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Thursday, January 29, 2004


But It Looks Like the Code for "Huge Out of Court Settlement" is About to Be Cracked

LORDY, LORDY. IT seems that the Michael Jackson Freak Parade just took another left turn onto What the Fuck? Street.

Various sources are reporting that MJ is in the habit of serving alcohol to his underage playmates in soda cans, and that he adorably refers to white wine as "Jesus Juice" and to red wine as "Jesus blood."

Just moments ago, I was leaked a document that revealed Jacko's super-secret code names for other things that might, like his very beautiful friendships with children, be misunderstood and get him in trouble during his trial.

Selections from the Glossary of Michael Jackson's wondrously wondrous Religiously-Tinged Code-Words

"Virgin Mary Milkshake" = A White Russian in an 8 oz. milk carton

"Jehovah Jamba Juice" = A margarita in a Capri Sun bag, sipped through a crazy straw

"Holy Spirit Swizzle Stick" = Michael's genitalia

"Baby Jesus in a Sleeping Bag" = Michael's genitaila in a prophylactic

"Watching the Stars with Archangel Gabriel" = A nighttime ride on the Neverland Ferris wheel, which always seems to "stick" at the top for fifteen minutes

"Jiggling St. Peter's Fuzzy Dice" = A reacharound

"Taking a Platonic Nap in My Huge, Comfy Bed with the Twelve Apostles, the Three Wise Men, and Frankincense" = [Too graphic to be reprinted. Trust me, you don't want to know. Let's just say MJ must have had his spine removed during one of those surgeries and leave it at that, OK?]

In other news, someone else is probably tippling a little too much of the good Jesus stuff:

Wednesday, January 28, 2004


Update Dept. 2: Electric Boogaloo

YESTERDAY, I TOOK a bold step in officially killing off the tired "Place Anything Here 2: Electric Boogaloo" joke.

It occurred to me that it's easy to tear down, but so very hard to build up.* So in place of the "Place Anything Here 2: Electric Boogaloo" tiredness, I submit a new way to sequelize something and illustrate diminishment. (I'm not claiming to have made this up, as I'm sure it's sprung out of the collective unconscious of...somebody.)

So here it goes:

Just add the "2", a colon, and then increase the adjective (where applicable) to a comparative.

The new form is best illustrated by this example:
Cold Mountain 2: Colder Mountain

This also has the added benefit of the implied tagline, "This mountain just got a whole lot colder."

And you know what happens if it rounds out into a trilogy:
Cold Mountain 3: Coldest Mountain

Try it, it's fun!

Of course, this won't work for everything the way that "Electric Boogaloo" did. But we do our best in such an imperfect world.

[*This update has been incorporated into the original post. I'm saving some regular readers from the onerous task of "scrolling down" to read it again. And, on another note, I've gone right batty with the footnoting lately, haven't I? I can't help it, I've been jerking off into a copy of Infinite Jest for the past few days.]


Opening Attachments from People You Don't Know is the New "Goddamn, I'm Stupid"

I DON'T WANT to brag, but I have nearly one-hundred e-mail addresses. I know this makes me seem considerably cooler than many of you. Please don't be resentful. If you had Kirk Cameron constantly spamming you about his new life with Christ, you'd accumulate a lot more @ signs, too.

In the face of this new viral scourge which some call MyDoom and some call Novarg (it's really a personal preference thing, like whether you mumble under your breath that I'm "cracker" or a "honkey"), my life has become consumed with deleting infected mail from my many, many e-mail accounts. I've set up a sophisticated set of mail filters to help properly direct the viral menace to Dave Barry, Instapundit, and an unnamed person* that would satisfy the Rule of Three requirement for comedy if I listed him or her here.

But not everyone is as tech-savvy as I am, so in the public interest, I offer you my tips for safer attachment-opening.

Bunsen's Tips for Safely Opening E-mail Attachments from People You Don't Know

People that you don't know rarely send you e-mail with attachments, which may contain malicious programming code. If you get an e-mail with an attachment and feel compelled to open it, first run your virus scanner. If the scanner reveals that the file is infected, delete it immediately. Congratulations! You've stopped a virus dead in its tracks.

If the virus scanner reveals that the file is uninfected and you still feel like you should open it, follow these steps:

1. E-mail everyone in your address book (shortcut: click "Reply All" on the e-mail from your mother about how you win a free trip to Disneyland for forwarding the message to others) and ask them if they sent you something from an unfamiliar e-mail address.

2. Call everyone in your mobile phone book and ask them if they sent you anything from an unfamiliar e-mail address.

3. Send each person in your Filofax a postcard and ask them if they sent you anything from an unfamiliar e-mail address.

If someone you know did indeed send you the file from an unfamiliar e-mail address, feel free to open it. If the file turns out to be infected, their bad.

If after completing Steps 1 and 2 you still don't know the origin of the e-mail with the attachment that you wish to open, prepare the attachment for opening by following these additional steps:
    a. Stand up at your desk, stretch briefly, and walk into the kitchen.

    b. Turn on the oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit, making sure to leave the oven door open.

    c. Stick head in oven, inhaling deeply as you contemplate what wonders this mysterious e-mail attachment from an unfamiliar e-mail address must certainly hold! (Note:This step should take no fewer than 30 minutes to complete. If you don't have a conventional oven, you may substitute placing the entire contents of your silverware drawer inside your microwave and cooking them on High for 6-8 minutes.)

You should now be prepared to open the attachment! Happy e-mailing!

*Bonus section*

What this Trojan onslaught has done is make me pay much closer to the spam that's clogging my in-boxes. I've compiled what some people like to call a "list" and others prefer to call "a lack of interest in doing something interesting" (again, please note the cracker/honkey dichotomy) from this unwanted mail.

Spam Subject Line Promises that Could Be a Little More Enticing

@ Paris Hilton Gets You College Degrees Cheap!

@ You can get 5% more chlamydia in just one month xhsdfhdg**

@ Metamucil #$%g Crackerjacks &&^$##) Pampers $!@$

@ Spycams catch sweaty fat jailbait with Montezuma's revenge!

@ 300 inches added to your member--overnight!

@ I swear to god its ur baby motherfucker

@ I named him bunsen jr cuz he has ur eyes

@ New Friendster request from Vincent Gallo

[*OK, we'll go with David Sedaris]
[** Why is it that spam filters can be defeated with a random string of letters at the end of the subject line? What's up with that?]

Tuesday, January 27, 2004


Rainy Parade on a Wack Holiday Dept.

I REALLY SHOULDN'T have to do this, but there's a certain responsibility that comes with my post of Spokesman for the Internet. Trust me when I tell you that I have conflicted feelings about being the fat guy in the dirty wife-beater than shoos y'all off my goddamn interlawn.

But really, these "Place Anything Here 2: Electric Boogaloo" jokes must end. Right. Now. Period. After. Each. Word. To. Denote. Emphasis.*

We all know that Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo was easily the worst-named sequel in the sepia-toned 1980's. We also know that sequels are usually horrible, and this represents an easy shorthand for their awfulness. We're all sort of embarrassed that we rented it back when it was still available on Beta, and we've probably drunkenly insisted that it was actually pretty sweet.

But, for the love of Paris, Entertainment Weekly made an Electric Boogaloo joke on the back page of the Guide to 2004 issue. In an interview with the Electric Booglaoo of white rappers, Vanilla Ice. And I'm not sure, but I think Jon Stewart sullied himself with the Boogaloo reference in that surreal "breakdancing for the Pope" segment last night.

I don't blame you. Trust me, I know how easy it is to "go there."

I blame VH-1, the All-Talking-Heads, All-the-Time Network. I blame I Love the 80s and I Love the 80s Strike Back and Best Week Ever and 50 Greatest Make-Outingest Onscreen Smooches and 100 Sluttiest Groupie Ho-bags. I would continue to slag VH-1 if I didn't desperately want to be one of those talking heads and expand my empire to basic cable. So let's not get rid of VH-1 quite yet until my fork is stuck in it.

But if I hear Mo Rocca or Michael Ian Black or Kennedy go all Electric Boogaloo one more time, I'm likely to whine about it to everyone in webshot, in fashion similar to what I'm doing now.

In the interest of putting this to bed once and for all, I submit the following:

A List of Other Unfortunate Sequel Titles Utlizing "Electric Boogaloo" as a Punchline

--Judgment at Nuremberg 2: Electric Boogaloo
--2 Fast 2 Furious 2: Electric Booglaoo
--Krush Groove 2: Electric Boogaloo
--Female Genital Mutilation 2: Electric Booglaoo
--Schindler's List 2: Electric Boogaloo
--Gwen Stefani's Totally Trying to be an Actress 2: Electric Boogaloo
--Breakin' 3: Electric Boogaloo

And so on. I'm also going to provide you with an excerpt from "A Brief Interview with the Utter Playedness of Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo as Tired Shorthand for Bad Sequel Ideas"

Bunsen: So how does it feel to be put to death by VH-1?

TUPOB2:EBATSFBSI: I dunno, I kinda like that my name's out there. Nicole Sullivan is kinda cute, doncha think?

Bunsen: I'm sort of partial to that chick that edits Spin.


There, that oughta do it. Dead horse beaten, Dixie Chick silenced.

Excuse me while I go remove the hardened bits of rant-spittle from the corner of my mouth.

And get off my fucking lawn!

Update: It occurred to me that it's easy to tear down, but so very hard to build up. So in place of the "Place Anything Here 2: Electric Boogaloo" tiredness, I submit a new way to sequelize something and illustrate diminishment.

Just add the "2", a colon, and then increase the adjective (where applicable) to a comparative.

The new form is best illustrated by this example:
Cold Mountain 2: Colder Mountain

This also has the added benefit of the implied tagline, "This mountain just got a whole lot colder."

And you know what happens if it rounds out into a trilogy:
Cold Mountain 3: Coldest Mountain

Try it, it's fun!

Of course, this won't work for everything the way that "Electric Boogaloo" did. But we do our best in such an imperfect world.

[*This is also really, really begging for retirement. But that is a story for another day.]

Sunday, January 25, 2004


The 2004 Golden Globes: Close Enough for Me to Smell, But Far Enough Away to Not Get Any On Me

FROM THE RED carpet to Harvey Weinstein's beating of a cocktail waitress who asked if Miramax was nominated for anything this year: Bunsen [dot] TV's less-than-comprehensive coverage of notable moments at the Golden Globes:

*Red Carpet host and youngest View cackling hen Lisa Ling caused an uncomfortable moment when she stopped Lucy Liu and thanked her for her career, which she candidly revealed to be a screwball mistaken identity scenario. They shared a nervous laugh over how each Monday morning Barbara Walters asks Lisa about Kill Bill's weekend gross between clumsy foot-binding jokes.

*Just ask Mary-Louise Parker and Cate Blanchett-- engorged breasts ready for the breast feeding of greedy newborn (or about to be born) mouths are the new awards-season anorexia. Sorry, Brittany Murphy!

*But don't give me no Bridget Jones II guff: Any way you slice it, Renee Zelleweger is morbidly obese.

*Al Pacino's wispy ponytail caused quite a stir in the kitchen at Spago Beverly Hills, where a busboy received confirmation on national television that he actually did hear the snip of scissors followed by a triumphant "Hoo-ah!" resolving in an interminably overacted soliloquy from Richard III.

*Danny Devito narrowly defeated Dustin Hoffman, Tom Cruise, and some guy in a wheelchair that The Office's Ricky Gervais dragged on stage in the Official 2004 Golden Globes Short-off. Man oh man, that Devito is short!

*The camera repeatedly stole moments of making love to Jude Law, a man so beautiful that he turned me gay in nine-second increments each time he appeared onscreen. Luckily for the women of Hollywood, I was quickly hetero-restored by multiple reaction shots of half-man/half-bear changeling Peter Jackson eating what appeared to be ribs.

*The chameleon-like Meryl Streep is at it again, and this time she's apparently disappearing into a role requiring an LPGA tour haircut and some serious cankles. That's dedication to craft, people.

*NBC's promotion machine roared to life during the all-too-frequent commercial breaks. This week's Scrubs will feature Michael J. Fox as Dr. Trembles, the most malpracticin' surgeon this side of the guy who botched Olivia Goldsmith's facelift.

*Apparently the folks at CNBC have given Dennis Miller another crack at a talk show. This time, he'll stick his head straight up his ass and rant directly into his duodenum.

*For reasons of mindbending circular logic beyond the grasp of this simple civilian, the Hollywood Foreign Press gives an award for Best Foreign Film. This year's winner was Afghanistan's Osama, the most unfortunately-named entry in this category since 1941's Hitler's Twat. The crowd patiently waited for director Siddiq Barmak to jump up on a table and adorably profess his love for America, apple-pie, and big-titted blondes. Instead, they got a dignified, heartfelt speech. Bo-ring!

*If I had a chicken for every time Jack Nicholson threw his head back in a squinty laugh through his trademark sunglasses, I'd have the Mexican village on my favorite votive candle.

*From the "I'm Not Dead Yet!" file: Living legend Michael Douglas was honored with the Cecil B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award, even though he's at least six years away from a career-reviving stroke. C'mon Foreign Press, not so fast! There's another chapter in the Douglas saga waiting to be written while the "stately" heartthrob is being kept vital by the life-giving force of Catherine Zeta-Jone's vagina.

*Oh, Tom Cruise, don't think we didn't notice that you brought your mother to the ceremony! Nothing to see here, folks, just another breeder sharing success with Mom...

*Former bad-boy rebel Sean Penn was absent for his Best Dramatic Actor nod. He's busy preparing for his next role by searching for things that smell like shit to aid his trademark nose-wrinkling move.

*Hollywood royal and new America's sweetheart Sofia Coppola stunned all in attendance by inviting Jennifer Connelly onstage for a cat-fight with pillows stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. The dual Globe-winning (Best Original Screenplay, Best Comedic Film) Coppola nearly made it a trifecta by covering herself in apple butter and Connelly in quick-hardening Magic Shell chocolate sauce, but the bout was interrupted when one of my Globe party guests entered my bathroom without knocking. So not cool.

*As expected, Charlize Theron waltzed away with the Best Dramatic Actress award. Through her streaming tears of gratitude she remembered to thank the real-life inspiration for her role, female serial killer Aileen Wuornos, for "totally wasting all those johns. You were super rad!" Whispers around the tables had Renee Zelleweger immediately on the phone to her agent, demanding that "next time I blow up for a role, you better get me a script where I get to be ugly and dive into some A-list muff!"

*Nicole Kidman goes winless on the evening, prompting speculation there's a backlash against pasty actresses wearing pixie dresses from Hollywood High School's Fall production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

Next year I promise that I'll ingest enough Red Bull to actually make it through the entire ceremony. The smart money's on Cold Mountain taking home the Best Dramatic Picture Globe, as the only place in Hollywood featuring fewer black faces than the Beverly Hilton last night was Anthony Minghella's North Carolina in the Civil War. I've got my fingers crossed--my Globe pool's riding on this one!

I'll tell you what, though...Connelly eventually beat the odds and kept Sofia from the three-peat. Don't worry, folks, I ran the bout five times just to ensure the accuracy of the results.

Friday, January 23, 2004


It's Obvious I'm a Tiger Dept.

I WAS REMISS in not wishing you a happy Year of the Monkey. But it's an old system, that Chinese calendar, and could use some spiffing up, no?

Proposed Additions to the Chinese Calendar

--Year of the Cat Who Hates Mondays (But Loooves Lasagna!)

--Year of that Squirrel with the Huge Nuts

--Year of the Dangled Crocodile Hunter Baby

--Year of the Tito

--Year of the Segway

--Year of the Out-of-Court Settlement on Molestation Charges Where at Least One Party Still Thinks Very Beautiful Sleepovers in His Big, Comfy Bed are OK and Not At All Devilish

--Year of the Bennifer

--Year of the Cataract (to be followed by Year of the Rincoln)

--Year of the Ignorant White Devil Who is Slowly Being Poisoned to Death with MSG and Repeatedly Insists His Beef and Broccoli is a Too Light on the Beef, Do You Understand Me, Charlie Chan?, Don't Worry, Honey, He Doesn't Understand Any English that's Not on the Menu

--Year of the Joke that's So Convoluted that it Can't Easily Be Determined if it's Racist or a Lame Indictment of Racism

--Year of the Swan

Thursday, January 22, 2004


I Know that the "Who the Fuck Cares?" Factor is Somewhere Around "P.Diddy Nicked Himself Shaving Last Night," but this is What I Do

IN AN HEROIC attempt to be the first to bear the news of the J-lo/Affleck (read also "Bennifer") break-up to somebody, anybody, Bunsen conducted the following exchange with a moldy deck chair next to the drained swimming pool at the Cairo, Nebraska (pop. 790) Motel 6:

Bunsen: Dude, you're not going to believe this -- Ben and J-Lo have finally called off the wedding!

Moldy Deck Chair Next to the Drained Swimming Pool at the Cairo, Nebraska Motel 6: Didn't that happen about three months ago? You know, the strippers in Vancouver thing?

Bunsen: No, they got back together.

MDCNTTDSPATCNM6: Oh. That's so totally awesome!

Bunsen: I know!

MDCNTTDSPATCNM6: So this just happened?

Bunsen: Yeah, just now! I wanted to be the first to tell someone. You know, break the big scoop and whatnot.

MDCNTTDSPATCNM6: Consider it broken, man! [Snickering]

Bunsen: What? [realizing] Oh, no....

MDCNTTDSPATCNM6: I totally heard like ten minutes ago on Gawker! And the local news!

Bunsen: No!!!!!!!!!

[Crushed and overcome by despair, Bunsen tosses himself into the dry pool, not unlike the diver in that commercial that compares doing drugs to diving into a dry pool.]

[He is saved from serious, possibly-fatal cranial trauma when his head lands on a discarded Water Wing.]

Bunsen: Dude! J-Lo and Affleck---

Discarded Water Wing: Whatevs. Call me when Cruise comes out on Access Hollywood, then we'll talk.

Bunsen: I'm too depressed to utter another cry of despair.

DWW: And I'm a little bored of your interviews with anthropomorphized inanimate objects.

Bunsen: But--

DWW: And I know you aren't gonna bring that weak story about you and Affleck up in here.

Bunsen: [through a nose jammed with the snot of frustrated gossip pathos]: I'm coming back when they get back together! You'll see!

Tuesday, January 20, 2004


Sometimes the Television Shows Politics Dept.

A Quick Q&A with Howard Dean's Unhinged Concession Speech Guttural Battle Cry

Bunsen: Thanks for taking the time to answer a few questions.

Howard Dean's Unhinged Concession Speech Guttural Battle Cry [HDUCSGBC]: It's totally my pleasure! We've just gotta get the word out and we love being the underdog in New Hampshire! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Bunsen: I'm sure you're tired of hearing this, but some people think that you made Howard Dean seem a little less than presidential and have given Republicans perfect ammunition for attack ads.

HDUCSGBC: You wanna know something?

[Pregnant, uncomfortable pause brought on by chilling eye contact following presumably rhetorical question.]

HDUCSGBC: C'mon, you wanna know something?

Bunsen: [Theatrically adjusting collar to broadcast my squeamishness] Yeah, sure.

HDUCSGBC: Unpresidential? I'm going to North Carolina and Mississippi and Illinois and those Republicans can totally, one-hundred percent EAT MY FUCKING ASSHOLE! YYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAH!

Bunsen: Hooookay. [Searching for next question] What did you think of tonight's State of the Union address?

HDUCSGBC: I found Bush's plan to in five years halve the record budget deficit he caused to be the height of straight-faced political hypocrisy.

Bunsen: Oh. That's a surprisingly calm, considered opinion.

HDUCSGBC: Yeah, that's right! And because of that hypocrisy I'm going to Washington, DC to take back the White House! I'm going to sit down on the toilet in the Lincoln Bedroom and hold down George W. Bush's head while HE GIVES ME A FUCKING BLUMPKIN!!!!! YEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAH BIIIIIAAAAATCH!

Bunsen: Do you have any messages that I can deliver to John Kerry, whom many consider to be the front-runner due to your, um. outburst?

HDUCSGBC: John Kerry is a personal friend of mine and a great servant of his country. But I'm going to New Hampshire and South Carolina and I can promise you that his wife's GOING TO LICK GREEN KETCHUP OFF MY KNOB WHEN I WIN THE PRIMARY!!!! YYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHH HOW D'YA LIKE ME NOW, FRONT-RUNNER MR. HEINZ?!?!?!?!?!!! [Wildly throws punches into the air]

Bunsen: Good luck in New Hampshire, Unhinged Concession Speech Guttural Battle Cry of the Governor.

HDUCSGBC: And a pleasant day to you, sir.

Monday, January 19, 2004


If I Had Merely One-Third of This Gentlemen's Ambition, You'd All Be Working for Me

BEHOLD: THE GREATEST IM "Away" message in the brief history of IM "Away" messages.

First runner up: "Sorry, I'm away from the computer right now, waiting in line to fuck Smurfette. There's a 99:1 blue 'hot dog' to blue 'doughnut' ratio, so this could take awhile."

[Suddenly I feel like I'm a bad Michael Ian Black outtake from I Love the 80s. Which I suppose is slightly better than being a Rich Eisen or Joel Stein outtake.]

[Because they are smug douchebags.]

[Sorry, that sounded smug and douchey. They are seemingly self-satisfied, grinning douchebags.]

Friday, January 16, 2004


It's Taking All of My Strength to Refrain from Saying "God Punished Her," but He Did

OLIVIA GOLDSMITH, AUTHOR of execrable Hollywood adaptation fodder First Wives' Club, has died due to complications during a facelift procedure. [Link via Gawker.] Our condolences, it's all v. sad, etc etc.

Helen Fielding, Lauren Weisberger, Rebecca Wells, and a host of other authors of neon-covered, stick-figures juggling babies/cellphones/grocery bags/Weight Watcher Calorie Calculators on little stick-figure Jimmy Choo's are hereby condemned to try and grow old gracefully. Good luck, gals!

[If it had been Fielding, this space would have included a hilarious faux Bridget diary entry. So if you want to see that, maybe you should slip her the card of a non-Board-certified plastic surgeon.]

Thursday, January 15, 2004


If You Can't Tell, I Have a Tattoo Reading "Watch the Teeth" in My Happy Trail Area

I BRIEFLY CONSIDERED constructing a narrative based on my utter bewilderment at the dubiously popular practice of men getting Brazilian waxes. (For one, I don't believe this trend is for even a minute, ahem, gaining traction. Secondly, I blame metrosexuals.)

Instead, you get a list.

Things That Cause Slightly Less Pain Than Having Your Balls Waxed

--A parent burying a child, a first-born, male child with whom a proud lineage also dies

--The insertion of a catheter that's been contaminated by an orderly who's just eaten a dozen spicy buffalo wings

--Employing the antiquated practice of treating diaper rash with a cheese grater

--Winterbush burn

--Watching reruns of Friends' eighth season with pre-staple Carnie Wilson sitting on your face, constantly fidgeting to get comfortable

--Postcoital cuddling (wasn't the cab fare taped to the headboard hint enough?)

--Your therapist's barely-stifled giggles following a hard-won breakthrough involving the ferris wheel at Neverland Ranch, a suggestive lyric in "Remember the Time" you're sure is a veiled reference to your genitalia, and a llama ride

--Getting your balls waxed by Salma Hayek


Next Week, Salon Provokes Blood Feud with Harrison Ford

I LOVE IT when the "legitimate" media finally catches wind of something I picked up on an internet ice age ago.

Early Adopter Section [via myself]

Wednesday, January 14, 2004


But He's Holding Off on Re-emancipating the Slaves Until the Election is Closer

MILDRED! HEY, MILDRED! Turn off Uncle Milty and get over here! This crazy fool says we're goin' to the moon!

Key Provisions of George W. Bush's New NASA Space Exploration Plan

--John Glenn is to be persuaded to come out of retirement via an ether-soaked rag and a burlap sack and sent back into a 30-day geosynchronous orbit; he'll be kept company by the cryogenically-preserved head of Yuri Gagarin and a velvet painting of Gus Grissom.

--All "undocumented Martians" stowing away on returning US spacecraft are ineligible for drivers' licenses, public schooling, and welfare benefits and must be immediately returned to Vincente Fox.

--Howard Dean can be released from imprisonment in the Phantom Zone in 2019, 2018 with time off for good behavior.

--NASA aides are to ensure that the President never sees the apocalyptic visionary masterwork Mars Attacks! to prevent him from getting cold feet and canceling the budget increase.

--Astronauts will be instructed to bring back "some of that there moon gravity" to increase distance of Presidential golf drives.

--The recapture of escaped supervillain Saddam Hussein in a Sea of Tranquility spider-hole is planned for April 2015.

--Halliburton is to receive exclusive contracts for gathering all useless red rocks from the surface of Mars.

--Martians are to be granted self-rule no later than the summer of 2038, but only after Al Gore III fails to win majority in the Martian Provisional Parliament electoral college.

--Right about here I passed out from being overwhelmed with possibilities for mediocre George W. Bush jokes, woke up ten minutes later and deleted one involving reference to Bush rather uncreatively exercising his leadership role by re-emancipating the slaves, then promoted it to a headline.

--And here is where I realized that not having anything worthwhile to say has never stopped me before. See archives from May 2002-present for details.

--And lastly I came *this* close to detailing how Bush planned to declare our independence from Great Britain, which everyone knows happened sometime in the 1830's.


But It Would Be OK if We Lost Track of Bogosian, Wouldn't It?

SPALDING GRAY IS still missing. In the interest preventing this from happening again, I've compiled a list of other famous monologuists so that we can better protect one of America's greatest resources: people that can talk endlessly about their lives without the burden of conversation slowing them down.

Famous Monologuists Whom As of This Writing are Still Not Missing

--Eric Bogosian

--Garrison Keillor

--Ruth Draper*

--Margaret Cho**

--Josh Kornbluth***


--David Sedaris*****

--The Vagina******

--Lily Tomlin*******

*deceased, 1956

**but has finally enbraced the curvy figure that contributed to the demise of her short-loved ABC sitcom, All-American Girl

***found somewhere in second page of Google search for "famous monologuists"



******I haven't seen one in longer than I care to think about+

*******will mysteriously disappear in March, 2006


+actually, I get laid all the time, exclusively by people with vaginas, but I just stopped looking

Tuesday, January 13, 2004


Six Days, Seven Nights, and a Predictable Joke Wherein I Enumerate How Many Tequila Shots Were Consumed

A BETTER MAN would refrain from taking the opportunity to gloat over the photographic evidence of a certain supernemesis's excursion to the bottom of a cheap bottle of tequila and the apparent end of an era of romantic love with a woman with all the sex appeal of the rake section at Home Depot. A better man wouldn't do a little dance as he slid a few more beads on the abacus of life away from the side marked "Ford" to the side marked "Bunsen." Or let slip how a certain movie star turned to him at a urinal in a bar remarkable only in that on this evening a certain movie star was pawing the local talent, a bar in a NAFTA-signatory nation south of here, and slur a whisper about how it's finally over. Or try to explain how a man who was once famously a master handler of a bullwhip could now accidentally lose control of a certain piece of anatomy and pass water over a certain supernemesis' shoes.

This better man might not describe how the movie star then cranked the flush handle of the urinal as he mistook it for one of those old-timey phones we now see somewhat anachronistically featured in "Little House on the Prairie" reruns, upended his shot glass and placed it on his ear, and screamed drunk-dial epithets into the grimy fixture? Or how once he was sure the supernemesis's shoes were thoroughly irrigated and the ex appraised via urinal-phone of precisely where her skinny ass stood in his life, it was time to limbo, a contest he handily won by crawling underneath the nearest stall and making another call (interrupted at regular intervals by wet, rattling heaves) on a stouter phone.

A better man would ask himself if it's appropriate to broadcast another's misery and heartbreak over the internet, pausing to reflect on his own depressive benders, his own boozy, fruitless quests for answers that ended in his own wet, rattling heaves and the flush-roar of dirty saloon commodes.

A better man might have taken time to do any of these things if he hadn't been busy trying to scare up a camera, a sombrero, and a black Sharpie.

[Thanks to reader Adam P. for the link.]

Monday, January 12, 2004


Dept. of Rigidity

IT'S WELL DOCUMENTED that on Mondays I'm lazy. But the Oscars are right around the corner!

Some Things Slightly Stiffer than Jack White in Cold Mountain

--A 2x4 with rigor mortis

--A petrified cinderblock

--A 17th-century Puritan minister who is secretly atheist on his first visit to a house of ill repute

--Michael Jackson on the set of Romper Room in 1978

--A flagpole cooled to absolute zero

--The pins holding together that Von Bondie guy's nose

--A ten-year-old with mild stage fright giving the "Neither a borrower nor a lender be" speech in a fifth-grade production of Hamlet

--Fabrizio Moretti's cameo as "Solider #3 in Wooden Horse" in the upcoming Brad Pitt epic Troy

--The director's commentary for the outtakes from Jack White's deleted scenes put aside for the Cold Mountain DVD

Thursday, January 08, 2004


Ivanka Merely Won a Lifetime of Therapy Dept.

TODAY IS A red-letter day in the annals of both laughable toupees and megalomaniacal asshole real estate developers, as Donald Trump's inevitable foray into reality television, The Apprentice, premieres. The "winner" of this latest reality gauntlet gets a year-long, $250,000 contract to work for Trump Organization Company, an award only possibly surpassed in the reality-TV prize pantheon by receiving a gift certificate for Nicole Richie tying you off for six months' worth of horse hits.

So in the grand tradition of being first-to-press with 24-karat fun such as The Simple Life Drinking Game: Preemptive Strike Edition, I present to you:

The Apprentice Coke-Binge Game
$ Each time The Donald is seen pursing his lips thoughtfully in between dispensing nuggets of financial wisdom hard-won in the trenches of Midtown Manhattan, take one (1) bump. If Trump compares the real estate game to any bloodsport, such as the gladiator games or a cockfight, take another.

$ Each time one of the contestants casually drops a credential from a bullet-point on their resumé or mentions how degrading the menial tasks Trump assigns are for an MBA/Ph.D./DDS, etc., take one (1) bump.

$ Each time a perfect, lovingly-rendered Manhattan tableau (The NYSE floor, the Empire State Building, etc.) is marred by a stiff breeze causing Trump's improbably badger-like hairpiece to flap upwards like the resurrected merkin-creature is attempting escape, do one (1) line.

$ Each time one of the contestants or Mr. Trump himself quotes Gordon Gekko's Wall Street mantra, " good," do one (1) line of the eightball of the person to your right; if the quote is instead a smarmy paraphrase of the original (say, " very, very good" or "Greed is [bleeping] awesome"), do two (2) lines, then turn to the person to your left and natter on about how Michael Douglas stole the Gekko look from Pat Riley, how old and scary he looks these days, but he can't be too bad because he bones Catherine Zeta-Jones, and pause to be interrupted by someone who just knows that everybody knows that CZJ is ten years older than she claims since she's been doing British theatre since the late 60's.

$ Each time you think you've heard Trump remark to the most attractive female contestant, "Baby, with cans like yours you're going straight to the tip of the Trump Tower, if you get my drift!" and then justify to the camera that was the way he bagged Marla Maples, do three (3) lines and immediately two-way page your dealer with the following message: "Bring. More. Coke. Now."

$ Each time a female contestant cries in response to one of Trump's particularly misogynistic barbs he dismisses as just "tough love" or "how business works, sugar," high-five the tallest male MBA in the room, point accusatorially at a female co-worker (preferably a superior) who was once responsible for your forced attendance at a sexual harassment seminar, strut over to the stereo to crank up the Best of the 80's compilation CD, especially if it's playing "Safety Dance." Convince yourself that everyone agrees you totally fucking rock and would so totally win if you were on The Apprentice and lick all remaining residue off the cutting mirror. Pulling down your pants and wagging your junk is optional but encouraged.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004


Welcome to the Club Dept.

IT'S NOT MY custom to get sentimental or dwell on the past, but today marks the 10th anniversary of skating sweetheart Nancy Kerrigan's knee-clubbing by rival Tonya Harding's goons.

In honor of this momentous day in history (and because I lack the ambition to execute the slightly more ambitious post I'd intended to write), here is a list of people whom I similarly would like to see clubbed in the knee with some sort of blunt object and the reason why I'd like to see it.

--B2K: I don't even know who you are, and you're breaking up? Your very existence makes me feel guilty about my relative ignorance of popular black culture, and I'm still wracked about the Kwanzaa jokes I made two weeks ago. I was raised Catholic and still carrying so much guilt around I cry every time I get an erection. (Of course all of this is dependent upon the assumption that at least a couple of the members of B2K are black.)

--That guy who was married to Britney Spears for approximately twelve minutes: Your name is Jason Alexander and I had to endure endless lame jokes in endless infuriating permutations which inevitably arrived at a punchline wherein Britney Spears married George Costanza. I'm still shitting myself from the hilarity, please call the bedpan police.

--Jerry Seinfeld: I just typed "George Costanza" and I can't think of Seinfeld without wondering why you, a guy who makes roughly $200 million a year, can't get a haircut that looks as if it wasn't done by a homeless guy masturbating on his shoes.

--That woman in Ohio who claimed she lost a winning lottery ticket worth $162 million: I'm feeling bad about my intelligence because I fell for your impenetrable ruse.

--Martha Washington: You fucking slut.

--Estéban, New Age musician and late-night infomercial guitar hawker: It was cruel of you to steal Johnny Cash's wardrobe, Don Dokken's hat, and Yanni's musical fire. Please return all three right now or the clubbing will commence presently.

--Jennifer Connelly: What's the use? You'd probably just find a way to turn that clubbing-induced limp into yet another way to bedevil me with those green eyes.

--Nancy Kerrigan: You inspired this stupid post, and you whined through the whole clubbing affair like a collicky, mongoloid baby. If you'd taken your medicine like a champion, perhaps you wouldn't be polishing that silver medal until the end of your days.

--Graydon Carter, editor of Vanity Fair: I need a self-satisfied white man in magazine publishing on here somewhere. Welcome to the "club!" LOL ;-)

--Jesus: Aren't I outrageous? (And for all the reasons I clubbed Graydon Carter.)

--Mount Rushmore: You couldn't be more gay if Carson Kressley were dangling out of Teddy Roosevelt's nose like the world's sassiest, most outrageously-dressed homosexual snot.

--"Antidisestablishmentarianism": You are a long word and no one really knows what you are, so you provide easy punchlines for people who want to sound smart and funny, and I have never been accused of being either of those two things. All that's left for you is for some snarky jackass to slap "meta" onto you as another prefix before the universe collapses under your multisyllabic gravitational pull. I'd sarcastically thank you for destroying the universe, but doing so now might actually destroy the universe, and that is a situation to avoid.

--A blunt instrument suitable for clubbing: You are likewise implicated in the creation of this nonsense people are reading right now. Next time finish the job, you pussy.

Monday, January 05, 2004


Oops I Did It, Unwed Dept.

I SPENT MOST of my New York holiday vacation in a specially constructed sensory-deprivation tank: floating in an inflatable kiddie pool in my parent's living room, reading a National Geographic from 1988 (cover story: sea turtles in the Galapagos), watching a TV with all the channels V-chipped into oblivion except for CSPAN2. With dial-up on a Windows 95 machine running Netscape 2.0. And still I heard about Britney Spears' quickie Little White Wedding Chapel nuptials and subsequent Tijuana-style annulment. I fired up my buddy list when I finally returned to LA and immediately found a new IM friend.

An IM Conversation with Britney Spears' Downward Career Trajectory

BSDCT2004 [Britney Spears' Downward Career Trajectory]
HotBuns069 [Bunsen]

BSDCT2004: hey what r u up 2?

HotBuns069: not much yo. u?

BSDCT2004: planning for 04

HotBuns069: looks like this is the year when u go totally tiffany on us

BSDCT2004: no way! totally hoping 4 debbie gibson, she stills workz, doesnt she?

HotBuns069: you cant plan on hanging around if u r getting married and totally annulled in Vegas. that dude iznt even famous yo!!!!

BSDCT2004: shizznit happens but were totally ready 4 the worst

HotBuns069: this iz worse than that madonna kiss. ive used more tongue on my tranny aunt marvins fake skinflap schlong

BSDCT2004: totally gross bro!!!!! but i c ur point. it got play everywhere tho.

HotBuns069: u r about 5 months away from leakin video of brit swallowing eminems sword

BSDCT2004: i like it!!! been there already tho lol

HotBuns069: i can do video if em isnt around. or dennis rodman.

BSDCT2004: were not that desper8 yet. maybe u need 2 talk 2 brit murphys downward career trajectory. hear shes smoking c-level baldwin pole

HotBuns069: fred durst wont even lie about u this year

BSDCT2004: thats totally low

HotBuns069: the murphy thing stung with hint of tha truth

BSDCT2004: whatevs. better let u go. got pints of haagen daz 2 buy 4 embarrassing fat us weekly photos

HotBuns069: omg i knew it!!!! good scoop. l8r!!!

Thursday, January 01, 2004


A Thought on the First of the Year

IT'S NEW YEAR'S Day. And that means college football bowl games. And that, in turn, means college football marching bands.

The only thing that could be more aesthetically displeasing than the college football marching band would be a set of bagpipes equipped with a spring-loaded, lead-filled boxing glove that would crush your balls into marzipan while you listened to the noise that emnates from that fucking tartan torture bag.

I know that the college marching band is part of a rich tradition. But I seem to remember a rich tradition in which conquering armies would enslave and rape the denizens of the towns they overran. But we haven't seen that on New Year's Day telelvision since at least 1953.

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."
If You Like Bunsen, Then You'll Love Bunsen