The Greatest Blog In the World

Thursday, July 31, 2003

 

You Will See Two Dashes Followed by an Item, and Then a Line Break, Repeated Until There Are No More Ideas. This is Not a List.



I have not seen Gigli yet, so it may seem somewhat unfair to attack it in this space. To those who may think what I'm about to do is unfair, I ask you this: do you need to step in a steaming turd on the sidewalk to know that it's going to be a bitch to get out of the treads of your new sneakers?

Things that Ben Affleck can do to save his reputation in the wake of Gigli's savaging by critics and surefire impending box office demise:

--Age about 70 years overnight and immediately die

--Dump J-Lo and quickly step in to fill the uxorial void created by David Gest splitting from Liza, using excuse "I could still taste P. Diddy on her."

--Enter a polyamorous relationship with Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore* and accompany them, her children with the stupid, pretentious names, and Bruce Willis to movie premieres

--Sodomize Matt Damon on Pay-Per-View

--Just keep on bein' Affleck, man, keep on bein' Affleck

--Get George W. Bush to strenuously assert that he advised Ben, based on "pretty darn good" intel, that Gigli would not be the worst movie ever made

--Have Marlon Brando finger-blasting a squirrel digitally inserted into the soon-to-be-infamous scene where J-Lo compares her female genitalia to a turkey

--Write a list

[*Due to a stack overflow error in my Unfunny Writing Bot, the old version of this particular list item did not make sense because of a pronoun/antecedent mismatch. I hate it when that happens. Thanks to the diligent reader who pointed this out, whom I must now entreat to go fuck himself. Are you perfect? Are you? I happen to know that you are not, but the only person that is perfect is God, and he really isn't a person. He is a Supreme Being that is trying his damndest to keep me from my rightful, richer-than-Bill-Gates, married-to-Jennifer-Connelly-after-she-puts-her-kid-up-for-adoption place in the world.]


Wednesday, July 30, 2003

 

Because 100 Years of Entertainment Deserves More Than Just One Post



Over the next few days, you will read many weepy reflections and see many sepia-toned television highlight packages on the passing of Bob Hope, one of America’s greatest entertainers.

These people didn’t know Bob Hope. I knew Bob Hope. At least for the last week or so of a life that saw one-hundred spectacular, America-entertaining birthdays. MORE...



Tuesday, July 29, 2003

 

I Have Used the Term Listapalooza in the Past



Page Six reports that Kevin Smith's daughter walked in on him and his wife* having sexual relations, or as they called it, "night-swimming."

In the interest of fulfulling the weekly list quota recently imposed upon this blog by the Instapundit (the Internet's blogging dictator, whom I never read out of blinding jealousy), here are several new euphemisms for Kevin Smith having sex:

--Chasing Amy with a Red Hot Weasel

--Making the Beast with Two Backs and Two Black Trenchcoats

--Silent Bobbing and Kneeling (Dogma-style only)

--Night-fucking

--Afflecking

--Getting Rewritten by Tim Burton on Superman

--Sucking 37 Cocks Minus 36 on the Way Through the Parking Lot

--Mallrats was a Piece of Shit and We're Fucking


Or, perhaps, some nights he can't perform because "Weinstein gets final cut." To which his wife might respond, "Don't worry it happens to every guy...even Scorcese."


[*It should be noted that Smith has a hot wife because he is fat and funny, not because he is rich and famous.]


 

Thanks for the Memories Dept.



I know what you are thinking:

Bunsen done went and killed Bob Hope with his mind.

It's true that I've been known to influence the outcomes of major-league baseball games with nothing more than a focused thought-wave. But I did not apply this power to the task of dispatching Mr. Hope (whose continued existence had become the Hollywood equivalent of an overdue library book you find at the bottom of a closet and still somehow neglect to return to your local branch for 18 months) to the strange Valhalla where dessicated entertainment Vikings ultimately rest their compromised souls.

No, my internet rascals, Bob finally found his way deathward all by his lonesome. I had nothing against Bob Hope. If anything, he reminded me of my great-grandfather who, like Hope, always smelled of fresh argyle, hayseed liniment, and a yearning for his heavenly rewards in his last days. Unlike Hope, Great Grampaw was not a quitter who cashed his chips before making it to 101.

So to pay tribute to the legendary, chronologically-overextended showman beloved by many Americans who now can only relieve themselves with the assistance complicated machinery, I present short synopses of Bob's three lost, great road pictures that were shelved because of short-sighted studio executives fearful of society's rapidly-changing tastes.

The Road from Chattanoogie (1946): Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and a runaway slave named Solomon (Sidney Poitier) try to sneak through the back roads of the 1860 South to the relative freedom of the North where they expect him to be a star of the nascent Vaudeville scene. Hope and Crosby show progressive attitudes to the pre-Emancipation slave, treating him just like any other hitchhiker they might have encountered on the dusty lanes of Tennessee. When the boys smuggle Solomon into a whites-only motel for an overnight stay, they entertain Solomon with a rendition of a rollicking Negro spiritual as he washes their wicker hats and corn-cob pipes. After an hilarious encounter with the bigoted-but-just-a-product-of-his-times sheriff in rural Virginia that scorchingly sends up The Birth of a Nation, they arrive safely in New York. Vaudeville dreams don't pan out, but Hope and Crosby land Solomon a gig as a singing doorman in their luxury Park Avenue residence hotel. Never released because Poitier bedded Paramount Pictures honcho Ernst Lubitsch's mistress, leading him to coin an oft-repeated phrase about "going black" and "never going back."

The Road to Rio II (1948): At at time when true sequels were rarer than a drop of rain in the Depression-era dustbowl field, Hope and Crosby were true pioneers of the filmic revisitation, reprising their roles as musicians on the run stowing away on a cruise ship. This time, the duo stow away on a runaway bus that will burst into flames if the crooners stop playing ukelele ditties for even a second of this pressure-packed adventure. Throw in a wisecracking, fast-talking Filipino sidekick named Raoul (Peter Lorre) and the first on-screen same-sex kiss (don't worry, ill-matching stunt doubles were used for the taboo-busting buss), and you have the grandaddy of the modern summer blockbuster. Never released because the simulated kiss was deemed "too San Francisco" to play in the Bible Belt.

The Road to Euthanasia (2003): When half of Bing Crosby's cremains are stolen from his estate by a deranged fan, it's up to Hope, Ronald Reagan, and Strom Thurmond to get them back before the villain scatters them over Red Buttons' star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The other half of Crosby's dust rides shotgun in the ashtray of the trio's cherry-red 1960 Ford Fairlaine as Hope and company try to avert a Tinseltown tragedy. Time is of the essence as any one of the ageless heroes could expire from natural causes as they race against the clock. Shelved upon Thurmond's shocking passing in late June of 2003. Ever-optimistic studio heads "just assumed they would live forever."


Monday, July 28, 2003

 

All Ye Who Desire Weekend News Coverage Despair Here



There are so many things that happened this weekend that I am literally overwhelmed. For example, did you know that Japan is sending tiny, efficient, hard-drinking, Hello-Kitty-obsessed and schoolgirl fetishist troops to Iraq? Did you know that over 1,000 test tube children gathered to celebrate the 25th birthday of the first test-tube baby by masturbating to completion into pipettes? Now you do.

In response to the total news overload*, I curled up Sunday night in the nice, safe dog basket of the back room of impossibly exclusive L.A. watering hole Barfly to review the weekend's box office grosses with Seabiscuit star and former Pussy Posse deputy Tobey Maguire. Tobey and I sipped Long Island Ice Teas out of wine flutes designed to look like stripper shoes as we kicked around the weekly Hollywood scorecard.

No. 1: Spy Kids 3-D ($32.5 million)

Bunsen: I wasn't even aware of this movie's existence.

Tobey Maguire: That's really shameful considering that you consider yourself some sort of half-man, half-pop-culture god.

Bunsen: You always say that people are half-man and half-something when you're drunk.

Tobey: Touché.

No. 2: Pirates of the Caribbean ($22.4 million)

Bunsen: Everyone says that Johnny Depp is doing a Keith Richards impression in this movie. I prefer to think he's doing a Tobey Maguire impression.

Tobey: I don't drink that much.

[I bust out laughing.]

Tobey: No, really.

[Tobey busts out laughing.]

Bunsen: You're so fucking drunk, Tobe.


No. 3: Bad Boys II ($22 million)

Bunsen: I couldn't help but notice that Seabiscuit isn't in the top 3.

Tobey: I noticed that, too.

Bunsen: But you're motherfucking drunken Spiderman, Toblerone!

Tobey: Tell me about it.


No. 4: Lara Croft Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life ($21.8 million)

Bunsen: Still waiting for Seabiscuit in the home stretch, Tobey Tikki Tavi.

Tobey: Don't worry, it's coming.

Bunsen: I also couldn't help but notice that you are having sex with that cocktail waitress right in front of me.

Tobey: See, when you say things like that, people are going to think that I'm drunk and having sex with a cocktail waitress right in front of you when that's clearly not the case.

Bunsen: Excuse me, coat check girl.

Tobey: Accuracy is important. Have you learned nothing from Jayson Blair?


No. 5: Seabiscuit ($21.5 million)

Bunsen: At last, Seabiscuit.

Tobey: On the set we called it "SEE-biz-CUE-it."

Bunsen: Can I just say something? Jockeys are fucking funny.

Tobey: They really fucking are.

Bunsen: Fifth place, though?

Tobey: We had the highest per-screen average.

Bunsen: Do you think the red states understand per-screen average? Let's ask the coat check girl, I think she said she was from Nebraska.

Tobey: Don't be crazy, you know I finished up with her during the Lara Croft section above.

Bunsen: Dude, I was trying to throw some props your way.

Tobey: Jesus Christ, I'm fucking drunk.

Bunsen: At least I didn't slip in a Seabiscuit-related bestiality joke here.

Tobey: Thanks for that. You're quality people, man. I gotta go get my coat.

[He hugs me and falls asleep in my lap.]

Bunsen: Did you ever think about zapping the horse?

---------
[*It was either hang with Tobey or play keno and smoke crack with Conrad Bain, but we should all know by now that nonsensical references to 80's sitcom stars are just comedic punts, even though I did once smoke crack with Conrad Bain while Justine Bateman was knitting me some legwarmers, naked.]


Friday, July 25, 2003

 

Who are All These People in My Upscale Taqueria?



Inexplicable, swift-acting, quickly-dispersing mobs are forming everywhere. Los Angeles, torchbearer/force-feeder of world culture, will not be left out.

The Mob Project: Los Angeles

Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2003 09:16:19 -0700 (PDT)
From: The Mob Project
To: lamobproject@yahoo.com
Subject: LA MOB #1

You are invited to take part in MOB, the project that creates an inexplicable mob of people in Los Angles
for ten minutes or less, traffic permitting. Please forward this to other people you know who might like to join, unless they are Scientologists. They have their own Mob Project.

INSTRUCTIONS - LA MOB #1
Start time: Monday, July 28th, sometime after 7:15pm
Duration: 10 minutes or less

(1) At some point during the day on July 28th, synchronize your watch to the box office gross of the number three movie on Daily Variety's chart. Use "army time" calculations.

(2) By 6:55 PM, based on the following criteria, please situate yourselves in the bars below. Buy a
drink and act casual. NOTE: if you are attending the MOB with friends, you may all meet in the same bar, so
long as at least one of you has current SAG/AFTRA, WGA, or DGA membership.

If your last project had less than a thirty-five percent falloff in its second week of release, meet at the maitre'd stand at Spago's Beverly Hills.

If your latest screen credit included "guest" or "story by" or "associate" meet at The Hard Rock Cafe in Universal CityWalk, in the back underneath the Milli Vanilli gold record.

If you have shared a knowing glance at the craft services table with either Bruce Willis, Julia Roberts, or Jennifer Lopez and were NOT immediately fired, meet at Trader Vic's next to the red Polynesian mask.

(3) Then or soon thereafter, an LA MOB representative will appear in the bar and pass around further instructions. The instructions will specify the mob site, the start time, the duration, and directions featuring the route with the fewest left-hand turns. The instructions will give you what you need and then some. There will also be a takeaway gift bag (valued at $8,500) to thank you for your time and participation.

(4) In particular, the instructions will tell you when to disperse. Make sure that two minutes after the specified time, you are no longer at the mob site. If you are spotted there once the LA MOB scene has "cooled," you will never work in this town again and your past screen credits are subject to post-facto arbitration.

(5) Return to what you otherwise would have been doing, liberally quoting from the movie "Swingers" (e.g. "This place is fucking dead," "That was so money," etc) and await instructions for LA MOB #2.

NOTES: You may send your assistant or representation in your stead. But afterwards, you must talk about the LA MOB as if you were actually there. Use vivd, unverifiable details. Say you saw so-and-so there, even if you know that so-and-so is in Cannes for the weekend. Remember that people will be too polite to call bullshit on you to your face.

Future Los Angeles Mobs will form in the third dressing room from the back wall in Saks Fifth Avenue and on the 405 freeway between Sunset Blvd and LAX -- but don't tell anyone about them yet unless it will help you bed a desperate actress just looking to break into the biz.


Thursday, July 24, 2003

 

Listless, but Nonetheless Suitable for Linking



Nine Transliterative Spellings of Saddam's Recently Deceased Sons' Names

--Uday and Qusay

--Udai and Qusai

--Uma and Q-prah

--Uhaul and Quizno

--Changay and Engay

--Dead and Deaderer

--"Stinky" and "Poopypants"

--Sacco and Vanzetti

--Jay-Z and Ashanti


 

Nizz-ail in the Coffin Dizzle (Unlisty)



One Fearless Prediction That Will Be Proven Eerily Accurate in the Coming Days:

Throw pillows featuring the Snoopism "Fo Shizzle" embroidered over a quaint, rustic cabin will soon find themselves on the shelves of your neighborhood Target and onto the couch of your favorite grandmother.



Snoop Talk: it's Over. Done. Whatever, Next.


 

Keel-Hauled (Not a List)



Brought to you by court order resulting from repeated viewings of Johnny Depp in "Pirates of the Caribbean"

Wearing a bandana and a plastic "Les Miserables" commemorative eyepatch with a tiny hole in it does not make me a pirate.

Barking at the mailman does not make me a pirate.

Eating out of the peanut butter jar with a Slim Jim does not make me a pirate.

Trying to teach a parrot at Bird Jungle to say "Take it all! Take it all, wench!" just to scandalize the grandmother type behind the counter does not make me a pirate.

Staring down the grocery bagger when she asks me "paper or plastic?" does not make me a pirate.

Falling asleep in a shopping cart outside the local Hooters waiting for Sunny to get off work to apologize for offering to "board her poop deck and plunder her booty" because it was much too easy a pirate joke and I'm really, really not usually that obvious does not make me a pirate.

Crying myself to sleep after failing to reach climax masturbating to the image of Rosie O'Donnell foxy boxing with Billie Jean King just to see if I can do it does not make me a pirate.

Leaving filthy messages on Salma Hayek's answering machine alluding to her breakup with Edward Norton does not make me a pirate, even if I roll the r's in a stereotypically pirate-y fashion.

Not caring about the imminent recall of California Governor Gray Davis because I consider myself above West Coast politics does not make me a pirate.



Wednesday, July 23, 2003

 

Nuptials Dept.

--or--

Some Dashes Followed by a Sequence of Obvious Nonsense



It looks as if the two-foot-eight "Mini Me" (aka Verne Troyer) is engaged to six-foot-two yoga instructor Genevieve Gallen. In other words, a freakishly short man is going to marry a woman of above-average height.

Some fret about the seemingly impossible sexual logistics of such a union. Personally, I've never had any problems being serviced by a midget, but it's usually more of a cooperative, tag-team situation. Think totem poles. OK, don't.

But relationships offering such a height juxtaposition is hardly unprecedented in Hollywood. Other stature-mismatches include:

--Morticia and Gomez Addams
--Bea Arthur and Haley Joel Osment
--Richard "Bull from 'Night Court'" Moll and the psychic from "Poltergeist"
--Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman
--Lurch and VICKI from "A Small Wonder"
--The dog from "Frasier" and Gentle Ben
--the Colossus of Rhodes and Elizabeth Taylor
--Anyone and Michael J. Fox
--Brooke Shields and one of those legless Mexican kids on a skateboard

Now perhaps you will leave Verne and Genevieve alone as they try and plan their wedding, which my sources hint will include best man Michael Clarke Duncan wearing a baby harness.



 

Lists are Easier to Write Dept.



Ten Headline Puns Likely to be Used in Reviews of the New Jane's Addiction Album

--Jane's Got a New Addiction

--Totally Addicted to Jane's New Sounds

--Easy to Kick This New Addiction

--Jane's Addiction Kicks the Hiatus Habit, Releases New Album

--Not So Addictive, This New Jane

--Lollapalicious New Album from Jane's Addiction

--Been Caught Stealing: New Jane's Album Leads Unauthorized Downloads

--I Am So Addicted to Heroin That I Could Not Afford to Buy the New Jane's Addiction Album

--I Fear Perry Farrell Is Going to Rape Me in My Dreams, Jane's Addiction Releases New Album

--I Find Myself Strangely Attracted to Dave Navarro When He Wears a Corset Despite the Fact That His Creative Facial Hair Clearly Reveals Him to be Male and I Am Pretty Sure I'm Not a Homosexual


Special Bonus Section: Five Sensational, Cynical Attempts to Lure Googlers to this Site By Citing Hot-Button Current Events:

--Look here for nude pictures of Kobe Bryant's rape accuser buying drugs for overdose!

--Hero POW Jessica Lynch returns home for welcome back blast at Hooter's

--Tony Blair's exclusive yellowcake suicide recipe!

--"Hunting for Bambi" entrepreneurs add "Hooker Bow-hunting" to extreme-sports package

--Space shuttle Challenger tragedy jokes clumsily adapted for Santa Monica Farmer's Market tragedy



Tuesday, July 22, 2003

 

If I Could Talk to the Grieving Animals Dept.



It is believed that Saddam Hussein's sons Uday and Qusay have been killed in a firefight in the city of Mosul.

I immediately placed a call to Mandor, Uday's pet tiger that was abandoned in the Baghdad zoo when Uday fled the city, to get a reaction to his master's reported demise.


Bunsen: I know this must be hard for you. Thanks for speaking with me.

Mandor [via satellite phone in Baghdad]: Thanks. I'll do my best.

Bunsen: I suppose that you have mixed feelings about Uday's apparent passing.

Mandor: How so?

Bunsen: He did abandon you after the war started.

Mandor: He was my master. I understood that he needed to leave. We've all got to look out for Number One, you dig?

Bunsen: That's very understanding of you. So you would have left him to starve in the zoo?

Mandor: No. But that's me. I cared about him.

Bunsen: Would you say that you loved him?

Mandor: I don't like where you're going with this.

Bunsen: Were you "in love" with him?

Mandor: He was my master. I'm not sure that love figures into the equation. But I guess I loved him.

Bunsen: Uh huh.

Mandor: I don't think I like your tone.

Bunsen: What tone is that? You were in love with Uday, your "master." What's the shame in that? The heart wants what it wants, no?

Mandor: It's the sing-songy way you're saying that the bothers me.

Bunsen: Did you lurve him?

Mandor: Cut it out.

Bunsen: Did you happen to catch that show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy yet?

Mandor: I'm starving in a cage in the Baghdad Zoo.

Bunsen: You're evading the question. Surely the Americans are taking care of you. You probably have cable.

Mandor: I might have Bravo in my basic package.

Bunsen: How did you know that show's on Bravo?

Mandor: It's really not nice to pick on me. My master is probably dead.

Bunsen: I understand how hard it is to lose someone you luuuurrrrrrve.

Mandor: You seem to be a little preoccupied with my life.

Bunsen: I just want you to be true to yourself.

Mandor: Whatever. I have to go.

Bunsen: Be true to yourself!

Mandor: Get a life!

[The phone line is disconnected.]


I Went to Hollywood and All I Got Was This Lousy Intervention

 
I knew there would be trouble when I returned to my Hollywood compound after a Fourth of July weekend in Baghdad and found Matthew Perry sitting in my living room.

Matthew Perry, if you’ll recall, is the star of the long-running NBC sitcom "Friends".

“We’ve been waiting for you,” he said. There was something both expectant and sad in his eyes, the puffiness of a hard-fought and still-new sobriety in his face.

“We?” I asked.

He clapped his hands quickly and loudly, as if summoning the help. I was momentarily confused because I have the help trained only to respond to the tinkling of a porcelain bell I’d picked up in some down time on a whore-binge in Rangoon.

Perry clapped again. Drew Barrymore, Ben Affleck (with his personal assistant, who due to arcane Hollywood assistant convention, only warrants mention in parentheses despite her engagement to Matt Damon and a brief, yet intense, sexual relationship with me), and “Personal Power” guru Tony Robbins entered single-file from the pantry.

“What’s this about?” I asked. But I knew what “this” was “about.”

Intervention.

“We need to talk,” said Perry, his eyes a little sadder, his face puffier than even a moment earlier, his hard-fought sobriety seconds older. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he said, gesturing to a beanbag chair in which I’d once spanked Barrymore with a whoopee cushion covered in mayonnaise during one of my chubby-chasing phases (this, obviously, was before her "Charlie’s Angels" gig). She averted her gaze as I plopped down in the chair and prepared for the worst.

Affleck stepped forward. “Dude, this is for your own good.” Behind him, Tony Robbins flashed his patented whiter-than-the-face-of-God-at-the-Rapture smile and loudly popped his knuckles. For reasons I don’t entirely understand, he was wearing a spandex speed-skater body suit and one of those helmets with holders for two cans of beer. But instead of beer, there were two cans of Red Bull.

It was Drew’s turn. She sat in my lap, looked into my eyes, and said “I care about you. We care about you.” I hardly heard her words as the sense memory of a good, authentic Bronx cheer and the cool slipperiness of Hellman’s fired through my synapses.
I was snapped back into the troubling present by Robbins’ crackling knuckles.

“I’m just going to say it,” said Affleck. He had a hickey suspiciously close in size to Robbins’ gigantic mouth, but as a gentleman I will refrain from speculating on its origin. Perhaps J-Lo can unhinge her jaw like a python.

“No, let me. I called you all here,” said Perry. He pulled a folding chair in front of me, spun in around backwards so that he could sit on it in a fashion that suggested caring, and ran his hand through his hair.

I swallowed hard. I needed a drink, badly.

“You’re a starfucker,” he said, his eyes immediately breaking our gaze and pointed to the floor. I could hear Affleck sigh, and Robbins momentarily stopped smiling. Drew shifted uncomfortably in my lap, and I had to summon all my powers of imagination to conjure Ellen DeGeneres buttering bread to avoid an embarrassing erection. (Affleck’s personal assistant had taken a call and slipped out to another room.)

“Starfucker,” said Affleck, nodding.

“Star-f’er,” said Drew, determined to keep this PG-13.

I started to speak, but Robbins silently placed a huge index finger across my lips.
Perry continued, “You’re a starfucker. We all know it. It’s time to do something about it.”

“OK,” I said. I just wanted the whole thing to end.

“You’re not going to write about any of this. Make up some shit about going on a camping trip or something without mentioning the names of a single celebrity,” said Affleck.

“You can’t write about this,” said Perry. “That’s the first step. Now watch.”

Robbins retrieved a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon from behind the sofa. He handed cans to Perry and Affleck, who promptly popped the tops and took long swigs. My mouth hung agape, but that was just the beginning. They shook up the beers, stripped off their shirts, and began covering each other in a thick lather of beer suds.

“You can’t write about this,” said Drew.

Perry and Affleck dropped their empty beers and proceeded to beat each other with Nerf softball bats. I don’t know where they came from – they certainly weren’t mine.
Then, without warning, they stopped and put their shirts back on. Drew got up from my lap. Robbins collected the spent beer cans and the Nerf bats.

“Starfucker,” said Perry.

“Starfucker,” said Affleck, as he, Perry, and Barrymore turned to walk out. “You can’t write about this.”

I am so weak, I am so weak.





Monday, July 21, 2003

 

The Guest Dept.



From here on out, I periodically will turn over the whitespace in The Greatest Blog in the World to "Jimmy," the state-school graduate "journalist" to whom I paid a pittance to file a New York Times dispatch from Baghdad during the heaviest shit of the brief onslaught that was Total Fucking Victory. You may now be wondering aloud why I would want to do something like that, speculating that there must be some sort of legal settlement that I can't mention or even obliquely hint at under pains of huge financial forfeitures. You might also posit quietly to yourself that "Jimmy" would like to start a blog of his own, but as a five-year graduate of a four-year institution whose entire budget is paid for by the proceeds from three toll roads outside of Modesto, lacks the technical skills to get one started but possesses in abundance the blood relations to a quite tenacious attorney in one of the country's largest firms.

Come to your own conclusions.

And now, "Jimmy's World," presented entirely in italics at his insistence because they look "badass and curvy":

Why was I kicking Tom Cruise's ass? It might be because I told him that Penelope Cruz's tits looked really great in that T-shirt and I was coked to the gills. Everyone's doing coke all the time now, it's the thing to do. And when I'm coked to the gills I tend to fight celebrities because if there are two things I hate it's rich, famous people and people who date people whose last names sound exactly alike. Maybe they don't sound the same if you say her name in Spanish but I haven't taken Spanish since tenth grade.

So Tom Cruise didn't like my little comment about Penelope's rack which was like popping out of her T-shirt like a Hooter's girl but without the totally wack nude pantyhose. He told me I was being rude to his girlfriend, but he sounded pretty half-hearted about it, so all I did was stare and lick my lips. I was a little horny already because Sharon Stone was giving me an awesome hummer in the bathroom right before I saw Penelope and her tight T-shirt and thought I might get what you could call a two-for-one. So Cruisey (that's what I called him to his face) gives me a little shove and tells me to leave them alone. I tell him that and tell him that if he weren't such a gay he would know how good her chest looked in that shirt. [hey Bunsen, can I say that? am I gonna get sued?] Not that I think that he's gay but you know, the coke. [how about now? now they can't sue me, right?]

Then Cruisey (I called him that again, I can tell he didn't like it) got me in a headlock, but he's about three feet tall so I wrestled him to the ground and pinned him and started slapping his forehead. I let him go when he started to cry, which totally got Sharon Stone wet again so we went back into the bathroom for another blowjob. By then Penelope had run off, probably to figure out how to break up with Cruisey.

When I got out of the bathroom Slyvester Stallone grabbed me by the collar and threw me out. But he told me he thought I was badass and bummed some coke off me.

I nodded my head, because it's true. I'm a badass. Just ask Cruisey.

[how's that? Bunsen and Harrison Ford, I kick your ass!]


----
Thanks, "Jimmy." Tell your "uncle" I said hello.


Friday, July 18, 2003

 

Don't Stop the Wheel in the Sky from Going Its Separate Ways



Don't get used to this, because I'm only linking here because I lost my virginity to Journey's "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'".

Yes, I know that's cliché, especially when it happens at twelve years of age, backstage with three promo girls from St. Pauli Girl. But anytime I hear the angelic voice of Steve Perry, I get a lump in my throat.

You should never, ever leave this site to go somewhere else, even if I tell you to.

[Link via The Usher.]


Thursday, July 17, 2003

 

In Which I Hold Forth on the Physical Imperfections of Someone Who Needs a Sandwich or Three Hundred



Some things nearly as skinny as Lara Flynn Boyle at last night's 2003 ESPY Awards:

--a pipecleaner with all the fuzzy stuff shaved off

--the bleached skeleton of Karen Carpenter

--Manute Bol's ankle

--Calista Flockhart after a four-day colonic

--a mophandle in the clutches of a whittler with OCD

--Bob Hope's chances of making it to 101

--a toothpick with body dismorphic disorder


Wednesday, July 16, 2003

 

A Black Eye for the Straight Guy Special



GEMINI (May 21-June 20): There will be a knock at the door, dear Gemini, and expect a seismic upheaval in your slovenly, heterosexual lifestyle when Harvey Fierstein, Barry Diller, Rip Taylor, Nathan Lane, and the ghost of Rock Hudson barge in to ostensibly remake you in a more fabulous image. Fierstein will head straight for your closet, tearing your ratty flannel shirts with his teeth. Be wary as Diller punches you in the breadbasket and as you stoop to catch your breath, works a healthy dollop of orange-marmalade-scented pomade into your hair moments before carving the telltale mark of Zorro across your scalp with Wahl electric clippers. Just as you think you've gotten it all figured out, capricious Gemini, Rip Taylor is inside your kitchen cabinets, loudly shattering your finest Ikea earthenware and shaving your chest with the suprisingly sharp fragments. In the living room, Nathan Lane will peruse your pornography collection, expressing by a click of the tongue his disapproval with each title and demonstrating an eerily encyclopedic knowledge of the Jenna Jameson oeuvre. Rock Hudson's apparition, meanwhile, will be squatting over your favorite velvet representation of the Mexican Elvis, leaving you with a lasting confusion over exactly why the undead might need to retain the ability to defecate.

They will march out, single-file, as quickly as they came.

You will be left a more stylish, sensitive, and sexy breeder, beloved Twin, but never will quite figure out why Rip Taylor was blasting a reveille on that air horn.


Tuesday, July 15, 2003

 

Sendoff



Ari Fleischer and I are drunk. The kind of drunk that in your college days you would only recall when the pictures showing your friend's genitalia looming perilously close to your unconscious face returned from the drug store. The kind of drunk that has you at an International House of Pancakes at 5 a.m. with four kinds of syrup running down the edge of your table as you fork more silver dollar dough into your craw, discussing your recently-ended tenure as the mouthpiece of the most powerful man in the world.

"I don't know where I got this reputation as a humorless tightass," says Ari, barely comprehensible through a faceful of hash browns. "I'm as fun as the next guy. Did people expect me to light my farts on fire while I'm trying to think up new ways to tell the Press Corp as little as possible to protect the vital interests of national security?" Ari asks, then lets out a belch that rattles cheap silverware in a three table radius.

I shake my head, keeping an eye on my plate. Ari's fork has made three surgical strikes across our table already, spiriting off a couple of chunks of French toast and an entire sausage link.

"There's no pleasing people." I notice a river of strawberry syrup rolling down the front of his white Oxford, then remember it was there before we ever sat down to eat. "But now that I'm getting out from behind that White House podium people are going to see the real me."

A waitress cases our table, trying to anticipate when our third carafe of orange juice will empty. Or rather, when Ari is going to empty it. He catches her eye and she playfully indicates that he should wipe his upper lip, where a fragment of chocolate-chip pancake is cemented by the syrup. He licks his lips and smacks the waitress on what in more delicate times was referred to as a fanny, and she giggles and shuffles off to the kitchen.

"I don't know where the sex symbol thing came from either," he begins, waving his fork around his head, delineating the boundaries of his kingdom of cocksmithery. "People know you have access to Georgie, they see the bald head and crisp shirts, and they connect the dots. I'm going to totally take advantage of that on the lecture circuit--after I pay some lip-service to the behind-the-scenes crap at the White House, I'll dish a little on the press pool groupie thing. That's what these suits want to hear in a keynote anyway."

The waitress returns with a fresh jug of juice. Ari takes a long swig from it then pours the rest on his pancakes. Most of it winds up on the floor. Long after the carafe is empty, I continue to hear the sound of liquid tumbling into a puddle and I realize that he's urinating under the table.

"What good is retirement if you can't live a little?" he asks.


Monday, July 14, 2003

 

Wayback Dept.



IN HONOR OF BASTILLE DAY, I am reposting this entry from March of this year. Enjoy. Or should I say, appréciez.

"Going to war without France is like going duck hunting without your accordion."
--attributed to US Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld

"How true," I thought. "And how funny."

So I took the marble notebook in which my jokes are birthed and went down to the local brasserie to have a cup of coffee and formulate my own set of anti-French and/or German jokes. I'm nothing if not an interpreter/Channeler of the zeitgeist, and the prevailing mood is that right now we hate the Froggies and the Krauties, who say mean things behind our backs and sabotage our attempts at bombing the living shit out of a bad guy surrounded by thousands of human shields with similarly amusing mustaches.

As Marie, my lovely French waitress took my coffee order, I scribbled:
Going to war without France is like fucking a French waitress before she brings your baguette.

I thought she might have seen my scribblings after I chuckled to myself. So I crossed out "France" and "French" and replaced them with "Germany" and "Germans." Realizing "baguette" is a little nonsensical in its new context, I crossed it out and replaced it too.

Then I read the edited result aloud, in hushed tones, as if absentmindedly forgetting that Marie was hovering nearby:
Going to war without France Germany is like fucking a French German waitress before she brings your strudel.

She laughed, then grabbed my pen and made her own edit:
Going to war without France Germany is like fucking a French German waitress before she brings your strudel concentration camp.

I laughed and crinkled my nose. "I get where you're coming from, but how about this?"
Going to war without France Germany is like fucking a French German waitress before she brings your strudel concentration camp ten-seater oven.

Marie nearly spilled the coffee she'd brought me. "Your English is much better than mine." Her lilting French accent was sexy and endearing.

"I would hope so. I've been practicing since I was thirteen" She laughed because it was obvious I'd grown up in America and had been speaking American since about two years old, just like any other child without severe developmental disorders.

She again took my pen and made an edit:
Going to war without France Germany is like fucking a French German waitress before she brings your strudel concentration camp ten-seater oven The Germans, under Hitler, tried to exterminate the Jews, killing six millions before falling to the Allied Forces in World War II.

I nodded and laughed at her spelling mistakes. Again, I took the pen. My edit:
Going to war without France Germany is like fucking a French German waitress before she brings your strudel concentration camp ten-seater oven The Germans, under Hitler, tried to exterminate the Jews, killing six millions before falling to the Allied Forces in World War II. Making love to a French waitress is like seeing the world with the eyes of a newborn baby, after she brings you a baguette.

Marie read this sentence solemnly and left the table. I turned back to my notebook.

Then she returned with a baguette and a come-hither stare that was particular to neither the American nor the French culture. It was a look owned only by those about to be joined in a passionate coupling.

We left the baguette and the notebook and secreted off to the employee washroom, narrowly avoiding being discovered by several pastry chefs in tall white hats. I nearly tripped over the bidet as I fumbled with the buttons on her blouse.

The French's refusal to get on board with our war plans was the furthest thing from my mind.

I wondered if my trip to the Bavarian beer hall up the street would end with a similar sense of international cooperation.

Go America.

[God, it's just as true today as it was then, isn't it? As I am fond of saying, the Truth has no expiration date.]


 

I Will Stop Abruptly at the John Tesh Joke to Switch Gears Entirely and We Will All Be Better For It



A Brief Guide to Understanding the New-Look Lakers Lineup for a Non-Sports Fan

If you haven't heard, last week the Los Angeles Lakers, a professional basketball team playing in Los Angeles, signed Karl "The Mailman" Malone and Gary "The Glove" Payton to join stars Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O'Neal. This gives them four certain Hall of Fame players in their starting lineup. (The other spot is likely to be occupied by current Laker Derek Fisher, who is to playing basketball what your favorite Ralphs cashier is to bagging groceries.)

As a non-sports fan, it might be hard for you to conceptualize the significance of a starting lineup of Shaq, Kobe, Gary, Karl, and Derek. Some "starting fives" from other arenas human pursuit may illuminate the New-Look Lakers for you.

Blockbuster action stars: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Willis, Tom Cruise, Slyvester Stallone (pre 1990), Michael "American Ninja" Dudikoff

Late Night Talk Show Hosts: David Letterman, Conan O'Brien, Jay Leno, Charlie Rose, Chevy Chase

Scientists: Alfred Nobel, Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking, Niels Bohr, Bill "The Science Guy" Nye

Young, Noteworthy Authors: Jonathan Safran Foer, Nick McDonell, Zadie Smith, JT Leroy, Haley Joel Osment

World Religions: Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Buddhism, That One Where They Dance With Snakes and Fall Down

Tenors: Luciano Pavarotti, Placido Domingo, Jose Carreras, El DeBarge

Reality TV Shows: Survivor, The Real World, Joe Millionaire, The Bachelor, Look What I Found in John Tesh's Comb

Five Saddam-Instituted Holidays Banned by the Interim Iraqi Council

--Beret and Bushy Mustache Day
--Gas a Kurd Day
--Bring Your Saddam Lookalike to Work Day
--Genocidal Arbor Day
--Boxing Day


Friday, July 11, 2003

 

Jankenpon is Japanese for Roshambo



It really pains me to link to things, but this was brought to my attention vis-a-vis a little encounter I had with one Keanu Reeves recently.

Don't worry, I'm not going to make "linking to things" a habit. It's much better that you stay here and soak in the soothing lukewarm bath of my relative genius.

[link courtesy of DBS]


 

Around the Horn Dept.



Just some things that have been on my mind lately....

*It's taken me a couple of days, but I've finally come to terms with the fact that Courtney Love is now 39. I guess I shouldn't worry, as she still has another good year of skanking around before the big 4-0 begins to sober her up and cuts the time she devotes to skanking around and driving geniuses to suicide by about 65 percent.

*Conan O'Brien is looking really skinny these days. Some might attribute this to a healthier diet and a personal trainer. I prefer to think that he and Max Weinberg have some sort of demonic Dorian Gray arrangement whereby Conan sheds the pounds and Weinberg adds them around his midsection. Or, if we really want to get crazy, we could speculate that good ol' Conan has contracted syphilis and is now too insane to consume food. God, I miss that enormous, bloated Irish noggin of his.

*Celebrities have been dropping dead at an alarming rate. Barry, Katharine, Strom, Gregory, a couple of Buddy's...it's clear to me that they were all asking for it by surviving past an age where they were beautiful and useful to society. Say, 38, just to throw a number out there. We can do little else but put all of our psychic energy into easing the plug to whatever machine that's keeping Bob Hope alive out of its socket.

*My world was rocked when Britney Spears admitted that she had spent years lying to the world about maintaining her virginity for marriage when she revealed Justin Timberlake deflowered her at the age of 19. She further claimed that the N'Sync'er is the only one to penetrate her in a sexual manner. I suppose she's already forgotten the gang of midgets in party hats I'd sent over to service her as a 20th birthday present. This is the type of staggering ingratitude that's going to keep her abstinent for the next ten years at least.

*Intelligence sources believe that Iran may have nuclear weapons within a year, but are still baffled by producing a reliable beard trimmer. They should perhaps model themselves on North Korea, who recently developed rudimentary Supercuts technology after gaining nuclear capability.

*The judge threw out Jennifer Connelly's "preemptive" restraining order against me, setting a precedent that she could not possibly be privy to my constant, filthy thoughts involving her, even if I choose to transcribe them in disturbing detail in this space. Even if these thoughts involve a malamute, a salad shooter, and legendary automotive safety device The Club. This is a victory for crusaders of personal privacy and intellectual property everywhere.


Thursday, July 10, 2003

 

Public Service Dept.



How to Tell If Your Waitress Girlfriend is Actually a Famous Actress Playing a Role in Which She Falls for an Underemployed Schlub Whose Heart She Will Ultimately Break:

--Hordes of paparazzi flock at your front door to take her picture as she leaves for "work" at the local Olive Garden;

--You own a struggling, yet cozy, bookstore;

--She has an assistant who regards you with suspicion, cryptically warning you to "watch your heart";

--She wears large, floppy straw hats and oversize sunglasses whenever she meets you in public or in daylight;

--Frequent pictures in Star magazine of someone strongly resembling your girlfriend canoodling with notorious Hollywood playboys;

--She provides the poolboy at her Bel Air mansion with a generous 401(k) plan;

--Her publicist sends her an extravagant gift basket celebrating the opening weekend of her tenure as Employee of the Month;

--She invites female co-worker friend over for unexpected menage a trois; friend is Drew Barrymore;

--She tells you that you she is a famous actress playing a role in which she falls for an underemployed schlub whose heart she must ultimately break when you make a sexual advance towards her mother and/or brother;

--Always forced to take her cousin as a date to the Oscars.


Wednesday, July 09, 2003

 

whitechocolatespacegg in Monrovia Dept.



I get the most interesting e-mail. Two days in a row! What are the odds?

----------------
From: "Charles Taylor" [ctaylor@presidentalpalace.lr]
To: "Bunsen" [lovemail@bunsen.tv]

By now you've probably heard that your President has asked me to step down as President of Liberia and leave the country to hopefully facilitate the end of this civil war. I'd already decided that I was going to leave. I don't need the great Mr. Bush nagging me, so I'm headed to Nigeria, where they've offered me asylum.

I was packing my bags when I noticed that one of my handlers had left the new Liz Phair CD by my Sony Discman. I enjoy listening to music while I pack, so I put on the album as I hung some suits in my poached ivory steamer trunk and thought about my life away from my country.

And now I must tell you that I am not leaving Liberia until I figure out exactly what Ms. Phair is trying to accomplish on this new record by hiring the red-hot hitmaking producers du jour, The Matrix (obviously The Neptunes were unavailable), to seemingly fashion herself into an Avril Lavigne that teenagers' fathers everywhere can desire carnally without feeling guilty.

On some level I find this very appealing since I was indeed quite shamefully desiring to possess the Lavigne girl bodily, but Ms. Phair is ruining her credibility with fans of indie rock like myself. What happened to the whip-smart riot grrl who so sexily and expertly deconstructed the cock-rock mystique of the Rolling Stones on Exile in Guyville? That album was the soundtrack of my sexual awakening and the unofficial anthem of the revolution of 1989. I can say without reservation that my forces could not have triumphed over the dictator Samuel Doe if it were not for "Fuck and Run's" brutal honesty and introspective dissection of the emptiness of one-night stands. Sir, I have been there and so have you.

Please do not misunderstand; it's difficult to begrudge Ms. Phair's partaking of the rock star harvest she enabled for the likes of the edgeless Alanis Morrissette and Sheryl Crow. She is entitled to this type of success. But her references to "hot white cum" and seducing boys are weak nods to her earlier, vital material and out of place in the sanitized radio-friendly candy-and-rainbows pop she's trying to sell to the TRL set (I will admit to some MTV watching). In my humble opinion, soccer moms and semen do not make an appetizing pairing.

Until Ms. Phair reconciles this need for commercial success with her earlier honesty and intelligence, I cannot in good conscience leave Liberia. Perhaps there will be an edgier release of B-sides in the near future that will allow peace to return to my land. Perhaps a private performance of "Supernova" can be arranged in the interim.

Kindly inform your venerable President Bush of my position on this matter.

Yours in peace,
Charles Taylor


Tuesday, July 08, 2003

 

E-mail Bag of Doom



From: "Ann Coulter" [QueenCoulter453@aol.com]
To: "Bunsen" [lovemail@bunsen.tv]
Subj: Book signing

Bunsen,

This e-mail is to let you know that I've signed the copy of my new book, "Treason" for you and just put it in the mail. I also signed the Polaroid of me eating a carrot while winking, just as you've asked, though I didn't have a can of Redi-Whip on hand to "spray across my bow," whatever that means. Now no selling it on eBay! You promised!

Now down to business.

It has come to my attention that a militia made up of gay, liberal media Jews (there, I said it) is behind the recent attacks on our sacred American soldiers in Iraq. My sources reveal that they're being funded by rabid, traitorous, commie-funded shit-rags (read: The Baghdad (neé New York) Times, Washington Post, and The Village Voice) and supplied with arms by the Israeli army. What's more, they've been papering American military bases with images of George W. Bush using George Washington's asshole as a flower pot, while GHWB cries underneath a thought bubble lamenting he never got to finish the job.

This cannot stand. I'm counting on influential, indepedent-thinking internet personalities like you to get the word out in Hollywood. It's only because of the liberals that we haven't created a super domestic servant underclass from the Iraqi populace (we won the fucking war, didn't we?) and given each registered Republican an Escalade with the proceeds from oil sales. I swear to God I'll sleep with Howard Dean, John Kerry, and John Edwards and leak the double-penetration donkey photos to the Fox News Channel if that's what it takes to keep these pussy lefties away from the White House. Do you still have the name of that really tasteful photographer from Barely Legal? The last batch really turned out great.

OK, gotta keep this short since I have a big stack of books left to sign. I'm going to start including a picture of me straddling Joe McCarthy, with his head illuminated by a halo. Whaddya think?

Smooches,
Annie

PS--Isn't it painfully obvious that Kobe Bryant is guilty, guilty, guilty? He's not fooling anyone with that choirboy baller act.


Monday, July 07, 2003

 

Fourth Postmortem Dept.



You really haven't celebrated the Fourth until you've been invited to the current militarily-stabilized hot spot for Rumsfeld's Big American Birthday Bash. Of course, this year meant a jaunt to Baghdad.

I was greeted in the central piazza of the Halliburton/Outback Steakhouse Palace (former residence of one Saddam Hussein, who is quite dead despite these recent faulty intelligence reports and doctored audio tapes stating the contrary) by Rummy himself. He was joyfully brandishing a barbecue fork with a rare T-bone dangling from it, his "Fuck the Cook" apron splattered in ketchup and A-1 steak sauce. I turned down a bite of the meat and instead made my way over to the Moon Bounce, always my favorite feature of Rummy's bashes. This time the Bounce was a vulcanized rubber replica of a three-hundred year-old mosque that had been pulverized by an early round of daisy cutters. Condy Rice and Christie Todd Whitman hopped around inside in stocking feet, reciting a filthy version of patty-cake that decorum forbids I repeat in this space. Suffice it to say that "Hillary" and "twat-y" don't really rhyme; it didn't seem to bother the ladies, who offered me a swig from their gallon jug of ouzo, which I happily accepted.

The party's main event was a great surprise. Rummy had cleverly misled the invitees into thinking it was going to be some kind of jello wrestling even starring the shriveled crone stars of Sex in the City. He's always been great at the mislead. The real spectacle was so much better -- a hot dog eating contest between Barry White and Katharine Hepburn (sponsored by Nathan's and their Weapons of Mass deliciousness, naturally). It was quite the complicated feat, as Rummy had to elaborately fake both contestants' deaths in the world press. He told me in confidence he'd nearly shit himself with glee every time he'd seen pics of flowers strewn about Kate's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame or one of Barry's get-down lyrics tastefully quoted in an obit. When he revealed the frank-swallowing gladiators to an amazed crowd of A-listers, he earned a standing ovation from all present other than Christopher Reeve, who instead blew into his wheelchair's control-tube until red-faced, cutting tight donuts by the huge tub of sangria. Trent Lott canvassed the crowd for wagers. Kate was a three-to-one underdog, giving up seemingly four hundred pounds to the R&B superstar.

Never bet against a Hepburn on the Fourth of July. Kate took Barry down to the tune of fifteen to four. Barry nearly choked on the third. A quick Heimlich applied by a fast-thinking Dennis Hastert kept White in the game, but the comeback was short-lived. He only got through one more as Kate put away dog after dog, flipping off the crowd (a gesture far more delicate and ladylike than you might imagine) after each mouthful went down.

Things seemed to wind down considerably after that. Condy kept putting her hand in my lap on the flight back to the States. Normally I might've seen where such an overture went, but I won't ever go somewhere that Powell's been. Not after taking Secretarial seconds on Geraldine Ferraro.

A couple of days of twelve hour naps have me excited for whatever Rummy dreams up for Tehran or Pyongyang in 2004.


Thursday, July 03, 2003

 

Holiday Special Fold-Out Section



While you plot a weekend of barbecues, cheap beer, DUI checkpoints, and illegal fireworks displays that will most likely result in a disfiguring-yet-completely-hilarious mishap, why not stroll over to Bob from Accounting and read about my plans for the Fourth of July? Click here or on the image below to see all-new, first-run content that will make your cold heart momentarily swell with the kind of patriotic fire that accidentally levels a city block in Baghdad.



I'm on my way back to the 'Dad for Rummy's Independence Day bash. It's going to be very.



Wednesday, July 02, 2003

 

It's a Gay, Gay, Gay, Gay World



These are heady days for homosexuals.

Last week, the Supreme Court struck down sodomy laws in Texas, setting an anything-goes precedent that may soon lead to the widespread legal recognition of same-sex marriage, gays in the military, and characters in television sitcoms who "just happen to be gay" without it being a show's entire premise.

Even before that banner day in the history of gay jurisprudence, roughly fifteen million people (some of them openly Republican) gathered in West Hollywood to celebrate gay pride in a parade putting recent statue-toppling victory shenanigans in the streets of Baghdad to shame.

I don't think I'm being premature when I declare homophobia to be officially dead. Kaput. Gone, sister.

To use a well-worn phrase, gay is the new black. I'd say it's the new straight, but straight is a snore, so utterly ten minutes ago, so R. Kelly passing water on a fifteen-year-old on video.

Gay jokes are the new mother jokes.

"Fag" is the new "deck." "Straighty" is the new "queer."

Anal is repossessing Missionary's PT Cruiser.

There will be a gay President by 2012, although there's an outside chance the political glass ceiling will be doubly shattered by a certain bestselling author/senator four years earlier. With Isaac Mizrahi on the ticket.

Chandler can come out now, still be roomies with Monica and chat about boys over a Central Perk latte.

Britney and X-tina will soon be grooming TaTu's toy poodles.

Left-in-the-dust straighty publications like The New York Times are falling over themselves to document this supposed "metrosexual" movement, wherein straight guys actually pay attention to their hair and wardrobe and superstar British soccer players flaunt their happy trails in the pages of The Advocate in hopes of catching the gay-train before it pulls out from the tunnel.

Back in the days of the tech-fueled runaway economic explosion, I moonlighted as a cool hunter for several dot-coms. And I saw all of this coming. I nearly had Yahoo! convinced to rebrand as Girlfriend!, but an eleventh hour bout of cold feet kept them from being the bleeding-edge search engine and have since been convincingly overtaken by the much more gay-positive sounding Google.

As for me, well, I'm not going to play coy on the "Is he or isn't he?" question in the interest of catching some extra buzz. That's a little too pre-Texas and Ricky Martin for my tastes. I'll come right out and let the world know that I'm probably straight.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.


Tuesday, July 01, 2003

 

Yes, It Grew Back



From the archives: sometime in summer of 2002

I never should have let Vin Diesel shave my head. As is the given for things done that you later regret, it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time.

Vin is about to blow up huge-like; his new movie, Triple X, is going to reinvent the summer action blockbuster genre. He plays a spy who's way into all kinds of extreme sports, be it jumping off something that's totally high off the ground and then skating/rolling/surfing on some found material until his feet are safely back on earth. And then shooting guns and blowing up lots of shit. As a spy, so he's banging exotic broads and lying to them to get them to bang him, so long as it furthers the mission and he gets his rocks off. Vin's going to be the next James Bond and Terminator all rolled up into one, except not all limey pussified like that Pierce Brosnan crumpet. Chicks are not going to bang a guy in a tux unless it's got the arms torn off to show off all an extreme sports superspy's fly tats and rock-hard guns. And he'll probably go gay once in a while just to keep people on their toes and to get the gays into the theater. James Bond would never court the gays, his attitude is frozen in a no-gay-courting timewarp straight out of 1958 London.

So I sit Vin down to do an hourlong interview for a three-inch inset for Entertainment Weekly, but prolly the most action-packed three inches in the history of the mag -- those three inches are going to feature pics of Vin skysurfing, bungie jumping into a shark tank filled with magma, and chatting suggestively with Heather Graham. We're ten seconds into my Q & A and Vin suggests that he shave my head so that my dome shines like his. He knows that Triple X is going to hit so big with its cobranding tie-in with Gillette that guys everywhere are going to go bald in the restrooms on the way out of the theater. He's going to do for bald what Pamela Anderson did for fake tits and gigantic rockstar cocks. His words, not mine, but EW's not exactly going to print that.

And before I know what hits me, I'm bald like Mr. Diesel. I feel other people in the restaurant staring while he shaves my head; you really get a whole new level of extreme sensation from a clean dome. Even a slight breeze across the skull results in a painful boner, but I've found that effect fades over a couple of weeks.

Not everyone's blessed with a head with a shape good for going bald. Mine is, luckily, but you never really know until all the hair's gone. Vin said he could tell, and he was real pleased with the results, which he thought were going to be great for my three-inch inset in the mag: Vin and Bunsen, badass extreme superspy and badass extreme freelance writer who'll go to any length to serve up some hot copy.

What he's not so hot on is the raspberry birthmark on the back of my head that looks like a bird that ate too much pie took a shit on me. Unsexy. Vin doesn't see it until I turn around to look at some chick he'd said he'd fingerblasted in a Port-o-let at the X-Games. He dips his napkin in his water glass and tries to rub the birthmark off, which was nice of him. But when it didn't come off he says that thing about the bird eating the pie and shitting on me. Which I couldn't exactly use for my column. He sees some waitress he knew and leaves me there. I explain the hair all over the table to the waiter, but he'd seen Vin so he was mostly cool with it.

My chromed-dome feels a lot less extreme after the third chemo joke, which really stops being funny after the first one, but are better than the Holocaust survivor ones. My head gets cold quickly.

And Vin goes and tells the bird/shitting/pie anecdote on Access Hollywood. But I don't mind so much. Vin's going to be huge from Triple X. There will probably be ten to twenty sequels, as long as kids keep finding high things to jump off.

And I hear Vin's playing the Hulk in a movie next summer. Maybe the Hulk will look good bald.



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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