, I know, you think I’m making this up.

Well then here’s this little tidbit from White House press secretary Dana Perino:

“President Bush is well aware that the banner should have been much more specific and said 'mission accomplished' for these sailors who are on this ship on their mission.” “And we have certainly paid a price for not being more specific on that banner.”

Second, Bush has an alternate reality facilitator. An evil wizard that keeps him submerged in a dastardly spell, a spell that convinces him that his poop smells like cotton candy, global warming is great because we can have orange groves in Alaska, and the war is going swimmingly.

It’s the man who even tells his own mother to go f*** herself—Darth Cheney.

What lies could he possibly be whispering into Dubya’s ear? What could he say to make Bush think he’s Tom Cruise in Risky Business, making all the right moves while the serious adults are out of the White House?

We’ll let shotgun Cheney speak for himself:

“Think about what would have happened if Abraham Lincoln had paid attention to polls, if they had had polls during the Civil War. He never would have succeeded if he hadn't had a clear objective, a vision for where he wanted to go, and he was willing to withstand the slings and arrows of the political wars in order to get there.”

Diagnosis: A person free of LIAR’s, that actually lives in this realm, must tell Dubya that he’s not Abraham Lincoln and I.E.D.’s are not the Iraqi equivalent of flowers and candy.

(The Associated Press contributed to this report.)

Second Case Study: Larry Craig, Senator (R), Idaho.

The good senator from Idaho once said of Bill Clinton, “I will tell you that the Senate certainly can bring about a censure resolution and it's a slap on the wrist. It's a, ‘Bad boy, Bill Clinton. You're a naughty boy.’”

As it turns out, old Craiggers decided to engage in some naughtiness of the more freaky variety himself. And he didn’t even need an intern.

According to Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport police Sgt. Dave Karsnia, the Craig Mac Daddy tapped his right foot, “a signal used by persons wishing to engage in lewd conduct.” Craig then ran his left hand several times underneath the partition dividing the stalls.

Karsnia explained that Craig's blue eyes were clearly visible through the crack in the door.

"Craig would look down at his hands, 'fidget' with his fingers, and then look through the crack into my stall again,” Karsnia wrote in documents accompanying the arrest report.

“The presence of others did not seem to deter Craig as he moved his right foot so that it touched the side of my left foot, which was within my stall area.”

After Craig ran his hand underneath the partition wall three times, Karsnia held his police identification down by the floor so the senator could see it, the report said.

“With my left hand near the floor, I pointed towards the exit.

(Here comes this wrangler’s favorite part!!!)

“Craig responded, 'No!'

“I again pointed towards the exit. Craig exited the stall with his roller bags without flushing the toilet.”

Reality: Craiggers wanted to get his horndog on with another man in a bathroom stall and signaled this by using a method common to all other horndogs who find airport bathroom stalls hot. (Paris Hilton, George Michael, and Pee Wee Herman are names that immediately come to mind.)

And Craig, while turned on by white ceramic tile and strange, sweaty palms, is still clearly a rude male as he neglected to flush the toilet.

Craig plead guilty to disorderly conduct

Craig’s Reality (as of 2 months later when his fellow homophobes turned on him and wanted his resignation):

“Let me be clear: I am not gay and never have been," said Craig, who has aligned himself with conservative groups who oppose gay rights.

With his wife by his side, Craig said he is the victim of a "witch hunt" conducted by the Idaho Statesman newspaper.

“In pleading guilty, I overreacted in Minneapolis, because of the stress of the Idaho Statesman's investigation and the rumors it has fueled around Idaho,” he said. “Again, that overreaction was a mistake, and I apologize for my misjudgment.”

Diagnosis: A "hands down" case of LIAR’s. Let us hope that Craig seeks treatment so that he can once again join us in reality.

(CNN's Dana Bash and Jessica Yellin contributed to this report.)

Third Case Study: Hillary Clinton, Senator (D), New York

“I’ll be making no decisions tonight.”

Most people would assume that, with those words, Hillary Clinton effectively shot Barack Obama the middle finger. That she is the worst sore loser in the history of U.S. politics, or at least of this century.

(Let us not forget Chester A. Arthur, our 21st president (1881-1885). He tied his victorious primary opponent to a horse and dragged him through a cactus field until the man bled to death and he was named the nominee. Okay, so I made that up.)

Some people might think she is being tyrannically stubborn by not acknowledging the race is over, especially considering that Obama has clinched the official number of delegates to make him the democratic nominee (not the “presumptive” nominee, THE democratic nominee for president.)

But it’s not true. Hillary simply has a severe case of LIAR’s and has chose to substitute her reality for the actual one.

Reality: The race is over. There are no more delegates to be had. Florida and Michigan made a power play to be moved up in the primary schedule and lost. Their votes have been rationed out to Obama and Clinton.

Hill-Nasty’s Reality: The race will be over when she wins it. She’s put up with too much (Bill, I’m looking in your specific direction) over the years to stop now. She had this race wrapped up two years ago. She had every democrat vote. Black, white, guy and gal. SHE HAD IT. All until some political neophyte with a funny name started making speeches and making her appear to be the “establishment” candidate. Even the sleeper cell evil radicalist Muslim card didn’t stop him.

Now her surrogates must go out and tell all that mean old media (the same mean old media that made Bill Clinton’s perjury look like jaywalking and broadcast her “evil, rightwing conspiracy” message everyday during her boy’s impeachment proceedings) that they are the reason she lost.

Her people are even saying that she’s now considering her options and how best to proceed. And no, that doesn’t sound like the captain of the Titanic deciding on the best route to sail after the ship was hit by an iceberg.

The path to victory is simple for her now. Hill-dog can win more primaries and overtake him.

She just has to find a way to add some more states to the union.

Diagnosis: If Hillary is not made President, she will tear a hole in the space-time continuum and kill us all. She may be afflicted with severe LIAR’s, but please, think of you children. Just give it to her already.

(click http://youtube.com/watch?v=kN9vm95SocU for Hillary's official themse song, her love song to the Oval Office. She keeps losing the nomination. But then that political power bug bites her...and she's back!)

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