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 January 10, 2005 |
Flatbush, NJ Mrs. Bird, Graphics A podge of the hodge that made 2004 so yearish
2004 dazzled us like strange, incomprehensible kabuki theater, in which a talking gonad was somehow re-elected president and the biggest group of losers this side of Color Me Badd accidentally won the World Series. Martha Stewart went to jail and Kobe Bryant didn’t, teaching America’s children a v...
oodbye, 2004. Thanks so much for biting the dong and hanging around for at least eleven months too long, until it finally took a forty-story tall wall of hauling ass saltwater to wash your taste out of our mouths. Thanks for finally dragging your skanky, broken ass off our calendar at last, and don’t think we won’t be calling the Goodwill in the morning to come pick up what’s left of your shit. The new year is here, and it doesn’t stink quite so strongly of Jovan Musk.
2004 dazzled us like strange, incomprehensible kabuki theater, in which a talking gonad was somehow re-elected president and the biggest group of losers this side of Color Me Badd accidentally won the World Series. Martha Stewart went to jail and Kobe Bryant didn’t, teaching America’s children a valuable lesson about the horrors of overly tasteful home décor. The country had to grow up fast with the revelation that Janet Jackson has breasts, while her brother Michael strangely has no interest in the same. Americans everywhere were up in arms about an unjustified war in Iraq… no wait, sorry. Americans everywhere were up in arms about a fertilizer salesman who snuffed his wife, vigilantly demanding to see justice done before more Modesto singles could be put in harm’s way.
Meanwhile, on the bright side of political news, Ronald Reagan and Yasser Arafat both died in “unrelated” incidents, leaving more Ben Gay for the rest of us.
There were also the usual run of celebrity mercy killings, though 2004 couldn’t even get those right, as nobody was especially eager to see Ray Charles, Marlon Brando, Rodney Dangerfield or Christopher Reeve go. Though the thought of the four of them all on the same bus to the afterlife offers many amusing possibilities, which isn’t a half-bad idea for a sitcom or at least a winning bar joke. Note to self: write down this million-dollar idea!
2004 was the year gays started getting married, Britney Spears couldn’t stay married, and somebody accidentally married J-Lo. Though thanks to a timely UN intervention, Ben Affleck remained single at year’s end.
But mostly, 2004 felt like a dead hooker rolled up in a carpet, which shrinks mercifully in the rearview mirror by the minute as we peel out bravely into the future. Both of the top grossing films of the year were sequels, which seems like a golden treat when you realize the third-place film was about Jesus getting the holy shit beaten out of him. And the top-selling album of the year was by some kind of disgruntled movie theater employee, likely having had to sit through one too many screenings of The Passion of the Christ or, even worse, Catwoman.
However, movies couldn’t sate our thirst for horribleness in 2004, so the real world had to oblige us with the Madrid train attacks, ethnic cleansing in Sudan, and the tragic first-ever meeting of the Russian PTA. By the time the south Asian tsunami rinsed what was left of 2004 down the crapper, few were sad to see it go. Unless they were wealthy, horny Republican NBA stars with points on The Passion.
We’ll miss you, 2004. Like we miss polyester underwear. Don’t let history hit you in the ass on your way out. the commune news remembers 2004 only as a big, gray blur, thanks to the magic of our break room microwave with the missing front door. Red Bagel is the commune’s fearless editor, not to be confused with the commune’s beardless predator, Ramon Nootles.
 |  January 10, 2005 |
Phuket, Thailand Courtesy SI Duck, bitch!
That same miracle, however, killed over 155,000 foreign peoples, most of whom can charitably be described as “nobodies.” To date, the bodies of over 155,000 nobod...
he whole wide world heaved a giant sigh of relief this week with the news that disaster had been averted: despite Mother Nature’s best attempts to rob us of one of our most beautiful people, pretty Czech supermodel Petra Nemcova has survived the Asian tsunami. Accidentally trapped in the midst of the ugly foreign tragedy while on a glamorous beach vacation, Nemcova soldiered through the big wet mess by clinging bravely to a tree while her photographer boyfriend was tsunamied to his apparent death. Nemcova sustained only moderate injuries in what international aid workers are calling “a miracle from God.”
That same miracle, however, killed over 155,000 foreign peoples, most of whom can charitably be described as “nobodies.” To date, the bodies of over 155,000 nobodies have been found in disaster recovery operations throughout southern Asia. The search for celebrities continues.
In the wake of the recent tsunamic free-for-all, American President George W. Bush has vowed vengeance against all nations suspected of harboring or supporting the deadly ocean waves. Early reports indicate that the Middle Eastern nations of Iran and Syria are already on the president’s tsunami “shit list.”
Other nations known to have studied tsunamis in the past, including Jordan and Turkey, are reportedly also under close watch. Lending credence to the theory that oil and evil go together like beef and cheese, Bush also suggested that Saudi Arabia is skating on thin ice regarding their own tsunami-harboring status.
“This terrible tragedy has earned the president precious political capital, and he intends to use it,” explained the Secretary of State Colin Powell, indicating that American troops were even now readying to kick the Iranians’ tsunami-loving butts back to Tehran.
Little is known about the elusive tsunami, whose name comes from the Japanese word for “big fucking milkshake.” First described in the 1964 pop hit “Love Tsunami” by Little Johnny Maxwell, scientists have been unable to determine where the giant killer waves come from, or where they hide out between attacks.
“A tsunami is apparently some kind of big wavy thing,” explained University of Minnesota geologist Hans Goering. “I know, woo—scary. But apparently a lot of those people didn’t know how to swim or something. In addition, we believe that this event may have featured an unprecedented number of surfing fatalities. Kids should take heart and remember to always wear a bicycle helmet while surfing. Also, don’t fall asleep in a hut on the beach.”
Nemcova’s miraculous survival has brought hope to millions in the region, who take heart in the fact that despite the widespread misery and destruction prevalent in so many countries bordering the Indian Ocean, no famous or really beautiful Americans were killed in the tsunami attack. Meanwhile, international aid groups continue to search the wreckage day and night for signs of anyone you may have heard of. the commune news was the victim of a tsunami attack once when we were trying to learn to surf, regardless of what you may have heard about it just being a pussy-assed little baby wave. Ivan Nacuchacokov remained the most upbeat man in southern Asia this week, happy for once to get to a story after the disaster had already occurred.
| Guy said no onions on his Whopper—dig the wax out of your ears Spam King beheaded in royal coup by Duke of Dick Pills Celebrities donate lip service to needy tsunami victims Miami DJs: Castro confirms refrigerator is running |
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 January 10, 2005 I've Fallen, and I'm Missing Survivor!Help me!
Oh sweet lord, please help me up!
I'm old and I've fallen down and I'm afraid I may have shattered my pelvis on the cold, unforgiving tile of this floor! And I'm missing the beginning of Survivor!
No doubt they'll find me here in a few days, stuck to this floor like a squashed bug, once the smell grows strong enough to overpower my neighbor Gladys and her hellish brood of cats. Then some nice orderlies will come in and roll me onto a stretcher, my pissed pant-suit long since gone bitterly dry and packed with the pea-green product of my evacuated bowels. And they'll have a good laugh at poor old me, lying dead on the floor with no idea how this season's exciting Survivor midseason finale shaped up, the cold glint of unknowing fle...
º Last Column: Christmas is Cancelled Due to Lack of Interest
º more columns
Help me!
Oh sweet lord, please help me up!
I'm old and I've fallen down and I'm afraid I may have shattered my pelvis on the cold, unforgiving tile of this floor! And I'm missing the beginning of Survivor!
No doubt they'll find me here in a few days, stuck to this floor like a squashed bug, once the smell grows strong enough to overpower my neighbor Gladys and her hellish brood of cats. Then some nice orderlies will come in and roll me onto a stretcher, my pissed pant-suit long since gone bitterly dry and packed with the pea-green product of my evacuated bowels. And they'll have a good laugh at poor old me, lying dead on the floor with no idea how this season's exciting Survivor midseason finale shaped up, the cold glint of unknowing flecked within my glassy eyes!
How cruel to live a life with no finale! Eighty-seven years and Edith Walker is cancelled to make way for a midseason replacement. How sad to live such an anticlimactic life. If only I could have waited another fifty-four minutes before taking my catastrophic tumble, I could have died a fulfilled woman!
I'm afraid I'll never get to see which of those nice young men ate the rat testicles.
Alas, I keep beating my cane on the floor, hoping to thwart my Survivor-missing fate, but I don't think Mr. Humphreys downstairs has even noticed. Probably too busy watching Survivor, absorbed in its midseason-ending magnificence. I can just imagine it. Eliza dancing a celebratory dance as Twila is voted off the island. Oh, no sense in torturing myself; the show's nearly half-over now. But by some cruel fate I've fallen within view of the bathroom clock, so I know by the minute just how much of my precious Survivor has ticked away.
Maybe if I press my ear closer against the floor I can overhear some of the show on Mr. Humphreys' television. Hmm. Nothing but muffled voices. It doesn't even sound like Survivor. Hard to be certain, but this isn't much like how the show sounded the episode after I'd dropped my hearing aid in the toilet. What could that old fool be watching? I bet it's Murder, She Wrote. I'm afraid I've long overestimated Mr. Humphreys, that tasteless old fart.
If only I'd thought to set up a series of mirrors in the hallway so I could see the television from the bedroom floor! That oversight seems foolish in retrospect. As well as ever turning off the TV in the first place. You never know what can happen right before Survivor, putting the TV knob cruelly out of reach! I should have thought to just turn my hearing aid off—that's like having a remote control with me all the time, and one that works through walls and around corners even if you're laid out on the bedroom floor like a pancake on the griddle.
Oh, how foolish I've been. What a foolish, wasted life. Hopefully the next old bag that takes my place in this apartment will learn from my cautionary tale and never turn off the television, lest she pick an inconvenient time to be voted off the island of life!
Oh, my. Is that a rat? Well, at least I won't starve to death. º Last Column: Christmas is Cancelled Due to Lack of Interestº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“The day destroys the night, the night divides the day, carry the four, times the weekend, round up from seven, and: Presto! 14. Not sure what that means, I'll get back to you next album.”
-Gin OrbisonFortune 500 CookieMonkeys and live electrical wire are a bad combo for you this week. Try combing your hair with a rake—hey, maybe those jokers were right. You will quit smoking this week, and upgrade to the syringe. Don't take any shit from the crippled, elderly, or the extremely weak: pretty much anybody you can get your girlfriend to beat up. This week's lucky burritos: Refried Revenge, Chock-Full- O-Olives, The Grand Mal, Nuthin-But-Sour- Cream, El Sleeping Bag, Someone Beaned My Ass Tonight.
Try again later.Top Shocking New Barry Bonds Allegations| 1. | Extra 45 pounds of muscle added in 1998 not actually from special "Reverse-Atkins Crazy Carboholics" diet | | 2. | Injected Flubber into testicles, just for hell of it | | 3. | Paunchy, long-haired trainer "Camaro Dan" not actual fitness expert | | 4. | Dosed with Nyquil—during daylight hours! | | 5. | Bonds' bats made from genetically-modified maple trees | | 6. | Therapeutic skin grafts actually beef grafts | | 7. | Bonds-endorsed "Human Growth Flakes" cereal not safe for children | | 8. | Bonds didn't actually write "Surfin' Safari" | | 9. | Tasmanian Devil hormone injections not a court-ordered road rage treatment | | 10. | Friends, relatives refer to Bonds as "Skippy" | |
|   Gonzales Clarifies "Feast on Terrorists' Bones" Comment BY roland mcshyster 1/10/2005 Look out below, America, Roland McShyster just honked and as usual, it looks like gravity will have its way. We're sicker than a Nine Inch Nails video here at Entertainment Police, and all bets are off within a fifty foot radius of yours truly. Anyone interested in staying well would do wisely to coat their computer screen in Vaseline and turn to the black power of voodoo for support, ladies and gentlemen. Now let's take a look at this week's movies, which like everything else at the moment, are something to sneeze at.
In Theaters Now:
Electra
As I anticipated in this very space years ago, celebrity shemannequin Carmen Electra has followed the well-worn path from extra bimbo on Good Burger to the director and producer's chairs, where she...
Look out below, America, Roland McShyster just honked and as usual, it looks like gravity will have its way. We're sicker than a Nine Inch Nails video here at Entertainment Police, and all bets are off within a fifty foot radius of yours truly. Anyone interested in staying well would do wisely to coat their computer screen in Vaseline and turn to the black power of voodoo for support, ladies and gentlemen. Now let's take a look at this week's movies, which like everything else at the moment, are something to sneeze at.
In Theaters Now:
Electra
As I anticipated in this very space years ago, celebrity shemannequin Carmen Electra has followed the well-worn path from extra bimbo on Good Burger to the director and producer's chairs, where she apparently perched gingerly with one cheek on each, or else had herself cloned using trick photography. Whatever the method, Electra has managed to inflict her strange autobiography on the world, an improbable geek epic with one cheek each in the worlds of science fiction and comic bookery. Apparently Electra's ass was too busy to star as itself in the film, so Eva Gardner's great-granddaughter was brought in to plausible effect, despite the fact that she's seven feet tall and looks slightly less like Carmen Electra than I do. All of this was of little importance, however, since the audience's geeklust was satisfied and the film served its purpose as a place-holder before the May release of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Nerds, and the highly anticipated Wookie Cookies tie-in promotion.
Hotel Rwanda
Seeking to hitchhike to the heights they once soared with their pervasively eternal gigantahit "Hotel California," the Eagles released the lesser-known desperate cash-in jingle "Hotel Rwanda" in 1981. Though it shared in many of the original's tasty licks and incomprehensible lyrics, the record-listening public was all "Horse with No Name"ed out by that point and the new tune was a sweaty flop. But leave it to Hollywood to mistake a dismal commercial failure for an underground cult favorite, as they did last year with the release of everything they released last year, so we're treated with a movie adaptation that unwisely drags on beyond the original tune's seven-minute running length. Don Knotts stars as the black guy from Traffic.
Racist Stripes
Finally, some genius has realized that CGI doesn't only stand for "Computers Generate Income" and has crafted an actual computer-animated film without any farting dinosaurs or showtunes-loving sidekicks. In fact, this modern-day retelling of Animal Farm is about as crowd-pleasing as an electrocuted elephant, daring audiences to examine the racist underpinnings of their own warped worldviews. When a naĂŻve zebra named Hitler shows up on the farm one day looking for refuge from a world fixated on his mixed-stripe heritage, he finds instead a powderkeg of simmering ethnic tensions amongst the charmingly celebrity-voiced assemblage of barnyard beasts. Over the next 84 minutes, Hitler teaches the assorted ethnic stereotypes a valuable lesson about equality by winning the county's annual racist races, before being made into glue to pave the way for the purification of the farm. This is one thought-provoking future classic that's perfect for kids you don't like.
Well, there you have it, and while you're holding it I'm going to duck out the back door. Hot potato on you, slow-reacting America. Check back next time and hopefully we'll have more movie reviewing magic, minus the iron lung. Achoo.   |
