Saturday, November 21, 2009

Poodle Bitch is Irritated by the Latest Episode of "Glee"

"Glee" has become one of Poodle Bitch's favorite shows. Overall it is a well-written, well-acted, and well-sung look at human high school life that is surprisingly sensitive and complex. With some exceptions, of course. Poodle Bitch feels that they have yet to fully explain why Will Schuester would have married the venal, manipulative Terri in the first place (other than the fact that she bears a superficial resemblance to Jessalyn Gilsig, the actress who portrays her), while at the same time the writers seem to be trying too hard to "humanize" the entertainingly venal, manipulative Sue Sylvester.

However, for this week's episode, "Ballad," there was not a single moment that rang true. It felt as if Poodle Bitch were watching just another television show, in which some of the characters occasionally break into song. Awkwardly.

For starters, why would Mr. Schuester break everyone up into pairs to sing ballads to each other? Poodle Bitch is a close watcher of shows she likes, and she cannot for the life of her remember his justification for doing this. Moreover, why was it that Mr. Schuester felt the need to offer himself up as a "partner" to one of the students? There seemed no reason for him to not just say "We'll wait for Matt to return," or "We're going to have one group of three." He's the teacher, the authority figure-- this despite the fact that he is young, hip, and clearly portrayed by an actor who is only a few years older than the students.

But even accepting that he allowed himself to be selected as a partner by one of the students-- and Rachel, no less-- why would he allow her to bully him into performing "Endless Love" with her? He knew the song well enough to sing it, so he knew the lyrics before they started. It is one of the most effective expressions of over-ripe teenaged emotions ever put to music ("you will always be my endless love"); of course it was going to have a hypnotic effect on a teenaged girl whose hormones are aimlessly raging.

Poodle Bitch questions the judgment of a teacher who would sing this song with one of his students.

Mr. Schuester's decision to sing "Endless Love" with a student was especially moronic and irresponsible given his past experience with student crushes. As he explains to the delightful Emma Pillsbury later in the episode, he can't just tell Rachel to stop and leave him alone because the last time he did that with one of his students, she attempted suicide.

Poodle Bitch is not joking. But the writers were; for, in a flashback scene played for laughs, the brokenhearted object of Mr. Schuester's previous rejection, Suzy Pepper, attempts to kill herself by ingesting the world's hottest hot pepper (she'd ordered it from somewhere in South America, Poodle Bitch believes). Paramedics are barely able to save her in time, and she requires years of psychotherapy and an esophagus transplant.

Poodle Bitch wonders why it is that the writers found this to be suitable comedy fodder. There is certainly a layer of darkness to some of the episodes, but she found this subplot to be bleak and insensitive.

However, for plot purposes it was necessary to explain why Mr. Schuester couldn't just tell Rachel to straight up "cut it out and leave me alone." He's worried about another attempted suicide. (Poodle Bitch would wryly note that, given the fact that Mr. Schuester married the abominable Terri, and has yet to realize, after several months of living together and sleeping in the same bed that she is not actually pregnant, there is perhaps little need to explain his lapses in judgment.) For this reason, Emma Pillsbury, who has her own crush on Mr. Schuester and, not surprisingly, her own decision-making problems, suggests that Mr. Schuester express his feelings in song. To let her down gently.

To that end, Mr. Schuester creates a mash-up of the songs "Young Girl" and "Don't Stand So Close to Me," altering the lyrics of each to make them even more combative and abrasive. Just so Poodle Bitch has this straight: Hearing the object of her crush sing to her, "Young girl, you're out of your mind, your love for me is way out of line," and "Don't stand- don't stand so- don't stand so close to me" is intended to be the sensitive way of letting her down. (As an aside, Poodle Bitch would like to note that any power contained in the song "Young Girl" by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap rests in its idea that the narrator did not realize that the object of his affection was so young-- she's deliberately misrepresented to him her age-- and he is therefore struggling with his desire for her, which he now realizes on a rational level to be inappropriate. What Mr. Schuester did to the song, in addition to awkwardly "mashing" it into "Don't Stand," was to turn it into an angry diatribe that would belittle anyone with even a little self-awareness.)

Is this song creepy? Poodle Bitch would like to point out that the narrator is attempting to distance himself from the girl who led him to believe she was old enough to give him love. He isn't inviting her back to his hot tub for champagne and quaaludes.

Of course this terrific plan doesn't work. Rachel lacks the self-awareness necessary to see that Mr. Schuester was belittling her, and Emma Pillsbury, who was also there to watch his performance, sits in dazzled awe of his skills as a performer.

It's not until Suzy Pepper, who apparently has returned to the school following her therapy and transplant (Poodle Bitch is unaware of how human schools work, but she wonders why anyone, from the psychiatrists to the administrators to parents, would believe it a good idea that she return to the school where Mr. Schuester teaches) corners Rachel in the bathroom and admonishes her about the dangers of becoming too attached to Mr. Schuester that she comes to realize how poorly she's been acting.

For his behavior, Mr. Schuester is let off the hook.

Meanwhile, there is pregnant Quinn. She has yet to tell her parents that she's pregnant (although most of the school already knows and anyone with access to the internet and Jacob's gossip blog can find out), and is, in her first scene of the episode, trying on her gown for the "chastity ball" (good golly Miss Molly-- isn't the term "chastity ball" oxymoronic?), with her mother's help. Mother, mildly tipsy, notes that the gown doesn't fit as well as it did last month, and Quinn explains that she had a big lunch that day.

It is clear that Quinn's mother realizes her daughter is pregnant, but is in a state of, perhaps, alcoholic denial. And, of course, she is a Christian who is preparing her little girl to attend a "chastity ball."

Quinn's father staggers into the room declaring Glenn Beck is on television, drink in his hand (Poodle Bitch does not watch Glenn Beck, but she has just googled him and discovered that his program airs at 5 PM weekdays, which means Quinn's parents have started getting drunk before five o'clock. This seems early to Poodle Bitch.), offering words of pressure about his lovely, chaste daughter.

Poodle Bitch harbors no particular animus toward religious people, nor conservatives, nor those who watch conservative television programs. Nor does she have any particular affection for them. But she wonders why it is that the writers of this show, who have displayed real sensitivity toward, as an example, Kurt's father, should present Quinn's parents as little more than typical right-wing caricatures?

And speaking of Kurt, Poodle Bitch notes that he, too, became a cliche in this episode-- the sensitive gay man in love with the dumb jock he can never have, who nevertheless offers advice and encouragement to said dumb jock in his pursuit of the woman he kinda-sorta loves. Although in this case, Kurt's advice was universally bad. Of course, in the ballad pairings Kurt was paired with Finn, who believes he is the father of Quinn's child. He is upset because Quinn is planning on giving up the baby for adoption (to the execrable Terri Schuester), and so he won't get to be part of his daughter's life. Kurt suggests that he sing a ballad to his daughter-- his suggestion is The Pretenders's "I'll Stand by You," which is a song Poodle Bitch admires, but has been used so often in movies and television shows as to have become an obvious cliche. Why not select "My Baby," or "Kid," or "Hymn to Her" (Poodle Bitch's own personal favorite) instead?

There were plenty of Pretenders songs to choose.

But that doesn't compare to the monumentally bad advice Kurt gives Finn later in the episode. When he encourages Finn to serenade Quinn-- during a dinner with her parents-- with the song "You're Having My Baby."

"You're a woman in love and I love what's going through you." Poodle Bitch is happy she has been fixed.

Perhaps the high school student Kurt is too young to realize this, but Poodle Bitch's humans are certainly old enough to know that that particular song has been a punchline almost since it was recorded. Poodle Bitch wonders if perhaps Cal Smith's "Country Bumpkin," or Terry Jacks's "Seasons in the Sun," or The Captain and Tennille's "Muskrat Love" will be sung in upcoming episodes?

And why did it take two verses for the parents to realize their daughter was pregnant? The very first line of that painful song is "You're having my baby." It doesn't get much more obvious than that.

The less Poodle Bitch says about the Glee Club's serenading Quinn and Finn with "Lean on Me," the better. But she would be remiss if she did not further add that Puck's admission to Mercedes that he is really the father of Quinn's child did little to advance her opinion of either character.

Over all, a very weak episode of what has been a very entertaining and uplifting show. Poodle Bitch is hopeful that next week's episode won't be quite so bad. Poodle Bitch is an optimist.

Glee cast photograph source.

Poodle Bitch's regular blog can be found here.

Friday, November 20, 2009

I Have Written A Song for Britney Spears

Actually, I have written a first draft of lyrics for a song for Britney Spears. It was inspired by her recent troubles during certain Australian tour dates. Apparently, Ms. Spears lip-syncs during her concerts, and some people don't like that.
Britney Spears' lip syncing was causing controversy In Australia even before she arrived for the Pacific leg of her Circus tour and now Spears is reportedly feeling the backlash.

Ticket prices are as much as $1300 for VIP seats and now that Spears has performed her first few dates Down Under, fans and critics are getting even more vicious about the quality of her show, causing Spears to become "extremely upset," according to reports.
Of course what she needs to do is tell her critics to "sync off," and what better way to do that than by recording my defiant pro-lip-syncing song?, lyrics below:


It’s really hard to dance and sing
All at the same time
So I shake it hard and do my thing
To pre-recorded rhymes

My music machine is throbbin’
They paid to see a show
My movements get them mobbin’
They just wanna see me go!

I’m a lip-syncing bitch
That’s why my shows go off
Without a hitch
Ask me again I’ll tell it true
Lip-syncing bitch says,
“Sync you!”

Everybody wants a piece of this
My music and my soul
And they dream of my uterus
They wanna find the glory hole

That’s why I keep up the routine
The singing gets so heavy
I shake it hard in tight bluejeans
In the backseat of a Chevy

I’m a lip-syncing bitch
My fans buy tickets and they
Make me rich
Ask me again I’ll tell it true
Lip-syncing bitch says,
“Sync you!”

Hey mister complainer and hater
I know you’re just jealous
I’m a real live musical creator
And I get three-ways with the fellas

Oooh, you love my lip-sync
So beautiful and wet
In and out of your ear so pink
You’ll never feel regret

I’m a lip-syncing bitch
They see me movin’ and I
Scratch their itch
Ask me again I’ll tell it true
Lip-syncing bitch says,
“Sync you!”

I’m a lip-syncing bitch
I turn them on with my
Ignition switch
Ask me again I’ll tell it true
Lip-syncing bitch says,
“Sync you!”

I’m a lip-syncing bitch
I make my money ‘cause
I found my niche
Ask me again I’ll tell it true
Lip-syncing bitch says,
“Sync you!”

Recording this song would be a good first step toward telling people that you just don't give a "sync" about all the smack talk they're doing. Also, it would help me to make some much-needed scratch during this particularly difficult holiday season.

Britney Spears puts so much effort into her costuming and dancing that she cannot devote as much of herself to actual singing.

Pic source.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Job Interview Advice

The economy is rough right now, and for every job that opens up, there are approximately 47 applicants. That's why I've compiled a list of things you should and shouldn't do on a job interview. Follow this advice, you'll get that job every time.

If the interviewer asks you if you have any special skills, don't say, "I'm very good at looking busy."

Do not tell the interviewer she reminds you of someone you saw on one of your many stops at

If you must describe yourself as a people person, don't wink.

Don't volunteer any information about your favorite "Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew" participant.

Don't tell the interviewer about the really weird dream you had the night before.

When you tell the interviewer that you're competent, don't use air quotes.

Do not give the interviewer any of the names you use when posting to message boards.

Don't brag about your body hair, unless specifically asked.

Don't volunteer any information about your childhood, unless you score very badly on whatever "skills assessment" they give you.

If asked any personality questions, duck them by saying, "I don't have a personality."

If asked about your greatest accomplishment at your previous job, don't tell the interviewer, "I always used appropriate emoticons in my emails."

Tell the interviewer everything s/he wants to hear.

Remember: Clean underwear just smells better than dirty underwear. But no underwear smells best of all.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Barack Obama Spits on Japanese Emperor's Shoes

Recently, president Barack Obama caused a stir during his meeting with the Emperor of Japan. Apparently, there is actually a person who is called "the Emperor" in Japan. He's like a king, or something. Supreme ruler.

Well, this is America, buster, and we don't believe in that "emperor" bulls hit. Hence, the stir. Interestingly, the primary complaint seems to be that the president bowed to the emperor.

Prepare for another bowing controversy. A photo of President Obama bowing to Japanese Emperor Akihito has surfaced, and it's likely to set off critics on the right—as happened when Obama maybe sorta bowed to the king of Saudi Arabia in April. This time, there's no question about it: It's a deep, deferential bow to the 76-year-old Akihito and his wife, notes the LA Times.

Drudge is playing it prominently, and a blogger at Power Line is on the case: The bow "is of a piece with the substance of his foreign policy. He means to teach Americans to bow before monarchs and tyrants. ... He gives expressive form to the idea that the United States now willingly prostrates itself before the rest of the world."

Except, of course, that the president is clearly leaning forward so that he can hock a loogie at the emperor's shoes.

Here is the image in question:

I admit it's difficult to make out, owing to the exceptional clarity of Obama's saliva. For that reason, I ran the picture through a filter in photoshop. Here's what came out:

Do you see it? In case you don't, I circled the projectile fluid, captured in its downward trajectory:

I have it on very good authority that spitting on someone is, unlike in America, considered to be quite an insult in Japan. In fact, it's the subject of a famous haiku:

Spitting on someone
Is a very high insult
In Japan's culture.

So, far from showing American prostration, Obama's gesture is actually an expression of American aggression against the very idea of royalty.


Pic source.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Greatest Video Title Ever: "Beaver Urinates on CBS "Early Show" Correspondent"

That's what beavers do, you see. Beavers urinate. No one should be surprised.

Via the live feed, who points out that this video isn't nearly as good as the "drunk Ewoks on the Today Show" video. He's right. Please to watch all the way to the end:

But why is the "Drunk Ewoks on the Today Show" one of the best films of the year? First of all, the drunk Ewoks themselves are awesome (although I have to question the taste of anyone, no matter how intoxicated, who would dry hump Al Roker). Second, and more important, the irritating Today Show hosts are made to look even more buffoonish than usual. We need more of that kind of thing.

Drink up, Ewoks!

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Popeye the Sailor Solves Our Recession Problems

A country deep in debt thanks to a confusing and protracted war, prohibition, and an absurd monetary policy. Depression plagues the citizens, and even the government itself, already bloated, cannot pay all of its employees. What is a leader to do?

Well, as Popeye the Sailor points out in these comic strips from November 3-7 1931, if you run a government and you've got a mint, you can print all the money you need. And if you don't have enough money to buy the ink and paper to print the money you need, you can always confiscate bills from the counterfeiter down the road, and just declare that money to be legal tender:

I hope someone in the offices of Ben Bernanke, Tim Geithner, and Larry Summers is reading the amazing Fantagraphics Popeye reprint collections (these comics are from the second edition). They'll help us to get out of our current "recession" toot sweet, and everything will be hotsy totsy again, blow me down!

Sunday, November 8, 2009

"Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew" by William S. Burroughs Episode 1

Pasadena. Heat of valley hot as sex, as painful as joyless sex of sex addicted beautiful semi-famous people exposing themselves drawing back the lacy curtains as it were from their depravity on teevee; drug of choice sex, or masturbation these are the characters. Musicians. Actors. Surfer Boys. Models. Porn stars. Director conmen. You know the type you’ve seen them before you’ve LAUGHED at the them huddled over their trash cans filled with broken dreams of fame and the bodily fluids, ejaculated just the way the machine the great bulbous Hollywood nightmare machine ejaculated them into a teevee show about sex addiction, emotions raw looking for their next fix the final cure the phallic needle a prick under the skin, the fluid oozing into their blood just one more fix for their insatiable need.

James Lovett Surfer Boy carries the board to keep his hands off the wand. He rides that board over a cascading wave following wave of jizz washing out of him, and over him, over his multiple partners, over his hands and stomach and legs, swirling in a vortex that spins him directly in the Pasadena Recovery Center PasRec and into Selma the Lead Tech. Oh sure she SEEMS nice, but it’s all an act don’t you know because she’s looking through your bags for drugs and porn, heat of her breath like cops over a corpse and then it’s “Let’s take a tour of your prison.”

james lovett Pictures, Images and Photos
James Lovett riding ocean waves of saltwater, careful not to swallow.

“Got to look good if there’s ladies here,” Surfer Boy says, this is teevee and he knows the drill he’s seen Dr. Drew’s other shows and it’s pathos and humor but Selma still has her part, too, and she’s tsk-tsking him all the way into Dr. Drew’s office.

Dr. Drew. Solid, good-looking, the glasses make you think he knows his business, speaking without slurring his words and his eyesockets don’t have bugs crawling out of them so yeah he ain’t an addict I guess but you can still tell, sure, wiseguy. Even has the stethoscope around his neck, like Dr. Killdare just like a real teevee doctor.

Dr. Drew is a real-life teevee doctor.

“This is Jill,” he says, pointing to Jill Vermeire, the SEX ADDICTION THERAPIST sure to give the men a boner and make the women damp so they slide right out of their seats during group therapy. She wants to know if Surfer Boy ever hurt himself masturbating, he’s got that look and sure enough he obliges.

“Pain doesn’t matter,” he says, proudly. He will satisfy THE URGE anywhere, anytime, no matter the cost. The Urge must be satisfied.

Two physically attractive doctors, Dr. Drew Pinsky and Dr. Jill Vermeire will help the sex addicts learn to control themselves.

But he goes for girls, too, those in his life including the wives of friends but you know they’re at least partly complicit in this, too. Dr. Drew’s heard enough he’s ready to touch the Surfer Boy’s boy, he’s ready probe him, so it’s into the back room for a “private screening.” Not having a rusty tin can the physical is of the non-invasive variety.

“Huh,” Dr. Drew says, he almost sounds concerned. Great gob of HPV on the uvula, the dangling soft fleshy tissue back of the throat where the HPV grows, dank wet warm as Pasadena sex.

Dominatrix. Internet porn. One last dry hump on the street before PasRec. Penny Flame the big Freaking PORN STAR, the vaginal mucous doesn’t get flowing unless it’s rough but don’t try to spoon because she will kick your testicles, and you need those for ejaculating.

Selma will call her Jennifer Ketcham, the name Penny’s parents forced on her and Selma won’t let her forget it she is an ADDICT and she must be unnerved, unsettled, off-balance and emotional. Selma then takes her steely dans and knee pads.

Penny Flame-- don't try to spoon with her.

Dr. Drew is subtler. “How is your addiction manifesting?”

“I don’t care about anyone I have sex with.”

“What’s it about?”

“A wall.”

Now it’s not fluid between her legs but fluid from her eyes not her vagina crying but her face. Dr. Drew is so smooth and solid and cool as a middle finger stuck up an asshole.

Phil Varone. Skid Row drummer. Groupies young willing wanting wild wasted existence. The bandmates drank and did drugs but he wasn’t slacking, he was sacking, doing three-four-five-a-day women on top of women, his penis shafting through one into another into another, stacked one on top of another, yet even under all that flesh, still so sad and all alone, the soul retracting even as the penis distended.

phil varone Pictures, Images and Photos
Women could not resist Phil Varone. Something about those sticks.

Dr. Drew is going to be intentionally provocative. “You’re spoiled,” he says. He says and Phil agrees. His mother spoiled him until she died, and then fadeout.

“I’m certain that as Phil progresses in treatment a more complete story will emerge,” says Dr. Drew, voice disembodied like an all-knowing voice over, like a narrator coming in at the end of the story and foreshadowing, as The Little Drummer Boy Phil tries to eat his gooey viscous spit-covered yogurt noodles.


Playboy Playmate, centerfold angel, stapled navel, pages covered in crusting cum, star of sex tape with Colin Farrell Nicole Narain world of women with large, bouncing pulsing fleshy bags on their chests. Sex for cocaine. All-day masturbation sessions to the point of dry exhaustion, blowing auditions lost finally too far gone to get back, Hansel-and-Gretel style.

Nicole Narain sometimes loves herself too much.

If you saw the gingerbread house, you wouldn’t blame her, either. Don’t you go judging. Creamy sweet roof, windows like mouths, licking licorice and sucking suckers.

Dr. Drew asks her the safe question, about her childhood. Fairy tales. Hansel-and-Gretel. The gingerbread house- why does she keep going back, getting lost, and bingo children who are sexually abused see their worth as purely sexual.

Having thus uncovered the root of her problems, it’s back to the frying pan with Jennifer-cum-Penny in a room right across from the Little Drummer Boy and Surfer Boy. Penny has the blow pops, somehow Selma missed those, and the chant to herself, the mantra to ignore the tattooed Drummer Boy.

Surfer Boy is less sophisticated. “Every chick’s ugly,” he spits, saliva dripping down his chin, imploring insincerity in his eyes.

Eager Beaver Kendra Jade, so scandalous she somehow managed to break up the committed marriage of Britney Spears and Kevin Federline. How’d she do that? Magic powers, it must be. Married herself now, in a bit of reality teevee synergy to the winner of “Rock Star: Supernova.”

Kendra Jade could lose her marriage to this man if she doesn't cure her sex addiction.

Dr. Drew asks her why she’s in Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew. It’s his show, he can do what he wants.

“I cheated on ever single person I was with.”

Dr. Drew asks why she did that. It’s his show.

Eager Beaver must have watched Nicole because she tells Dr. Drew, and this is so smooth like the creamy roof a gingerbread house that she sees her own worth wrapped up in her sexuality and in that moment she is- sorry. She cannot go on, as she is strictly from sadness and fear now; fear of watching her life crumble into dust, dry and bloodless as an overused vagina.

Meet and greet. Surfer Boy has gone sexless for 14 hours and his fantasy attacks him, overwhelms his senses when he sees and smells Penny and Nicole, Dominatrix and Playmate bent over the buffet now, their attention on the cold cuts and the potato salad spooning those lumps of gravy but in THE FANTASY bent over his board, him bouncing back and forth between them, waves of jizz crashing over them all, ejaculation arcing in the air, rainbow colors as the light hits it just right.

“What an amazing human being,” Penny Dominatrix says.

Kari Ann Peniche. Stand at attention and salute, yankee doodle dandy style it's Miss Teen USA. The perfect all-American sweetheart. America was corrupt before her, before the beauty pageants ruined it, before they spawned the reality teevee shows and it’s from the beauty pageants to the reality shows for her. Addiction specialist Dr. Drew cannot tell that she is a meth addict yet, yet he is an addiction specialist, the oily puss-oozing acne of her face a dead giveaway, the hair stringy and dry as a life crumbling to bloodless dust.

Kari Ann Peniche apparently has poor circulation, and her feet do get cold.

“What was your family life like?” Dr. Drew asks.

“It was different. I don’t know. What do you want to know?” Real vague, thoughts scattered, barely containing the seething meth-fed anger burbling up through her pores, oozing greasy hatred.

“Parents divorced?”

“I’m not upset about it. It doesn’t affect me. I don’t think.” Short staccato sentences. Five words or less.

“Taken advantage of?” Dr. Drew is trying to communicate with her in the same way, so smooth.

“I was raped many times, but it doesn’t affect me.” She says this over the course of eight sentences.

“Are you afraid to ask for help?”

“Next question.”

“How is sex affecting you now?”

“Next question.”


“I don’t know where to begin, you know what I mean?”

Dr Jill SexAddSpec tells the American Dream that she’s using her pretty smile to mask something, to hide something. “Intense pain.” Dr. Drew is pouting because the American Dream can’t do it herself. The sex, the meth, America in a nutshell. Kari Ann Peniche is America. Corrupt. Folding in on itself. Hiding behind a mask, hiding deep despair and agony behind a false smile propped up by addictions that must be FED.

Here comes the gay man. Duncan Roy, sophisticated suave confidence trickster a grifter with a British accent, smoother even that Dr. Drew, smooth enough to talk straight boys into sleeping with him and liking it, pretending to be a Lord in France and being sent to prison, finding himself surrounded by all those straight boys who couldn’t help but go gay, the hot hardness of the male bodies irresistible criminal attraction, flesh surrounding flesh, smell of semen permeating the air, the bars of the cells gooey sticky jizz and anal mucous, flesh of sphincter yielding after only minimal protest.

And now? Now it’s all day at home with the laptop, fondling his lap top, fallen mightily to a room of only solitary pumping, no straight boys forced to go gay in sight, contemplation based solely around his own wand, his own spirit, his own self. Worry over ending up alone. Jerking his life away at 43 years old.

Duncan Roy wasn't really a Lord, but he sounded like one.

“Have you ever had a close relationship that satisfied you?” Dr. Drew asks.

“I’m not an engaged sexual person.” The voice is soft as a ragged man reaching into his own mouth and pulling out dripping chunks of his own viscera, setting them aflame and dancing around the ashes DTs style.

Finally it’s Amber Smith. Model actress and Dr. Drew reality rehab teevee veteran, addicted to in no particular order sex, drugs, alcohol, and the relentless pursuit of reality teevee fame. First a night of trolling for strange penis. Mother helps her choose just the right slut outfit, “Oh, de-ahh, you simply MUST we-ah the le-pahd skin coat and THOSE pumps the-ah… no man will mistake you-ah intentions.” Daughter ready for action, sent away with a kiss to…

…The Comedy Store? Is that really the parking lot she’s pulling into? Looking for stand-up comedians?

Amber Smith is addicted to addiction.

Shit. She really does have a problem. A problem more fearful than drug rehab. This is sex rehab, where the serious issues are aired, wiseguy. Painful emotions revealed. Sure, Surfer Boy can bounce his balls on the treadmill all he wants, that will only tire him physically. It’s not until the emotions tire that he can truly break through.

Eager Beaver asks if Surfer Boy’s on capital-D Drugs.

Little Drummer Boy says, “I think he’s like really addicted to sex. I’m not kidding.”

House rules, torture laid out. Dr. Drew thanks everyone for exposing themselves on teevee. Signed contract legally binding, the devil take your soul if you violate the terms. No porn. No seductive behavior. No inappropriate dress. No touching. Only handshakes. Dr. Drew wants every one of them to CREATE BOUNDARIES AROUND THEMSELVES, AND YET HE’S TRYING TO HELP THEM TEAR DOWN THE WALLS THAT SURROUND THEM.

Also, no computers or cell phones.

“This is harder than most addictions,” Dr. Jill SexAddSpec says. “Harder, harder, harder.” It is harder than a fully erect… building. With a blood-filled elevator.

Dr. Drew pic source.
James Lovett pic source.
Dr. Drew and Dr. Jill pic source.
Penny Flame pic source (very not safe for work).
Phil Varone pic source.
Nicole Narain pic source.
Kendra Jade pic source.
Kari Ann Peniche pic source.
Duncan Roy pic source.
Amber Smith pic source.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Does Someone at Yahoo Have it in for the New Governor of New Jersey?

Apparently there were some elections yesterday. Go figure. Republicans won the governorships of two states, Virginia (Bob McDonnell) and New Jersey (Chris Christie). Here's a picture of the two winners from Yahoo's main page, taken just now:

Both look like dynamic guys, confident and self-assured in that most political of ways. "I am the man," each of them seem to be saying, "Because I won."

But check out the pictures that Yahoo used last night, as the returns were coming in:

The guy from Virginia looks dynamic, confident, a winner. The guy from New Jersey looks like he's been lost in a curtain maze for an hour.

"Hey, dude, you won the New Jersey race!"

"Wha--? Oh, thanks, now, can you tell me how to get outta here?"

Yahoo chose the picture that makes him look vaguely like Zero Mostel:

"I actually won??? I was trying to lose!"

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Is it Too Early to Start Hating "The Holidays"?

Santa and Reindeer by ~TroyJunior on deviantART

Is it too early to start hating the enforced merriment and jollity of "the holiday season"? Usually, I don't start hating the holidays until the middle of November, but I am in a particularly sour mood this year. Maybe it's because we're in a recession and the unemployment rate is so high. Maybe it's because politicians are actively trying to make it more costly to hire new workers. Maybe it's because it's so difficult to keep track of all that "stimulus" that is so increasing our debt. Maybe it's that the current president is behaving disconcertingly like the previous one.

Daylight saving's time didn't help matters, either.

I genuinely hate DST. The daylight is not "saved." There is still the same amount of daylight. What changes is the motherf*cking clocks. Which means for half the year I have to get up an hour "earlier." And we keep DST around through November so that the children can have more daylight time to go begging for Halloween candy.

So the decorations start to go up, and my mood starts to come down. Those horrible, atonal nightmare songs about winter wonderlands (snow is terrible, ice is dangerous, the cold causes frostbite) silent nights (they're actually quite loud with "revelry," and if you're not reveling then what the f*ck is wrong with you, anyway?), and rockin' around the tree (fire hazards, smelly, ugly, wasteful) start to play. Everywhere you go. All I want is to go to the grocery store to buy some milk for crying out loud. I don't want to have to look at images of the fat man in red admonishing me to CELEBRATE THE SEASON, all the while suffering under the aural oppression of Christmas carols, the most annoying subgenre of music ever conceived.

Except, of course, for "Fairytale of New York."

That is a rare bright light in the shimmering morass of crap that constitutes the Christmas songbook. But how often do you hear that in the grocery stores in America? And even that song is smothered by an extra layer of melancholy, over the fate of the divine Kirsty MacColl.

And what is the most popular Christmas-related story of all time? "A Christmas Carol." The only truly awful thing (and it is awful, so awful it's downright hateful) that Charles Dickens ever wrote is the thing for which he's most remembered, and a story which continues to inflict itself upon us every year in the form of endless television and film remakes (including this year-- opening this Friday, in fact). That story is fascism in literary form, as Scrooge is terrorized into accepting conformity to the masses' idea of proper behavior at that dreaded time of year. As Harlan Ellison has put it,

Did you ever notice, the only one in 'A Christmas Carol' with any character is Scrooge? Marley is a whiner who f*&^ed over the world and then hadn't the spine to pay his dues quietly; Belle, Scrooge's ex-girlfriend, deserted him when he needed her most; Bob Cratchit is a gutless toady without enough get-up-and-go to assert himself; and the less said about that little treacle-mouth, Tiny Tim, the better.

A Christmas Carol Pictures, Images and Photos

One of the greatest writers in the English language is cursed to be primarily remembered for a story that has caused more tooth-decay and diabetes than all the fruitcakes ever made.

That's right-- fruitcake. The traditional Christmas dessert that takes two perfectly acceptable, even delightful food items-- cakes and fruit-- and mixes them together into something that is somehow worse than the sum of its parts. Then there is the traditional Christmas drink, eggnog. Egg, cream, sugar, and milk are all fine ingredients in a food dish, I suppose, but is there a less palatable idea than to mix those items together into a glass and then drink them? Perhaps if you're in training for a boxing match, or participating on a reality show test of who can ingest the most disgusting, viscous "fluid," with the promise of a large monetary award at the end. And the only way to make it palatable is to spike it with rum or brandy, but you have to add so much rum or brandy that you end up getting sh*tfaced halfway through the first glass.

But getting people sh*tfaced is the best way to ensure their compliance with your ridiculous traditions.

Traditions like "kissing under mistletoe." First of all, it's fitting that mistletoe is so closely associated with this poisonous holiday season. This is a parasitic plant that in some forms can cause diarrhea if it's ingested. But you don't have to ingest it to feel its misery. No, because if you're caught standing under it, you will be kissed. It's tradition and you're just a party pooper if you don't play along, by allowing some stranger (or, even worse, an acquaintance) to put her lips anywhere on your person. You do not know where she has been. You do not know how much eggnog she has ingested. You do not know how near to vomiting she is.

And I haven't even gotten to the exchanging of gifts. Seriously, if I want something, I will get it myself. And whoever you are, I do not know you well enough to pick something out that you might like. I'm sorry if you feel obligated to buy me something, but why then should I feel obligated to pretend to like it? And please don't get me a motherf*cking gift card. All you're doing is shifting your (imagined) responsibility back onto me. Now I have to take your gift card and go buy myself something that I think you might want me to get, but that you couldn't think of on your own, and then I have to report back to you what I got, and I have to tell you how much I love it. Gift cards are more like punishment, because the pain of them lasts beyond just the gift exchange.

But it's not "Christmas" anymore. Because, you see, there are people like me who don't want to celebrate Christmas. And because not everyone wants to celebrate Christmas, they are forced to celebrate "the holidays," which includes a host of other things I do not want to celebrate. I do not want to celebrate Hanukkah, or Chanukah, or Kwanzaa either. I don't want to celebrate the winter solstice. The need to be "politically correct" and "inclusive" is a worthless, parodic gesture to those of us who do not want to be forced to deal with any of this bulls hit.

And I do not like Santa Claus. First off, he apparently has an unhealthy interest in the most private activities of children ("he sees you when you're sleeping/he knows when you're awake"). Seriously, this is not a figure we should be welcoming into our homes-- this guy should be on a f*cking sex offender registry. Second, he's a bully who demands children conform to some nebulous idea of what is "good" before he will reward them (shouldn't virtue be its own reward?) for their behavior. But what exactly is "good," anyway? And why is that the richest kids get the best gifts-- are they by their natures more "good" than poor kids?

And why exactly is Santa such a shameless corporate shill? I certainly prefer Coca-Cola to f*cking eggnog, but does Santa need the money? And Coca-Cola-- seriously, do you really want a giant fat man as the face of your product?

Oh how depressed I am! Oh agony! Oh holy night!

Santa Coca Cola pic source.