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Monday, September 29, 2003

 

Be Forewarned, This Post Contains the Word "Postlapsarian"



I officially grant all of you permission to cease the hue and cry against another postless Monday. I'm not going to call it a pattern or trend that yet another Monday passed without an update in this space. It happens to all guys. That's what she tells me. Besides, wasn't it obvious that the piece on the filthy, groundbreaking show "Coupling" needed a few days to marinate in its own scandalous juices? I thought it was.

But this is Tuesday. And on this Tuesday, I choose to invite you, the longtime reader and you, the ardent fan of all things Bunsen, into my home, where you may sit on my couch and listen to me talk about my personal shame: my unbridled passion for a reality television program called "Paradise Hotel."

There is but one two-hour special left in the historic run of a show that is the distillation of all things that make reality TV great. I am not going to tell you what those things are, but "paradise Hotel" (herein referred to as "PH") has them in abundance, spades upon spades, a shit-load underneath a heap. Perhaps I will relent and tell you one of these things: unintelligent people who are frequently drunk and forced to sit by a pool. But that's just part of the picture. Some of these unintelligent people have very large breasts.

It is hardly an exaggeration when I tell you that one of the most satisfying moments of my life was when newcomer prettyboy Keith sent musclehead Zack [author of the Confucian declaration "I got lawyer in me!" despite an I.Q. that was surely the result of severe, self-inflicted head trauma after failing the paste-eating section of his special-ed class for the third time] out of Paradise forever. Forever, of course, was something less than an eternity; the brilliant, mindfucking PH producers brought back Zack just long enough to work himself into a hateful, dim froth moments before expelling him once again into a postlapsarian life of shopping cart collection at a Los Angeles Ralphs.

Allow me a moment to sigh as I realize that I have made it through an entire paragraph without mentioning the bikini. Also allow me to lament the loss of the two-piece swimwear of Holly, Tara, Kristen, and the curly-haired girl who lasted only a week before the producers realized the Original Members of Paradise would instantly devour all newcomers and so changed the rules midstream to prevent such tragedy.

Ah, the rules changes, the ballyhooed "twists" that kept contestants on edge and made PH not an escape from the everyday world but a perfect reflection of it: life is not fair, and people more powerful than you can decide on a whim to ruin your life. I half expected the producers to decide to capriciously ban gravity if one of the contestants professed an affection for it, just to teach them a lesson about desire, and watch the hotel residents swept up into the ionosphere just so homely, favored Dave could enjoy a cocktail in peace.

Tomorrow night, it all ends. I am already sad and more desolate than a Russian snowscape.

Following the series finale, I will sit and relish the aftertaste of this goulash of perpetual inebriation, low Stanford-Binet scores, and revealing bikini tops. Shortly thereafter I'll retire to my bedroom and fall into a deep depression because PH is no more, letting the pile of empty Ketel One bottles mark the passage of time, until I am shaken awake by PH's second installment. Which, no doubt, will be held poolside in a geodesic dome in the first moon colony because fake tits will bounce slower in artificial gravity.


Friday, September 26, 2003

 

Must See: The Bunsen Version



What's all the "Coupling" fuss about?


INT. WOMEN'S RESTROOM

[STEVEN, 32ish and handsome, is crammed into a stall with JANE, 32ish and sexy. Things are getting hot and heavy.]

JANE: So, do you have, um, a...you know?

STEVEN: You mean a latex barrier that I may ejaculate into to prevent you from conceiving?

JANE: Uh, yeah. One of those.

STEVEN: No, I have to go look for one!

[Steven steps out of the stall and into the bathroom. SUSAN, 32ish and sexy, is waiting there.]

SUSAN: This is the ladies' room and you quite clearly have a penis. A large one.

STEVEN: Thanks, I left the smaller one in my other pants. Oh yeah, I'm trying to put my penis in the woman who's hiding in that stall, do you have a form-fitted piece of latex that I might ejaculate into so that she doesn't conceive?

SUSAN: I'm fresh out, but if you wait a minute, I can fish out my diaphragm.

STEVEN: I know there's some wonderful sexual tension between us even though I'm trying to copulate with that woman in the stall, but would you be a dear?

SUSAN: Sure.

[Steven steps back into the stall, where Jane is holding a STRAP-ON DILDO.]

STEVEN: I found a woman who wasn't upset that I was a man using the ladies' room, or upset that I'm about to have sex with you in this stall despite the fact that there was sexual tension between us. And she agreed to give us her diaphragm, which while not the latex barrier I was looking for, is also an acceptable prophylactic. (Noticing strap-on dildo) Whoa! I'm pretending I don't know what that is!

JANE: I found a solution that will also prevent me from conceiving in this stall.

STEVEN: Hold on a second.

[Steven steps out of the stall, where Susan has retrieved her diaphragm.]

STEVEN: Thank God.

SUSAN: Here you go, but after you're done, can we make an appointment to have sex at a later date?

STEVEN: Here's the funny thing. The woman in that stall has turned the sexual tables on me and now wants to sodomize me with a strap-on dildo.

SUSAN: I hope you pretended not to know what that is.

STEVEN: Of course I did. Are you going to find my masculinity compromised if I let her penetrate me anally with the strap-on dildo?

SUSAN: It's another complication, but I think we can still awkwardly arrange for our sexual appointment in spite of it.
I may sarcastically suggest a date in which you don't have to sit down.

STEVEN: Very good. [A beat.] Did you hear that?

SUSAN: It sounds like someone has a drinking glass pressed to the door to eavesdrop.

[Steven pulls open the door to the ladies' room. CHANDLER, 32ish and somewhat handsome, and JOEY, 32ish and handsome, spill onto the ladies' room floor. They are holding drinking glasses to their ears.]

CHANDLER: Could we be any more in the wrong bathroom?

JOEY: Dude, we're totally busted listening in on this complicated sexual transaction.

STEVEN: She's holding a used diaphragm because I was looking for piece of latex to ejaculate into so that I wouldn't impregnate the woman in the stall, who now wants to sodomize me with a strap-on dildo.

JOEY: Whoa.

CHANDLER: Joey, you knew that. Could we have been more eavesdropping with drinking glasses pressed up to the door?

JOEY: I forgot about the dildo thing. It's so like a huge complication. [to Steve] How do feel about your masculinity like, totally being compromised by that dildo?

STEVEN: I don't know, I'm struggling with the cultural taboo while still trying to maintain the sexual chemistry with Susan here, whom I hope to join in an act of sexual congress despite whatever happens in that stall.

SUSAN: It's a delicate situation. [Handing the diaphragm to Steve.] Now go in there and make a choice.

JANE: [calling from inside the stall] What's taking so long out there? Are you worried about the strap-on dildo compromising your masculinity?

STEVEN: Is that what that thing is? I'm pretending I don't know! [to Chandler, Joey, and Susan] OK, I'm going in there. I expect that you'll press drinking glasses up to the stall to hear how all of this plays out.

CHANDLER: We won't let you down.

JOEY: And don't worry, we'll look all guilty when someone walks into the ladies' room and wonders why we're pressing drinking glasses up to the stall door to eavesdrop. I'll tell them we're bathroom stall inspectors, but they'll know you're in there weighing your sexual options against the stigma of being sodomized with the strap-on dildo.

SUSAN: [calling from inside the stall] I'm waaaaaiting!

STEVEN: I'm going in.

SUSAN: It certainly seems something is going in somewhere.

[Steven enters the stall. Chandler passes out drinking glasses to Joey and Susan, which they all press up against the stall door for eavesdropping purposes.]

JOEY: This is gonna be great!

[LUCY, 32ish and somewhat sexy, and RICKY, 32ish and darkly handsome, enter the ladies' room.]

RICKY: Babaloo! What are these people doing in the ladies' room?!

LUCY: WAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

RICKY: I really wish I'd sprung for a proper lobotomy. That noise you make is really unsettling.

CHANDLER: We're so going to have to wait until next week to find out what flimsy explanation we're going to tell you for why we're eavesdropping on the sexual transaction taking place inside that stall.

LUCY: WAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

STEVEN: [calling from inside stall] WAAAAAAAAAAAA!

CHANDLER: Or maybe not.

[ROLL END CREDITS.]



Thursday, September 25, 2003

 

Rationalization Dept.



Sometimes I don't post just to see if y'all will keep coming back to check if I've posted anything yet.

I'm such a bitch.

But you love me for it, I know you do.


Wednesday, September 24, 2003

 

Some Colons Were Left Over From Tuesday



It seems that President Bush's plea to the United Nations to send troops and cash to Iraq failed to knock the collective hose from around the ankles of the world's diplomats. The speech was received by a mostly silent General Assembly, many of whom opposed the United States' application of Total Fucking Victory across Mesopotamia.

Luckily, several diplomats agreed to share their thoughts on Bush's speech with me in return for Catherine Zeta-Jones' cellphone number and semi-anonymity. (Catherine, if you're reading this, please don't be alarmed if you receive several calls where someone breathily ululates and then hangs up. It's probably the guy from Turkey, who says he saw Entrapment over five thousand times. He's harmless, I promise. Just ask Sharon Stone.)

The diplomats speak:

The gentleman from France: "We strenuously opposed this military incursion from the start. The United States may have seized the role of the world's singular hyperpower, but France retains its title as Ineffectual Bidet Squatters. But it looks like the cold jet of water is shooting up the American hindquarters now, no?"

The gentleman from Germany: "I'm not entirely sure that your President is proficient in the German tongue or even conversational in English, but he is certainly fluent in Inarticulate Moron Begging for Help."

The gentlemen from Turkey: "President Bush can depend on the full cooperation of our country. U.S.-Turkish relations have been warm and productive ever since we sent him a case of 'them little red hats with the tassels' in exchange for ten billion dollars in American aid, following a hilarious argument in which he tried to convince us a fez was the fancy waterpipe for smoking hash."

The gentlemen from Chad: "We found Bush's remarks heartfelt and will send a small peacekeeping force to Iraq, but are slightly annoyed at his constant insistence that we rename our nation 'Big Roy.' "

The gentleman from Iraq, now vacationing on the French Riviera: "The Son of the Elder Bush Devil neglected to mention the state of the Presidential Palace. I'm going to need to give lots of advance warning to the stone masons if the marble in the foyer has been damaged by the American Army's Slip n' Slide tournament."

California Recall Election Candidate Cruz M. Bustamante: "Now that the recall vote is back on, I promise that if, God forbid, the recall is not defeated at the polls and I am elected as Governor of the Great State of California, I will dispatch the shriveled testicles of a certain Austrian-born Republican candidate to the front lines of Baghdad as a warning to all that might oppose direct democracy. And I'll have Gary Coleman killed just because he freaks my shit out"


Monday, September 22, 2003

 

On Tuesdays I Use Colons



Many of you have asked: "Why has Bunsen forsaken us, his rabid public, on yet another Monday, especially a Monday following the orgy of Hollywood autoeroticism that is the Emmys?"

And many more of you have wondered: "How did that 'Ramble Like the Crazed Homeless' thing work out?"

Valid questions both. There is no one more autoerotic in this town than I am, and I did drop the enticing notion that someone could productively spend a day babbling like the dispossessed rather than like some brain damaged buccaneer.

So I spent Monday wandering my neighborhood, as I often do, offering my own scattered thoughts on Fox's Emmy broadcast. The following are excerpts from observations I offered to the souls that wander Hollywood Boulevard.

On Debra Messing, winner of Best Actress in a Comedy Series, to a Japanese couple taking pictures of Tom Cruise's handprints in front of the world-famous Chinese Theater: "Will and Grace. Will and Will and Grace Jones and Grace Kelly and gay gay gay. Closet full of brooms got more meat on its bones than Debra do. However I do find Sean Hayes delightful. I love tomato soup. I was scared when the truck full of midgets come running out to put out the fire on her head."

On The West Wing, winner of Best Dramatic Series in an upset over critical darling The Sopranos, to a man in a loose-fitting Spider-Man costume charging tourists five dollars for Polaroids with him: "I been to the White House. It's blue on the outside, and red on the inside, and black in the middle. That's why they call it the White House. Sorkin bought me mushrooms once, we sat on the roof of my Fiat and watched the full moon and talked progressive policy. Policy police-y. He's a Dem-o-crat, but he's in bed with Schwarzenegger, who put a chip in my brain and now they know when I watch Rob Lowe. This season really was a creative disaster, but the Emmy voters were sending a message to cable."

On James Gandolfini and Joe Pantoliano, winners of the Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor Awards in a Drama Series, respectively, to a man in front of a T-shirt shop handing out fliers for an all-nude review: "How you doin'? How do youin'? Do the Dew, you and you and you. Joey Pants and Big Jim's pants took it home, that's what I'm sayin'. Hasta pasta my friend, with a side of bada bing, va va voom. I cried at the break-up of Tony and Carmela's marriage at the end of the season, just like when my parents split up when I was fourteen. No amount of gabba-goo gonna mend this broken cuore, paesano. I have lasting abandonment issues and I haven't talked to my father in years. Like-a big-a pizza pie, that's Sopranos."

On Bill Cosby, winner of the Bob Hope Humanitarian Award, to a transvestite hooker at 2:44 a.m.: "I spy the puddin' man. I spy the man with a plan, a canal, Panama hat and a bowl of Jello, hello. Man, I missed those sweaters. He won the Bob Hope award, he's cursed to eternal life of being an unfunny American treasure with machines keeping him alive. Ellen Degeneres is a lesbian. But Bill Cosby's all man with a plan."

On Sex and the City, winner of zero awards, to a clerk in a store specializing in the type of shoe popular in gentlemen's clubs: "Thank God that overrated shit didn't win anything."


Saturday, September 20, 2003

 

Avast Dept.



Somehow I completely missed "Talk Like a Pirate Day."

So, loyal readers, instead I propose we make Monday "Ramble Like the Crazed Homeless Day."*

Fuck that shiver-me-timbers honkey shit.





[*It is not required that you stink of urine to participate.]


Friday, September 19, 2003

 

Action Alert



My silence on the issue has been deafening.

Maybe I hoped that by ignoring it, it would just go away. But just like with unexplained rashes, pretending nothing's wrong doesn't abate the horrible itching in the slightest.

The very fabric of polite West Coast society is being threatened by Los Angeles's ban on lap dances. Under the ban, VIP rooms are prohibited and dancers must remain at least six feet away from gentlemen's club patrons, thereby making the common practice of tipping by placing money in a g-string or garter impossible for all except for a handful of NBA centers and people with extreme thyroid disorders.

That sound you hear is that of George Washington spinning so fast in his grave that his wooden teeth are lodged in the walls of his coffin.

Has anyone called the ACLU yet? It seems that the LA City Council is forgetting the sly wording of the Section 5 of the 23rd Amendment to the United States Constitution, which explicitly states that a citizen's "right to have the lap area of the lower torso grinded upon by a member of the female gender shall not be abridged by the legislature or any other elected representative of the people." If the law were any clearer, it would practically mandate the withholding of a fistful of crisp singles from each working man's paycheck that must be redeemed at the local nudie bar each week.

If we can chuck a legitimately elected governor out of office midterm so that we can replace him with a marble-mouthed, Nazi-sympathizing, shriveled-scrotumed ESL dropout, surely we can mobilize the people to save the livelihoods of empowered young women just trying to work their way through school to better the lives of their bastard children.

It's time we march, people, stripping off our pasties and bikini tops and demonstrating our solidarity with our friends from the champagne room. The City Council won't know what hit it, left with only an irresistible desire to overturn the ban and a sudden, unexplained tightness in their BVDs.

Our time has come. See you on the steps of City Hall. I'll be the one in the sexy lifeguard outfit, ready to save those drowning in a sea of righteous silicone with a well-tossed life preserver.

God bless America.

Amen.


Wednesday, September 17, 2003

 

When in Doubt, Interview Something



End-of-the-world weather event Hurricane Isabel is poised to strike the East Coast Thursday.

Longtime readers of this space know that I am no stranger to climatological disasters. I survived my big storm, and the East Coast will find a way to get through theirs. Even if it means that a huge swath of coastal North Carolina must be fed to the Atlantic before it's all over.

Storms of this magnitude fascinate me. So I hit up Isabel on her hip and she quickly returned my call.

Bunsen: Let's get to brass tacks. You're a really big fucking storm.

Isabel: This is not getting off on the right foot.

Bunsen: What do you mean?

Isabel: You never tell a lady that she's a big anything.

Bunsen: Technically, you're a storm and don't have a gender.

Isabel: Once they decided to give me a female name, I became a female.

Bunsen: Maybe now you identify as a female, but the act of naming you didn't actually make you anything. Naming big storms with female names is a convention invented by meteorologists.

Isabel: A monolithic, oppressive patriarchy, by the way.

Bunsen: The weather people on my local TV stations are overwhelmingly women.

Isabel: Those women aren't meteorologists. They're glorified prostitutes being manipulated by the local news patriarchy, smiling and pointing to weather phenomena that they don't understand so that the men can get their jollies.

Bunsen: That's awfully patronizing.

Isabel: I'm patronizing? You are probably going to twist this into a story where you wind up with a weathergirl riding you like a donkey, making bad puns about warm fronts and wet patches.

Bunsen: Oh, so you read me?

Isabel: I've heard things.

Bunsen: Tell me, why are you raging onto the East Coast?

Isabel: Atmospheric conditions are such that I've been agitated into storming. It's just my time.

Bunsen: You mean like your time of the month? You're going to try and wash away half of the Eastern seaboard because you're PMSing?

Isabel: I can't believe you.

Bunsen: Maybe you're, um, retaining water.

Isabel: (Groans. Thunder is heard in the background.)

Bunsen: One second you identify as female, the next you're free from the wonders of the reproductive cycle. You can't have it both ways. Or do you just need to get laid?

Isabel: This is so typical.

Bunsen: Hey, I know this weathergirl over at KTLA. She's really free-spirited and usually up for anything. And I'm pretty sure she has no idea what an isobar is.

Isabel: This interview is over. I have some beach houses to pound into kindling, because I'm a hurricane and that's what I do. Not because I'm crampy.

Bunsen: Can I call you next week?

Isabel: I'll be dissipated by then.

Bunsen: Oh. Neat trick. Think you can teach that to the weathergirl? She's kind of clingy.

Isabel: Good luck with this website or whatever.

Bunsen: Good luck with the driving, 60 mile-per-hour winds and pounding rain. And the menstruation.



 

The New Rules



Many of you have expressed outrage that the producers of ABC's "8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter" have decided to continue the show despite John Ritter's death.

C'mon, folks. I mean, really.

People die all the time. And sometimes they happen to be the star of one of your highest-rated TV shows. You just don't go canceling an entire production just because someone had a faulty O-ring in their heart valve.

I remember back when I was brought in as consultant on the foundering German sitcom "Die Verrückte Hosenfamilie" ("The Crazypants Family"). Late in the crucial third season, our star, Huber Wedemeier, held out for more money. I don't know what you've heard about the German television industry, but they are ruthless in their dealings with talent. The writers planned to plot his death (naturally I was shocked and didn't participate), while I was charged with somehow incorporating this into the series storyline. Alas, the uproarious demise of Wedemeier's character in a slapstick beer hall accident was never used when the actor settled his salary dispute, uncomfortable with the hobbling the writers inflicted on his invalid wife. But it was an excercise that sharpened my skills as a television writer.

So I was not surprised when the producers of "8 Simple Rules" came calling to enlist me to help keep the show on the air despite the tragic loss of their lead actor. "Bunsen," said one producer, "everything has changed. The rules have changed, and we need you to write the new rules." He had to say this twice as my eyes were fixed on the pendulum of the eightball he was dangling in front of my nose.

"I'm in," I said, eager to help yet another show overcome loss while coincidentally keeping the money train rumbling on towards Syndication Station.

I am known in the Hollywood community as a fast worker. Within fifteen minutes, I emerged from the hot tub on the roof of my compound with the 8 New Rules For Dating My Teenage Daughter. So without further ado, here are the blueprints for the posthumous (and prehilarious!) era of the hit show...

8 New Rules For Dating My Teenage Daughter

8. You may not refer to the continuation of my situational comedy family as a coarse money-grab by the network. It is an opportunity to show life's unpleasant realities in a humorous light.

8. You may not attempt to fuck my daughter as a way to get her to stop crying at my funeral.

7. You may not tell my daughter that I have bad breath. I have died, and the smells of decomposition are sometimes overpowering.

6. You may not return my daughter home after her curfew. If you do, it may appear that I am waiting for her in the living room. In actuality, my wife just propped my body up on the couch to scare you into respecting our rules.

5. You may not visit my daughter when there is no adult supervision. For example, If you are making out on the couch in my empty home with my daughter and hear a strange noise, she may tell you it's just the house settling. She is lying. The noise is that of my restless soul trying to possess you and force you to plunge to your death through our bay window.

4. You may not accept my wife's offer of a nightcap when you arrive to pick up my daughter. She has been drinking quite heavily since my passing, and a family show cannot effectively generate humor from a widow trying to have sex with her daughter's teenage boyfriend.

3. You must not be disturbed when my daughter repeatedly fires bullets into my corpse to convince you that I'm really dead and that it's OK to feel her up even with me in the room.

2. You must play nine holes of pitch-and-putt golf with me and the ghost of Bob Hope at least once per week before taking my daughter to the drive-in. During these meetings, the ghost of Bob Hope and I will dispense humorous-yet-sage advice about how to deal with women, which you must then hilariously misapply to the courting of my daughter. You must also look the other way when the ghost of Bob Hope kicks his ball out of the rough and onto the fairway. He is very old, even by ghost standards.

1. You may not refer to my memory without mentioning that I was a genius of physical comedy and ignore the fact that my best work was done on a misunderstanding-and-jiggle show. You must also forget that for much of the time I was pretending that I was a homosexual so that I could cohabitate in a swingers' apartment with two women of loose morals, as this might tarnish my memory in my daughter's eyes.

---

[If you really love me, you'll immediately send a link to this site to ten of your friends who are not already in my thrall. Do it right now, before you forget.]


Tuesday, September 16, 2003

 

Back in the Saddle Dept.



I apologize to the angry mob of Bunsen fans who were frothing at the mouth for a Monday post and were turned away unsatisfied. By way of apology, I can offer this: I have disappointed people a lot more naked than you.

This, of course, ignores the plight of those of you who were both disappointed and naked. To you: Now you know what it feels like.

And while we're talking about being naked, if you must know why I didn't post Monday, it was because I spent Sunday waiting outside of Jennifer Connelly's trailer on the set of her new movie, on all fours in my natural state save for a saddle, a crude sign promising "Free Jennifer Connelly Pony Rides" pinned to my flank. You don't recover from rent-a-cop baton trauma in a single night, gentle readers.

So as I clear the sweet fog from my head, I offer up the following sequential meditation on the fate of a certain Hollywood Power Couple who have recently canceled their wedding.

---------

How to Tell That Your Very High Profile Celebrity Engagement is on the Rocks


--You suddenly have a lot more free time to sit around with your high school buddy cum Oscar co-winning writing partner and wait for Miramax to hire someone to ghostwrite you up another award.

--No matter how many times you change the station, it seems that every song on the radio is about a breakup between a square-jawed recovering alcoholic and a full-figured crossover pop/movie star.

--You do not feel even the slightest pang of guilt or fear of discovery while nailing a Canadian exotic dancer named Starlight, even when you could have sworn for a split-second that the strobe light by the stripper pole was actually a paparazzi flashbulb.

--Gossip columns have suddenly started inserting a space in the middle of the cute one-word, combination nickname they'd been using for you and your beloved.

--You're increasingly annoyed that the aftertaste from the nipple glue that held up a very famous, revealing, green Grammy dress has not subsided, leaving you with the nagging suspicion that your bride-to-be's hygiene habits could use a punch-up.

--Suddenly that ample ass on your fiancée is starting to look a lot less "sexy" and a lot more "fat."

--The following two phrases find their way into the same sentence uttered by Michael Musto: "P. Diddy" and "rebound fuck."

--You quote Bunsen on the Tonight Show, but incorrectly site the source as "Bunsen Television" with no indication that your source is a website, letting 10 million potential readers slip through an Internet genius' fingertips. But he's not bitter about it because 10 million new readers would really not change anything in his already wonderful life.

--You can think of nothing else but correcting this error in attribution when you go on the Tonight Show to quote amusing and scathing commentary about the end of your very high profile celebrity engagement. In fact, you choose the one about "rebound fuck" just to make the censors bleep you out as an act of contrition to your Internet puppetmaster.


Friday, September 12, 2003

 

Remember to Forget



Whew. That thing I wrote yesterday was heavy. It's a well-kept secret, but the Internet's favorite blogging son (that's me, by the way) is very deep.

But now it's September 12th, a whole new day. 9/12 doesn't carry all that horrible baggage that its predecessor does. We can all return to our workaday lives without feeling guilty about enjoying ourselves on the day after the infamous anniversary and just forget all that nastiness. Unfortunately, my workaday included having the "fixtures polished" by a "high-priced fixtures polisher" since it seemed that everyone in my little black book was still a tad bummed about 9/11. I couldn't find a single desperate starlet-in-waiting who felt like recreating all the wonderful end-of-the-world sex so many of us stumbled into like a foot into a bucket in a 1920's screwball comedy. I'm not above giving something back to the adult comfort industry every now and again. God knows they'd done enough for me in the lean years before I took Hollywood by storm and couldn't even swing some action from the replacement hostess at the Olive Garden in Calabassas.

Hmmm...I wonder if she still works there, seating budget-conscious diners behind a neverending avalanche of breadsticks and giant salads. I'm suddenly feeling like I can't be alone tonight and might be up for a challenge. Besides, I can't exactly call the "polishing service" because I think my "buffing technician" may have mistaken my wallet and Rolex for the forty-dollar tip I meant to leave her on the nightstand. I've really got to get better about falling dead asleep the second the "brass is sparkling."

So, gentle readers, I suggest you soak up the suddenly clear air of September 12th and get started with the business of forgetting. We all forget in our own ways.


Thursday, September 11, 2003

 

9/11



I suppose it would be completely in character for me to write something about how Harrison Ford thinks September 11th was orchestrated by Nazis trying to steal his favorite artifact.

Instead, I'm writing nothing.

It's a moment of silence from a loud space.


Wednesday, September 10, 2003

 

Mercy is for the Weak Dept.



It seems as if someone from the RIAA is reading this site (I suspect it's Elton John), as the divinely-mandated legal warriors of the music industry seemed to be taking my advice by going after a 12 year old girl.

Of course, their mollycoddling litigators only got it half right by settling out of court for a mere two grand. I would have taken my electroclash/pots-n-pans band, Hipster Douchebag, over to her house to shave her Barbies and hold her upside down from the ankles until her milk money clinked on the floor as our synth player urinated all over her coloring books. I hope she likes red. He hasn't been able to fully shake the kidney infection he picked up on a tour stop in Latvia.

I can sleep peacefully tonight knowing that the residual checks and settlement monies will begin flowing a beautiful river of green direct-deposited goodness into my offshore account very soon. If not, we have plans for the next file-stealing minor to cross our Internet path that bypasses wrongheaded RIAA mercy.

I can't tell you exactly what we have in store because it requires an element of surprise. But let's just say for now that our bass player picked up a black van on the cheap and fall into the sweet slumber of the vindicated righteous.



Tuesday, September 09, 2003

 

261* Dept.



I love the smell of a subpoena in the morning.

Today, the mighty Recording Industry Association of America has finally come to its senses and started suing the holy living fuck out of 261 Internet freeloaders. It took them long enough to finally find the balls to stand up to the wife and kick her ne'er-do-well alcoholic brother off the couch before he eats the last of the Nutella and Marshmallow Fluff.

I can't tell you how much money my new electroclash/pots-n-pans band, Hipster Douchebag, has lost in royalties to the file-stealing world. Let's just say that the gold fixtures on the hot tub in the third floor library of the Hollywood compound are only 10 karat gold. If I want to soak surrounded by the calming opulence of the 24K, I have to take the private elevator all the way up to the roof deck and expose my delicate skin to the harsh LA clime. And my live-in elevator attendant, while quite limber and always game for a quick toss as I'm in transit between floors, has an annoying tendency to try and talk to me about her day once my needs have been met. So instead I harumph and suffer the indignity of the third floor "gold."

If only the legion pimple-faced thieves of Kazaa and Grokster would spend their allowance on our $8.99 maxi-single cover version of that new Beyoncé song (the name of which escapes me at the moment, but man alive is it catchy!), the LCD screen in my Expedition might have a 120-hour TiVo instead of the woefully inadequate 40-hour box. Don't these shortsighted digital filchers understand that the B-side is a remix of the single with a drum machine instead of live drums? I spell it V-A-L-U-E.

It's about time we started getting tough on crime. I've gone on the record as being tough on criminals. Once, a tip from me led the loss-prevention team at my local pharmacy from surrendering a pack of strawberry Big League Chew to the dishonest hands of a shifty-eyed 12-year-old. I offered to gnaw off the child's index finger and spit it in the face of the girl's mother, whose inadequate parenting had led us to that unfortunate crossroads in the waif's life. But the security guard let me kick her in the shins after Mom offered to pay for the gum. I don't often visit the lawless badlands that the pharmacy has since become. Their spinelessness in the face of their certain economic ruin makes it impossible for me to enjoy my egg cream while flipping through the latest issue of Wallpaper.

I guess there's little else to do but wait for the next round of RIAA lawsuits. The guys from Metallica called me to invite me over to watch the first trial on Court TV next month. Lars is going to make popcorn. I'm not a huge fan of their music, but we have to stick together in these dangerous days if Hipster Douchbag is going to claw its way up the TRL charts and into my third "Cribs" episode. I don't want to be remembered as merely a writer with a bumpin' domicile. I need my gold records casually propped up in the background as I absentmindedly open the door to my Sub-Zero, revealing a rack of Cristal chilling.

This can only happen if the file-sharing banditos of the Internet are brought to heel by the power of right and litigated back to the Rock & Pop section of their local Virgin Megastore.

Thank you and God bless the RIAA.


Monday, September 08, 2003

 

Kickoff Dept.



Today was the first full day of games in the new NFL season.

Ho. Effing. Hum.

Does anyone even watch football anymore now that we have Kobe Bryant to keep our attention? The NFL needs another OJ Simpson or Ray Lewis to once again capture our hearts and imaginations. To that end, I nominate Deion Sanders to return to the game, forcibly sodomize a referee at the fifty-yard line at a Cowboys game, then fire a flare gun into the crowd. Alas, Deion has seemingly found God in his retirement, so the odds of him taking one (or, more accurately, giving one) for the league are at best sixty percent in favor.

Until that happens, I'm going to go right on ignoring football. I haven't watched the pigskin-flinging behemoths square off since Los Angeles, my adopted home until I can sell my Hollywood compound for a reasonable profit in a buyers' market and move to a Lower East Side janitorial closet, lost its teams to twin marauding megalopolises St. Louis and Oakland. I can't really begrudge Jonathan Franzen's hometown a pro team. But I take great comfort that the Oakland club, whatever they are called since abandoning the great fans of Los Angeles, lost in the Super Bowl to Tampa Bay, my new favorite team until I cynically adopt this year's champion as my own.

Despite my apathy, this year I was invited to a fantasy football draft at the home of "Bad Boys II" director Michael Bay. Each season a different cast of luminaries is invited into his league, with a top prize of selecting the squirrel which will serve as the director of photography of his next film and $20,000 cash. This year among the invitees were actors Stellan Skaarsgard and Nick Nolte, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, noted physicist Stephen Hawking, and Dan Peres, editor of bleeding-edge metrosexual rag Details. I am prohibited by an ironclad confidentiality agreement from naming the other owners in our league, but they included three of the following four people: Bruce Willis, former Hollywood madame Heidi Fleiss, Marlon Brando's beekeeper, and indie film darling Chloe Sevigny.

I am further prohibited from describing the events of the draft. But I will tell you that my idea for Deion Sanders's salvation of the NFL was influenced by events transpiring between a wild-haired actor, a certain wheelchair bound genius (I should point out that the beekeeper, if in fact he was in attendance, is both a moron and fully ambulatory), and a computer-modulated voice begging for help as stunned onlookers stared helplessly at each other in a moment with eerie echoes of the famous Kitty Genovese case.

None of this, however, has revived my interest in football. I drafted Joe Theisman to man the quarterback position in the first round and then proceeded to drunkenly proposition Ms. Sevigny (if she was, in fact, present), who took cunning advantage of my offers to trade kisses on the cheek for my draft picks. She's now the favorite to take home the trophy.

And I fear I won't be able to flush those feeble, tomented, robotic cries from my memory until the next year's fantasy draft -- where I look forward to repeating Dan Peres' impassioned, unimpeachable defense of a man wearing eyeliner to a football-related event.


Thursday, September 04, 2003

 

Sacrifice Dept.



Page Six reported that celebrity members of the Church Scientology must sign agreements giving up many of their rights in order to advance to high levels within the organization's hierarchy.

Below, please find a list detailing the sacrifices of freedom made by true-believing Scientology superstars that is sure to result in my Hollywood compound being circled by black vans filled with L. Ron Hubbard's "public relations officers."

John Travolta: Willingly surrendered rights to appear in movies that are not total pieces of shit in which he portrays a maverick cop/career military man who plays by his own wild-boy rules. Upon joining the Church and enjoying several career resurrections, agreed to have normal-sized Vinnie Barbarino/"Saturday Night Fever" era head replaced with bloated noggin selected from the recent signature Jerry Lewis line. Upon his death, Travolta agrees to surrender giant head to Scientology officials, who will repurpose it as a sweat lodge for new recruits.

Tom Cruise: Gave up right to complain about how Nicole Kidman would demand that he talk dirty to her in Australian accent and pretend his name was "Russell, Sex Gladiator," or how she'd demand that the pool boy only be allowed to visit while she was present. Church lawyers also arranged for Nicole to retain pool boy's custody after divorce.

Nicole Kidman: Surrendered right to not marry box-office star of indeterminate sexuality to boost her career. It is completely coincidental that this item follows the previous item and no conclusions should be drawn from its placement behind the aforementioned item.

Lisa-Marie Presley: Submitted to having false memories of sexual relationship with Michael Jackson projected into her subconscious, which would be immediately activated should she ever choose to leave the Church.

Beck: Not allowed to leave his house without receiving express written permission from Isaac Hayes.

Kirstie Alley: Forced to devour Delta Burke at a gala thrown at the Church's Hollywood Celebrity Centre, not allowed to vomit her up after the banquet.



Wednesday, September 03, 2003

 

Regrets are What We Make of Them



First we suffer through the end of the summer, and now the world is about to end. British astronomers -- who are always among the best in the world because the British are predisposed to stare into the sky to observe the constant shifts in weather from gray to gray and spitting rain -- believe that a 2.6 billion ton asteroid may strike the earth in 2014. And if we've learned anything from history, it's that a huge, hurtling space rock will instantly wipe all life off the face of the planet, somehow sparing only Tom Arnold. I introduce the comment about Tom Arnold only to momentarily lighten the doomsaying mood and illustrate the absurdity of instant extinction by speculating that I might be outlived by someone who willingly spent moments of this precious life putting his penis inside of Roseanne Barr.

This asteroid thing is, to put it succinctly, bad news. Normally self-assured and preternaturally confident with my place in the universe, the prospect of being snuffed by an astronomer's wet dream has given me pause. I can do little else but stare out the window, waiting for the annihilation by God's death-pebble that will be visiting 11 years hence. I can't dwell on my accomplishments; there's so much left to do, and a smidge over a decade just isn't enough to get it done.

I have not yet simultaneously dominated the top five slots on the New York Times' fiction and nonfiction bestseller lists with my ambitious ten-volume cycle of semiautobiographical creative memoirs detailing my efforts to write the screenplay adaptation of my life story as told on this site.

I have placed no higher than second in ESPN's Lumberjack Games due to a tragic failing of muscle-memory each time I step on a cedar log floating in a river, suffering humiliating comparisons to Pete Sampras' inability to win on French clay.

I haven't yet had a sixsome. I once foolishly attempted to jump straight from a fivesome to a sevensome, but the delicious adventure quickly unraveled when three comely fans from a recent website signing found my explication of the difference between a "gangbang" and a "festival of sexuality" to be wanting, leaving me to yawn my way through yet another supermodel sandwich foursome.

And, perhaps most tragically, I won't live to see the sixth installment of the Indiana Jones series, laughing as my supernemesis Harrison Ford dodders about, his rheumatoid arthritis seriously impinging on his ability to whip something out of an enemy's hand.

If you need me I'll be sitting on my roof, waiting and waiting for the cruel asteroid to rob me of possibility.*




[*Please let me know how Paradise Hotel turns out.]


Tuesday, September 02, 2003

 

That's Right, Uh Huh, Dance Dance Dance Dept.



Due to some technical difficulty beyond my understanding, all 475 channels of my digital cable were playing MTV's new show "The Wade Robson Project" nonstop for the entirety of the Labor Day weekend. Robson is a choreographer/dance prodigy who once shared the stage with Michael Jackson when he was a zygote moonwalking in his mother's uterus (where, I presume, he was relatively safe from Jackson's inappropriate advances). Now Robson is determined to find America's best dancers and MTV is equally determined to film every moment of his search.

After my fifteenth consecutive viewing of the show's first episode, I was stricken with this epiphany:

I just wanna dance.

Everything is ruined for me now. Food is sand, words are hollow, and I can barely bring myself to produce multiple orgasms in starlets-in-waiting whom I've convinced that I'm a producer with greenlight power.

The dance is Life.

There is dancing or there is misery.

I can think of nothing else besides pop-locking, the Robot, the Worm, the Running Man, the Cabbage Patch, the limb-pretzeling contortions of the Roger Rabbit. I realize that these dances are all decades old. But it's been so long since I've danced due to a "horizontal mambo" injury I suffered after demonstrating my once-patented "flipping the pancakes" dance routine (which has since been pirated and produced much more cheaply in Malaysian dance halls) at an open bar function of the Scandinavian Deep Tissue Masseuse Practical Training Convention in Denver. That is a story for another time. (It may seem that there is a lot of sex talk where there should be dance talk, but those of us with the dance in our blood know that they are one in the same.)

I'll be footloose and flashdancey free. My feet will be magic, my upper body moving in a way that suggests that there is delicious evil below in my hips.

I will shake it until I break it, light up the sky like a flame.

I will publicly eschew the lambada in accordance with polite society's designation of it as the forbidden dance. But in private my pelvis will grind and I will sweat to its sweet Latin rhythms.

So I entreat you to join me in the dance as summer draws to a close, waltzing into the autumn as I wait for my regular cable service to be restored.




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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