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Friday, January 31, 2003

 

Dept. of Immortality



And just because we are feeling benign, go ahead:

click here and live forever.


Thursday, January 30, 2003

 

Knock Knock, Who's There? Daddy Long Leg Dept.



Woman Who Got Dead Father's Leg in Mail Sues for Anguish, Thinking It to be LobsterGram

To paraphrase one George W. Bush, "Frivolous lawsuits never healed anyone...nor brought Daddy back from the dead. Nor took us out for surf n' turf, neither."


 

Mo' Money, Mo'Jo, Mo...Ropes?



Top five lines that bondage-actress/Joe Millionaire contestant Sarah Kozer used to lure Evan into the bushes on Monday night's episode (see previous post for Newz Flazh item on the recent, scandalous revelation that rocked the reality-TV world).

5. "Let me show you the ropes..." (obvious)
4. "I like nothing better than to tie up dumb-guy liars." (ad-hominem attack)
3. "I hope that you have millions...of ropes that you can use to tie me up and millions of feathers that you can tickle me with once you have tied me up with said ropes." (convoluted explanation involving premise)
2. "If we go into those bushes we are probably going to fuck." (off-topic, effective)
1. " (Slurp) is the FOX subtitle for something that I will never again do to you once we're married. I will also stop tying you up." (saved from irrelvance at last possible second)


Wednesday, January 29, 2003

 

Newz Flazh! Section



Joe Millionaire finalist filmed bondage and fetish films

In the "almost too good to be true" department, it was discovered by The Smoking Gun that Sarah Kozer, the blonde bombshell who was memorably spilling out of her bikini top and who (slurped) and (mmmwh)'d away with Evan in the bushed of this week's episode, has starred in a number of fetish films with titles such as "Hogtied" and "Dirty-Soled Dolls."

This bodes well for the eventual triumph of Melissa M. Unless, of course, it turns out that Evan has a predilection for ladies with grimy feet or a spare pair of toe-cuffs.

When contacted for comment, Fox's research department had only this to say: "We don't really know how to use the Internet thingy"


 

Mind the Communication Gap Special



Given how much importance has been given to securing the cooperation of Germany and France for our operations (read: blowing up) Iraq, WFOoBH has translated our abbreviated text of President Bush's State of the Union address from English into German, then from German into French, and then finally from French back into English. The result is an approximation of putting three translators into a round room and telling them to urinate in the corner:

Wirtschaftschlechtes, requires new employment, to spend of the money. Healthcare expensively, badly. Bad. Democrat badly. Bad. Dividendetax-cut well. Terrorist badly. Terrorist very badly. More terrorists, more badly. Bioterrorism badly. Nations are of Pussies. Bad. Freedom well. Bad. North Korea particularly badly. Bad Saddam Hussein, very badly. War inevitably. * bad Bioweapons. Chemical weapons evil. Bad uranium. Scientist of setting to dead evil. Sooooschlechtes Saddam. * bad bad. Defianceschlechtes. War still arriving. America well! War, uhhuh. Freeeeeedommmm! America blesses a god.


In the interest of including other members of the European Union in the continuing dialogue on Iraq, this text was further translated from English into Portuguese, then from Portuguese back into English, then from English into Italian, and finally, from Italian back into English. The following is the result of this translational gymnastics, approximating a drunken Italian in a nightclub in Rome, trying to sweet-talk some female American backpackers over the pounding beat of the latest techno re-mix:

Wirtschaftschlechtes, demands the new job, to spend of the moneies. Expensive Healthcare, badly. Defective. Carbossimetilazione badly. Defective. Dividendetax-cuts well. Terrorist badly. Terrorist much evil. More terrorist, more evil. Bioterrorism badly. The nations are of the pussies. Defective. Well of freedom. Defective. Coreia of the north particularly badly. Defective Saddam Hussein, much evil. Inevitāvel of war. * Defective Bioweapons. Crews diabolic chemistries. Badly of Uranian. Scientist of the recording to the inoperativa malvagitā. Sooooschlechtes Saddam. * Badly defective. Defianceschlechtes. War that still arrives. Well of the America! War, uhhuh. Freeeeeedommmm! The benedice America a God.

[nota bene: This post has been changed from its original version, to hilarious effect.]



Tuesday, January 28, 2003

 

News As It Happens Dept.



WFOoBH presents an abbreviated text of the President's State of the Union address, convenient to be consumed at red lights, while shaving, or on quicky bathroom breaks:

Economy bad, need new jobs, spend money. Healthcare expensive, bad. Environment bad. Democrats bad. Abortion bad. Dividend tax-cut good. Terrorists bad. Terrorists very bad. More terrorists, more bad. Bioterrorism bio-bad. United Nations are pussies. Iraq bad. Freedom good. Iran bad. North Korea extra bad. Saddam Hussein bad, very bad. War inevitable. Bioweapons bad. Chemical weapons bad. Uranium bad. Killing scientists bad. Saddam soooo bad. Evil bad. Defiance bad. War still happening. America good! War, uh huh. Freeeeeedommmm! God blesses America.

A list of words stumbled over or mispronounced (compiled in real time):

--"Congresseses" (Congresses)
--"Significkly" (significantly)
--"Tera" (terror)
--"Wherch" (which)
--"Botulinimin" (botulinum)
--"Peninchula" x 2 (peninsula)
--"Nucular" x 8 (nuclear) [an old-timey fave!]
--"offers" (officers)
--"furl" (full)
--"tarist" (terrorist)
--"hara" (horror)
--"forshed" (forced)
--"lil'egal" (illegal)

Bush pronounces words like Winona pays for expensive clothes!

But hey, he's getting better. He didn't flub "regime" even once.


Monday, January 27, 2003

 

Ad It Up, Ad It Up Special



Everyone knows that the Super Bowl doesn't draw 44 million viewers just so people can watch (my beloved, victorious) Tampa Bay Buccaneers humiliate some team from Northern California whose fans wear Darth Vader helmets. Average Joe and Average Jane are equally as interested in the interstital product-pitching, which has become as much a part of the festivities as all-night benders in Tijuana, as the opening coin-flip. Which advertiser got the most bang for it's 2.1 million bucks per 30 seconds? In true Monday afternoon quarertbacking tradition, B[d]TV presents its first Super Bowl Ad Report Card:

Reebok's Office Linebacker : I'm not sure what sneakers have to do with office drones being body-checked and cross-blocked through the walls of their cubicles for non-compliance on new TPS report regulations, but this commercial said "football" and "ass-kicking" in one hurried breath. Grade: A-

Upside-Down Clown: It sounds like the classic set-up: "An upside-down clown walks into a bar..." And then it goes horribly awry when said inverted merrymaker attempts to chug from the wrong end and bunghole some Oscar Meyer tubesteak. But sick is good in my book. Grade: B+

Mean Joe Greene Steals Child's Coke: It seems a curious way to sell a product: a linebacker from the 70's intimidates a child into "sharing" his soft-drink after a tough day crippling quarterbacks. Mean Joe Greene? More like Big Bully Greene. And his taunting the child after snatching away his Coke by tossing his sweaty Steelers jersey in the tyke's face was overkill. Boo, Joe. Boo. Grade: C-

Spuds Mackenzie: Using a cute, Little-Rascals-mascot puppy to sell beer seems a tad quaint. Don't the people at Bud Light know that selling beer is now all about "The Twins" and jaw-dropping, slow-mo catfights? You'd think they would since someone over at Amheuser-Busch did throw a couple of chicks in some bikinis and had them grapple in a tub of Quik-Krete. This ad seems a curious step backwards to more innocent days, when women in bikinis swooned over cute dogs instead of trying to claw out each other's eyes in search of a cold one. Grade: C

Clara Time: She's old, she's wrinkly, she's adorable, and she utters the line that will be spoken in more bad porn setups than perhaps any other besides "I'm here to fix the cable." Old Clara Pell hucks patties for Wendy's, uttering what is sure to become a classic catchphrase spawning many imitators in the fast-food universe and at least two network sitcoms: "Where's the beef?" And the best part of the commercial is perhaps the most grisly, as the deceased Dave Thomas makes a posthumous pitch for the largesse of his ground beef. Grade: A+


Sunday, January 26, 2003

 

Monday Morning Fan Dept.



Unless you've been living in a situation that has you snuggled safely underneath a rock, you know that the Tampa Bay Buccaneers defeated the Oakland Raiders 48-21 in Super Bowl XXXVII (that's 37 to those of you not steeped in the Classics).

It should be noted that I've been a fan of the Buccaneers since childhood, growing up in the suburbs of the Tampa-St. Pete metroplex. I often spent Sunday afternoons watching Bucs games, wearing the dreadful Tang-colored jersey that preceded the red-and-silver of today's team, waiting to eat dinner at the 4pm Blue Plate Specials at the local restaurant. I'd wear the eyepatch. I had the whole pirate deal going, the "Aargh, mateys!" and the "Shiver me timbers!" both. And over twenty years of loyal fandom, the Bucs have rewarded my loyalty by beating the hated Raiders.

In a way, we're all going to Disneyworld, aren't we?


Friday, January 24, 2003

 

Bleeth if You Love Jesus Dept.



Yasmine Bleeth admits to battle with drugs

Which just goes to prove my theory: loving Richard Grieco is not a crime, but can only end in pain and heartache.




 

New Poll! New Poll! Calloh! Callay!



I always seem to introduce a new poll by saying something like, "Guess what time it is! New poll time!" and then I ramble on about democracy and making your voice heard and maybe throw something in about being crushed under the treads of a Chinese tank. Not this time.

This week's poll is contributed by one my favorite action heroes, Passenger 57. You know, John Maclean on a plane. So look to the left and vote as often as you wish. Which is probably not even once, but a guy can ask.

[Last week's result: The vast majority of you seem fixated on the idea that Vegas treated me like a rag in a 25-cent peepshow booth. And I suppose that's not entirely untrue, as those who read the piece in Über can attest.]

[And just another piece of business: I am officially retiring the story about the Venezuelan bachelorette party. At least until I meet someone who hasn't already heard it.]


 

Word of the Day, One Day Only Section



Zellwegerian: adj. Pertaining to or possessing the qualities of one who gains weight for a specific reason, ostensibly for the purposes of a dramatic role, and the attendant conflict over whether to repeat the process for a subsequent role. [related: reverse-Zellwegerian, see Wilson, Carnie]

[WFOoBH invites its readers to provide a definitive usage for this neologism through the Say Wha? link below.]


Thursday, January 23, 2003

 

Gimme a Break!: Dressed in Black Edition



TV Star Nell Carter Dies

It's a sad day for those of us weened on the sitcoms of the '80s.

If nothing else, this show gave the world Joey Lawrence. Take that as you will.



Wednesday, January 22, 2003

 

You Probably Didn't Know Any of This



Everything you ever needed to know about jet fuel

No, really.


 

Phoning It In Special



Um, that Joe Millionaire guy is really dumb.

And those chicks are sure in for a big surprise when the curtain comes crashing down and their dim emperor has no clothes! And no money!

Every conversation you have in LA has the potential to resemble the worst American Idol audition.

Look, a link to a funny news story:
Bangkok Rounds Up Urban Elephants to Cut Accidents
Ah, those people from other countries and their run-ins with wild animals!

Winona!

Yes, Your Baby Is Really Watching TV
And do you know what their favorite show is?
Cribs.
Blam!
So watch out when Lil' Bobby asks for a 24-karat gold diaper, just like Master P's shorties. Or when he calls Mommy "bitch."

Not that I haven't done that. Not to my Mommy, but someone else's, I'm sure. And, in fairness, it was more of a "bee-yatch" kind of situation.

Um, boo-ya?






 

Manifest Destiny Dept.



WFOoBH's bony, icy fingers are slowly spreading over the web.

Check out this latest annexation at brilliant site Über.



Tuesday, January 21, 2003

 

Idol Ramblings Dept.



It's time for American Idol 2.

I decided that it would be a good idea to type some thoughts as the whole mess unfolds, with the sage troika of Simon, Randy, and Forever Your Girl Paula to guide me.

--Someone not even pretending to sing tries to turn the tables on Simon with a lame '"British people have bad teeth" comeback. I find myself shouting, "And they have bad food and the cops don't have guns!" at the screen.

--Twin singers try to advance to the next round in Hollywood. Simon (the mean one, remember?) tosses around the idea of only allowing one to advance, thereby negating any (although admittedly slim) chance of yours truly finding himself in middle of a Parent-Trap Sandwich. Both are ultimately allowed to advance: Keep hope alive!

--A seemingly pre-op transsexual who can't sing in key goes off on the celebrity panel, perhaps hoping its he/she moxie will result in some Faustian bargain with Fox for the completion of gender-swapping hormone treatments.

--Simon declares fey singer the "worst in NY," then challenges him to find someone worse. No word if Enrique Iglesias is in town. Several cut-to scenes of "worst" guy singing on city street as homeless people howl and beg kabob vendors to puncture eardrums.

--Commercial demonstrates danger of smoking pot in concert-venue bathroom as toking teens are busted. Amen. I would have run so fast when I saw that cop.

--Simon tells awful contestant he can't take anymore punishment. I can't help but think the same thing, but my torment continues because I've forgotten my dominatrix's safe word. The liberal application of cat o'nine tails continues unabated.

--Heartwarming story about how some college friends conducted a pledge drive to send one singer to the tryouts. She can sing, but she looks like Eve ate Big Bird, vomited him out, then ate Dennis Rodman.

--It's nearly the halfway mark and the show moves to Miami, with an especially annoying introduction by Ryan Seacrest, who pretends to know Will Smith. Somewhere, Big Willy Style turns to Jada and remarks that he is going to beat that Seacrest bitch senseless.

--Simon takes a cheap "slut" shot at Christina Aguilera. He goes on to describe Hitler as "pretty mean," Mike Tyson as "somewhat less than stable," and Michael Jackson as "porcelain."

--Paula "Straight Up" Abdul's career is still over as of 8:56pm Pacific Time.

--Seacrest somewhat racistly asks a blonde, spikey-haired (the same haircut as the Big Bird eater from above, coincidentally), R&B singing Asian guy if he "knows kung-fu." When he answers in the negative, Seacrest follows up by asking, "Do you understand me, ching-chong-yang-wah-ah-soh?"

--Some slightly unhinged guy leading off with a bad Scarface impression manages to sing an Enrique Iglesias song worse than, well, Enrique Iglesias.

--A commercial for the upcoming film Biker Boyz reminds me why I live in Hollywood, and that, indeed, Biker Boyz make their own rules.

--The Idol Crew moves from My-Yammy to Austin, TX. I don't have much to say about Austin. I hear it's a great place, and a friend of mine described it as having "more 30-year-old slackers than Los Angeles." Please wire me a bus ticket. How does that even work? Is a telegraph involved? I hope somewhere there's a guy in a green visor tapping away on a telegraph. I like green visors. Maybe I'll just go to an old-timey poker game.

--Maybe the Eve-lookalike didn't eat Big Bird. Maybe she ate the fat black guy in the yellow zoot-suit who didn't make the cut in Austin.

--I just remembered that in the last installment of Idol, Seacrest had a little help in the form of Brian Dunkleman. Perhaps Seacrest devoured him in an effort to absord his host-energy. Or Fox figured they only needed one talentless asshole to hug other talentless assholes after they go in front of the judges.

--There was an earthquake in Mexico. Were any potential Idols lost in the rubble? News at 11.

--Randy creatively suggests that one contestant name his about-to-be-born child "Randy." Paula, taking a similar tack, asks him to name the baby "Washed-Up Estevez Ashtray."
[I should probably just quit here. I'm not going to top that one. But that's never stopped me in the past, has it?]

--One of last year's Idols is named Christina Christian, whose last name is a simple anagram of her first name.
An anagram for Paula Abdul is "I spent royalty checks on Twinkies."

--One of last year's Idols has a karaoke business. Like, wow. They should make a bad TV show about people who sing other people's songs off-key. Now that would be an idea.

--Or maybe one of these guys could pretend to be rich, lure some gold-diggers onto TV to pursue him, then get Melissa M. to move to Hollywood to have my children.

--Last year's runner-up Idol still has really fucking retarded hair. Extra really fucking retarded. That is all.

--Melissa M. and I don't need to have children. It's more the beginning of the process I'm interested in.

--The Idol crew check in with winner Kelly Clarkson to see what she's been doing: "Praying that I don't wind up married to Emilio after blowing through all my karaoke-slave money like someone I won't name. Paula. Why did I just say that name? Strange."

[If I mention Paula one more time I may be forced to add her to the rotating WFOoBH Hall of Fame picture. Let's not have that happen, OK?]

Oh my, Idol is going to be on again tomorrow night.

Peace out.

And Simon dreams to you all.


Monday, January 20, 2003

 

New Poll Time: Sin City Edition



Yes, I was in Vegas. Yes, Vegas kicked my ass, told me to never come back, then winked at me as she walked away, flashing a neon smile.

So there you have it.

[The Joe Millionaire poll was a cheap-shot delight. We all know that the contestants are extra-greedy sluts that are getting what's coming to them. But the one with the curly black hair, Melissa M., is really cute. Maybe she's not so bad. Maybe she's really interested in guys who don't make a lot of money. Maybe she'll Google her name as she watches the show, wind up here, and learn a little from a man who's truly honest. Maybe, maybe. If only I didn't have that damn ten million dollar inheritance...]


Friday, January 17, 2003

 

Trading Spaces, Changing Rooms, While You Were Out Special Fold-Out Section



...or whatever the one on VH1 is called, where the rockstars come in and redecorate your home. Some prankster thought that it would be a good idea to lure me away from the computer for a little while, get me drunk, and let Johnny Cash have his way with the design of my website.

Let me know what you think of the new design, which I hear took hours and hours of tweaking, a fifth of bourbon, and caused the smashing of three acoustic guitars. I'll pass your thoughts on to the Man in Black.

[For those of you who'd like to live in the past, the old site design is preserved in the oldest archive, May of 2002.]


 

Ecce Hamburgeritum!



New York Loves Its Hamburgers [req. required]


 

Kitten's Got Clause Dept.



West Hollywood may ban declawing of cats

Citing the practice of removing the claws of the popular housepet as "inhumane," the city of West Hollywood is considering banning the practice.

But the slicing off of housepets' genitalia is still "peachy keen," according to city officials.


 

War, Uh-Huh, Etc Etc Section





White House Calls Warheads 'Troubling and Serious'


UN weapons inspectors also found an incriminating Post-It note affixed to one of the warheads reading, "Saddam Make Big Boom on Great Satan."



Thursday, January 16, 2003

 

Lotsa Lava




Ten seconds after the picture was taken, a 200-foot hippie crashed down a giant Birkenstock, crushing the unfortunate spectators. Who, you know, were waiting around for a Phish show or something? Or they were trying to buy a really, really big hemp belt? Guys? Guys?



Wednesday, January 15, 2003

 

Stop Trying to Fix Me, Will You?



Someone going only by the name "Jessica" has been assaulting my inbox lately. She wants me to be a bigger, better man. Okay, I say, I'm listening. She wants me to last longer. Keep going, I say, thinking that I'm not sure that I like the direction of this exchange. We can all do better -- can't we? -- even though I'd like to think I hold my own.

Jessica begs to differ. She thinks my credit report could use a little sprucing up, and maybe get me a guaranteed auto loan. What's wrong with my credit? Nothing, I think. I already have a car. Is this not good enough for her? But I'm glad that she's moved on from the perceived-sexual-inadequacy arena for the moment.

She says she can get me a college degree, cheap. Didn't I graduate college? Didn't I finish graduate school? There are still loans to repay; another go-around in higher education doesn't seem like a great idea for me right now, Jessica. And I don't smoke, so it wouldn't be too hard for me to quit in seven days, guaranteed. Give me an afternoon, tops, and I'll brush the nicotine monkey off my back with very little fuss. And what's that going to prove, Jessica? Would I be good enough for you then? If I dropped fifteen pounds in a weekend, the easy way that you're telling me about, would we be square? Then could I go back to being myself?

Would that be enough?



 

All's Wells that Ends Wells Dept.



Man who punched Yankee sentenced to 45 days in jail

I really have to believe that the guy (a paesan from Yonkers and a bartender) who sucker-punched David Wells was a Mets fan. It all adds up.

Let's just give him season tickets to Shea, let him suffer a bit and call it even.


 

Cheap Shotz Special Report: But There Will be No Mention of the Kids Being All Right



A Jacko joke updated in order to be a bit more au courant:

Did you hear that Pete Townsend was spotted at a K-Mart sale in New York yesterday? He heard that kids' pants were half-off!

[Why didn't anyone inform The Erstwhile King of Pop or the Master of the Playhouse of the "I was doing research" defense?]

[Yes, I am feeling petty and ashamed at myself -- but mainly for using a French phrase here. But this, like all things, will pass.]


 

Maybe They Should Call Him 'Mopey' -- Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha Dept.



So I'm sitting here watching Moby on Carson Daly, and I'm finding him just a touch pathetic as he rambles on about how he got his ass kicked in Boston and how he's a vegan and about his tired, neverending feud with Eminem.

And it goes without saying that I am pathetic for being up and watching Carson Daly.

But it was quite surprising to learn that Fat Joe doesn't eat pork.


 

This Headline is the Story, Sort of Like Those Lame Greeting Cards That Say, 'This Card Isn't Your Birthday Present' on the Front, and Then You Open the Card, and Inside the Card Says, 'The Envelope Is!' Which Leads You to Look Inside the Envelope to See If There Was a Check or Some Cash Inside That You Somehow Missed, and Then You Look In the Card Again, and It's Just That Stupid Punchline, but Maybe There's Something Taped to the Back of the Card [There's Not], So You Open the Card Again, and Hey, the Punchline Again, and Then You Turn to the Cardgiver, and He Sort of Sheepishy Shrugs and Mouths 'The Envelope Is!' and You Half-Smile Sheepishly Back, Your Eyes Saying 'Thanks,' and Then Later That Night You Fall Asleep After Staring at the Ceiling for an Hour and a Half and Thinking, My Birthday Was Last Week



[UPC symbol and numeric code indicating the price go here]


Monday, January 13, 2003

 

Change is an Unstoppable Juggernaut That is Unable to be Stopped Dept.



For no other reason than it has been irresponsibly neglected for months, I've updated the "Best of Bunsen" links (found to your left, under the Archives). It's been renamed "The Very, Very Best of Bunsen," a title not remotely earned and entirely subject to my whimsy. All of it is old, much of it sucks, and I don't know why I bother. But I did feel the need to provide easy access to outdated crap covering the vagaries of the human condition and celebrating the range of human endeavor since this website's founding some 1,300 years ago.

I'll busy myself in the studio preparing new material while the public lines up to re-consume my bullshit.

Enjoy the old junk.


Thursday, January 09, 2003

 

When Manny Met Corey Met Jerri Met Gabrielle Met Vince Met MC Hammer Met Brande Special



I can't help but think that I may have dreamed up the new WB reality show The Surreal Life years ago. I have vague memories of sitting on the couch, tuned out in front of the nineteenth Real World marathon some Saturday afternoon, and saying,
"These people are so damn stupid and boring. The should get a big house like that, and throw MC Hammer, Corey Feldman, some kind of child actor with a developmental defect (not Corey Feldman, he's already in there), and a fat hair-metal dude in there together. Then we'd really have something."

Then I must have momentarily snapped out of my programming reverie, watched five more minutes of narcissistic extroverts argue to the camera about whose turn is it to do the damn dishes?!, and further thought,

"Yeah, they really need to get some professional narcissist extroverts on there. And make sure one of them's a fat hair-metal dude that chicks really used to rend their undergarments for!"

Then Ruthie wound up on the floor of the bathroom stall, barely clinging to consciousness after an epic binge of alcohol poisoning, and the gears again ground to life thusly:

"And hey, Reggie [that was my imaginary assistant at the time -- come on, all successful people have them] let's have the dumpy one from 90210 in there! I bet that she and The Corey That Used To Think That He Was Michael Jackson, God Bless Him would butt heads over the simplest matter, like the idealogical underpinnings of his vegetarianism. She might even fall right back into the investigative journalist role she so ably performed at fictional West Beverly High for years, and challenge the apparent hypocrisy of Corey's leather shoes. Fur could fly, pots could clang, Manny [Emmanuel] Lewis' less-than-optimal pituitary gland could throb, a pair of Hammer pants might exotically shimmy in the hall closet! This show will be genius! Book them, Reggie, book them all, and we'll give them a five hundred dollar food budget! I'll bet a couple of them haven't seen a supermarket in years!

My heart, which obviously must have been racing from a string of mental exclamations, probably then shook me back to the television in front of me. Eric Nies and the Country Music Jon were probably bopping each other with those giantic, bellicose Q-tips left over from the American Gladiators firesale when I again fell prey to reverie and grand ideas.

"And just to make everyone's head really explode from all the different levels of 'reality,' let's throw in one of the most hated cast members from a recent reality show, someone who achieved their artificial notoriety on a show {please hold your ears, Reg, before your brain liquifies and pours out over your cochlea} just like this one!"

At some point, I probably took a quick snack break from the Marathon, and while cracking into another bag of Cheetos and pouring a fresh Mello Yello, it's safe to say I was thinking,

"I'm sure that in a short time, Vince Neil's head is going to swell up like an encephalitic pool toy. He'll be the first guy to head for th fridge that we've stocked solely with beer, kick his shitkickin' heels up on the coffee table, and roll his eyes while his housemates take each other on, a *been there, done that, and I'm-an-inch-away-from-asking-someone-more-able-bodied-than-I-to-help-me-trash-the-place* look balancing over his eyes like a pair of Ray Bans on a break. And let's get some Plaboy-slash-Baywatch bim on there to goose the ratings a little, get a little eye-candy going. You getting all this, Reggie?"

Heavy-lidded and back on the couch, staring with mouth agape at three Real Worlders trying to swing a menage, the rest of the blueprint arranged itself, like so:

"Holy fucking shit, Reg-my-man, we're going to knock this motherfucker out of the park right here. Corey's going to propose to his girlfriend straight out of the shoot, on the first episode! And they'll get married on the last episode! Can you say, 'bookends'? This kid is gonna write the whole maiden season for us up front!"

Finally, with some tears and hugs streaming from the Marathon as Gay Dan and Melissa settle their disagreement, Reggie decided to mouth off. I hear him say, "It still needs something, boss-man." I have to answer him. The kid was lipping off, but he was right.

"Maybe you have a point. How about an inflatable bounce-castle in the backyard, like they have at the county fair, and they could vote each other out into the castle? Nah. How about we serve them a meal of sushi on the body of young, naked woman, you know, a semi-ritual that Maxim would report on as the height of Asian culture? It would set off at least half the house -- born-again Hammer would eschew the nubile, unclothed living-mannequin; Corey would be too tempted because he thinks he's a sex addict and would not be able to restrain himself from crashing the platter of California rolls into the pool before taking the young woman right there on the dinner table; Manny Lewis is still like ten years old, and naked ladies are still yucky to him. That's it, Reg-a-roo! We're doing it!"
There was, I remember through the haze, a blow to the back of the head. I may recall that the Cheetos were gone, the liquor cabinet was cleared out, and there may have been a mysterious letter bearing the mascot of the WB, Michigan J. Frog: "Speak of this to no one, see? It didn't happen, see? One day you'll be rewarded with a job at our network with criminally low wages and demeaning responsibilities, see? Zip it if ya know what's good for ya."

But like I said, it's all a bit hazy. It's probably nothing.


Wednesday, January 08, 2003

 

Fall 2003 Television Preview Section



Sex in the City to end next year

HBO announced that their breakthrough, Emmy-winning comedy Sex in the City will end after its sixth season, with the series finale airing sometime in early 2004.

WFOoBH has obtained a synopsis of SITC's ultimate episode:

<******SPOILER ALERT*******>

The Slutty One From Mannequin buys some shoes, sleeps with a man who buys her a nice necklace, and reveals that she has never had an orgasm because she's never learned to love. The Boring One From Melrose Place admits that she has been secretly engaged in a relationship with a woman and reveals that she has never had an orgasm because she has cared too much about her sexual partners. The One With The Red Hair And Who I Think Was Pregnant Or Something finds herself in desperate financial straits and sells her baby on eBay to save her Upper West Side apartment and her massive shoe collection, then takes in a fabulous male interior decorator as a live-in nanny. The One Whose Head Vaguely Resembles That Of A Horse, But In A Pretty Way, Really, decides that she will never find True Love, shaves her head, and sells the hair to an outrageous Madonna-impersonating drag queen in order to help The One With The Red Hair And Who I Think Was Pregnant Or Something save her baby from online auctioning -- but it's too little, too late. The baby's been bought and paid for by a mysterious stranger wearing one studded glove and a surgical mask. The four friends engage in a weepy, irony-tinged shopping spree, and we discover that the entire series has been nothing more than the dream of a slightly-autistic shoe salesman from the Manolo Blahnik store on Sixth Avenue.

So it goes.

[We at WFOoBH have reliable assurances as to the veracity of this document, though for the life of us can't figure out why the writers don't know the names of their own characters after five seasons of sexy, sassy fun.]


Tuesday, January 07, 2003

 

Feeling Poll-ish Dept.



So, after a very long holiday-induced delay, there is finally a new poll in place for your voting pleasure.

I know that longtime readers of WFOoBH are probably slightly disappointed at the recent lack of Joe Millionaire coverage on the site, but this is for a very good reason: we fell asleep twice during the reality-whorefest's debut, and don't feel that we could offer a complete reckoning of the debut episode like we did for Anna Nicole.

Suffice it to say that Joe himself seemed slightly retarded throughout the bow of the "Greedy Sluts Get What's Coming to Them By the Good Folks at Fox" series, choking on questions as simple as "What's your middle name?" in an effort to preserve the ruse at the heart of the series. Surely, if he had told the truth about his really, really controversial middle name, the entire enterprise would have come crashing down around him and Fox would have been deprived of the opportunity to expose the motives of one deceived golddigger. Good thing he hemmed and hawed like he was being asked if he had received oral satisfaction from a government intern. The women probably spent the remainder of the evening wondering if he'd taken a little too much jackhammer between the ears.

Way to go, Joe. It's obvious that nineteen grand a year is going toward some high-quality acting lesson.

So look to the left and make your voice heard, etc etc.

[The last poll was up a fortnight, but people seemed to think that Kelly McGillis crossed over to the Old Side PDQ after riding on the back of Maverick's motorcycle. Sheesh. Didn't anyone see Witness?]


Sunday, January 05, 2003

 

A Letter from the Editor



Just moments after publishing the last post (see below, "What's the 'D' Stand For, Eh?" Section, I realized that picking on Canadians for not knowing how to "drive a car" is misguided and unfair. If you actually followed the link to the original news story and bypassed the snappy headline, you would have found that the would-be car thieves from North of Here did indeed know how to drive a car, just not a stick shift.

I don't know how to drive a stick shift, either. That's not exactly accurate -- I know how, technically, I've just never done it for a distance of more than a couple of blocks and that was nearly a decade ago. Placed in a similar situation, I might have abandoned my car theft plans (ahem) mid-stream once I discovered a manual transmission in the target vehicle. Is it fair to pick on these teens? Yes, they are Canadian, and there's certainly something inherent in that which makes an American instantly go on the offensive with jokes about the overall flatness of their "bacon," derisively referring to their nation as America Lite or America Junior or Wisconsin North or the like, or taking some cheap shot at their country's fascination with hockey (see hockey stick reference below [Canada Fun Fact: Hockey is not the official sport of Canada, lacrosse is]). And they are certainly not a nation of flannel-clad lumberjacks, as is also suggested in the previous post (there are more trees in America than in Canada, Jacque). Most of the readership of WFOoBH will be suprised to learn that Canada's chief export is progressive rock power trios such as Rush, Triumph, and Barenaked Ladies (originally a three-piece until co-opted by fame and a Jason Priestley [also screamingly Canadian] directed documentary).

And who, really, could find anything to ridicule about that? Even if the tour buses have manual transmissions.
--ed.


 

"What's the 'D' stand for, Eh?" Section



Inept Canadian Car Thieves Didn't Know How to Drive

The unsuccessful attempt at grand theft auto ended the Canuck duo's crimewave, which previously consisted of a logjacking operation in which fourteen separate pine trees were rolled down a river to an abandoned paper mill and stripped for parts.

[You know, probably for hockey sticks. Or money for acting lessons. You get the idea.]


 

There's Got to Be a French Word Describing This Stuff Dept.



Louisana Prosecutors Rebuked for "Noose" Ties

Two Louisiana prosecutors were rebuked for wearing ties decorated with a hangman's noose to a hearing in a capital murder case, the Associated Press reported.

In related news, Los Angeles traffic cops were issued a formal warning against wearing socks silk-screened with images of officers beating Rodney King. And then there was something about Michael Jackson being banned from wearing any T-shirt promoting his albums to children's birthday parties at the Neverland Ranch.


Thursday, January 02, 2003

 

White Two Weeks After Christmas



Sweet Jesus, it's snowing again. Not for nothing, but being in New York for two weeks and experiencing two snow storms is just about all we can take. I had to kill and barbeque a Yeti for dinner. He never saw me coming.

And no, it didn't taste like chicken.

More like a sasquatch, but just a tad gamier.
[free registration required for link]


Wednesday, January 01, 2003

 

Out With the Old and In With More of the Same Dept.



Ah, January the First, the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Three (yes, it's the "year of our Lord" for everyone, but I thought I might throw the Seventh Day Adventists a bone for the cheapshot in my last post). And with a New Year comes 365 more days of change, opportunities for change, missed opportunites for change, and everything more or less staying the way that it is -- but at the end of the year you find yourself a year older, having dug yourself another couple of inches deeper into the rut that is your life.

I'm not talking about me, per se.

But in an attempt to stave off the atrophy of another year gone by, maybe we're going to get around to making some changes around here. We probably won't, because at year's end we always find ourselves profoundly affected with a crippling introspection that leads to nothing but feelings of inadequacy, shame, and self-loathing at just how little we accomplished in the past year. So we're not making any promises just to let you and ourselves down in the end. Haven't we been disappointed enough? Anser: Of course we have. [Please note that the word "answer" was intentionally misspelled in the preceding sentence just to prove a point about disappointment. Yes, I agree that was a touch manipulative. But it did give me a fleeting sensation of power that has nonetheless made me feel even worse once it faded, so we're even.] As a sometimes-wise friend of mine has said on numerous occasions: "You can't fail if you don't try," [a sentiment that has backdoored itself into adoption as my battle cry at singles bars]. But if changes happen, they happen.

Winona Ryder will probably be officially retired as the ongoing muse/doe-eyed ingenue/outlaw of WFOoBH. She may be replaced by one of the following: Rose McGowan, Salma Hayek, someone who somewhat resembles Winona Ryder, or any one of a number of raven-haired female bartenders in the Greater Los Angeles area. Somebody might get "discovered." We're going to keep matters such as this one flexible here at WFOoBH in 2003. [The "no blonde muse/doe-eyed ingenue/outlaw" rule will probably remain in effect.]

[Brackets will probably remain the punctuation of choice for the various and utterly too-frequent parenthetical asides used to diminshing effect on WFOoBH.]

WFOoBH will probably continue to provide up-to-the-minute coverage of any and all weather anomalies afflicting the Great Los Angeles area. This includes but is not restricted to rainfall in excess of .0004 inches in any 24-hour period, temperatures of over 90 degrees Fahrenheit, and being able to see my breath after sundown. In the case of any Weather Emegencies, my provisions of choice may no longer be vodka and cans of tuna fish. I think that I'm really starting to tire of all this weather coverage, which winds up feeling like bad small talk stretched to Dadaist extremes. I've regained an appreciation for extreme weather on my recent return to my East Coast homeland. But man, it's cold out here, isn't it? I think they said it's going to snow again. Hey--it's winter, what are you going to do? It's cold, but it ain't Boston cold. I remember the time in Boston when it rained for about 14 straight days. That wasn't any fun. Yeah, the weather.

There's something about Cuba Gooding, Jr. in a sailor hat that we just can't put a finger on. That will probably remain the same in 2003. We don't see it changing, but you never know. And please, let's not read anything into that. You'll make me tired.

There's a chance that we will not seek out the oft-referenced "supermodel sandwich" with the same alacrity with which it was pursued in 2002. [All right, here you go.]

We may take pains to expand the readership of WFOoBH past the tight-knit circle of people that have seen me do very embarassing things whilst drunk and the four Kiwi sheap-shearers who read via a Gilligan's Island-style bicycle-powered internet connection. If one constructed a Venn diagram of these two readerships, one might find that there is some overlap in the circles.

There may be another falling out with Harrison Ford. The peace we last established seemed tenuous at best, and the fact that we are spreading rumors about him on the East Coast may not help matters. He's getting old, so who knows how long a renewed hostility would last?

Seventh Day Adventists are still fair game, probably. But here's the thing you don't know: "Seventh Day Adventists" is a code-word for another group of people. Keep the guesses coming.

We might reconsider the exertion with which we are pushing that extra-large boulder up the hill that we can't quite see the top of, but then again, we may continue shoving away until our feet slide on some gravel and it crushes us like ants on the Birkenstock sole of an agitated hippie.

We may attempt an overall reduction in silly and belabored metaphors.

We possibly will try to check and see if we've already used a word such as "belabored" in this post or in a recent post before using it again, diluting its considerable power like a splash of water in an early-morning glass of Tropicana Homestyle.

We might try to care again.

We may begin to hope.

But like I said, we probably won't change.



About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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