Sunday, February 29, 2004
The Obligatory Oscars® Post, Now With 33 Percent More Obligatory
Many Will Blog the 2004 Oscars®. But the documenting of major pop culture events is often overwhelmed by snarkiness, negativity, and schadenfreude. I've been guilty of this in the past, taking the coward's way out and shunning charity and reflection in favor of the easy joke.
Tonight, I'm going to break with tradition and embrace the positive in the telecast of the 76th Annual Awards of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. I'm finally taking to heart the oft-repeated mantra of my parents and schoolteachers, a slogan that's haunted me from the embroidered pillow that's mocked me as it rests on my couch: "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." With that in mind, here is bunsen [dot] tv's new and improved coverage* of what was almost certainly not the most boring ceremony in the history of the Oscars®.
Good Times on the Reddest of Carpets:
*Joan and Melissa Rivers are perhaps the finest mother-daughter team to ever work the red carpet. Joan's unique talent for failing to recognize first-time nominees and her neglect for doing basic research on old favorites is refreshing in our celebrity-obsessed, media-saturated culture. She's a throwback to a simpler time!
*Elijah Wood has piercing blue eyes, and is industrious enough to have invented an entirely new accent based on Elvish, Hobbit, and Malibu Cabana Boy in honor of The Lord of the Rings's multiple nominations. Kudos to Elijah!
*Scarlett Johansson, despite being snubbed by Academy voters for breakthrough performances in both Lost in Translation and Girl with a Pearl Earring, has avoided the alcohol dependency and sexual promiscuity issues of awards-season staple Tara Reid. You go, Scarlett!
*Former Oscar® winner Michael Douglas is no more than four decades the senior of his wife, former Oscar® nominee Catherine Zeta-Jones. And props to CZJ for her total lack of fear of marrying the wealthy, shambling undead!
*I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Every time Jude Law appears onscreen, I'm turned gay in nine-second increments. Luckily for the women of Hollywood, Law had no chance at victory for his fine work in Cold Mountain.
*Amazingly, a two square-inch patch on the back of Joan Rivers' left knee has escaped the scalpel of her cosmetic surgeon. The very definition of courageous.
*Best Actress nominee Diane Keaton was wonderful as a more-than-passable drug-addled, queer take on the Charlie Chaplin iconography.
Better Times Inside the Historic Kodak Theatre:
*Longtime fave and actors' actor Tim Robbins went home with the Best Supporting Actor statue, stopping to thank partner Susan Sarandon and one of his children on the way to accept his award. Staunch lefty Robbins exercised his right to free speech by neglecting to acknowledge his other child, a registered Young Republican. Huzzah for free speech!
*Best Supporting Actress winner Renee Zellweger continues to valiantly struggle with the massive weight gain mandated for the reprisal of her acclaimed, Oscar®-nominated role as Bridget Jones, bravely spilling out of her low-cut gown as she mumbled her acceptance speech through bloated cheeks. Good luck on the treadmill, Ren!
*Two-time Academy Award winner Tom Hanks delivered a moving tribute to frequent Oscar® ceremony host and deceased legend Bob Hope, who received a posthumous Lifetime Achievement Award. Next year's moving tribute to deceased, frequent Oscar® ceremony host Billy Crystal will be delivered by City Slickers co-star Bruno Kirby.
*Former celebrity John Travolta did not swallow the head of fellow former celebrity Sandra Bullock, a wondeful show of restraint from two of Hollywood's formerly brightest lights.
*Let's put this controversy to bed: A commercial for Lay's Stax potato chips once and for all dispels the spurious myth that they are nothing more than Ghetto Pringles.
*Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller (fabulous despite an apparent wardrobe malfunction resulting in his donning of his Starsky and Hutch duds) proved themselves to be the best Oscar® comedy one-two punch since the legendary Travolta-Bullock pairing of 2004. That uptight nebbish/loosey-goosey surfer boy schitck is just as fresh now as it was with Charlie Sheen and Emilio Estevez in 1990's Men at Work!
*The annual "recently deceased" montage offered a moment of much-appreciated levity as rare, self-shot documentary footage of Leni Riefenstahl cavorting with her fave poodle, Mengele, broke up the morbid procession of clips of those cinematic giants no longer with us.
*Hollywood scion Sofia Coppola took home the award for Best Original Screenplay for her deceptively-underwritten, seemingly-improvised Lost in Translation. The shy, favored offspring of the Coppola clan bedeviled the Oscar® audience by wearing a long gown obscuring her footwear, leaving us to wonder "heels or flats?" and demurely mumbling her way through her acceptance speech, leaving us to wonder if Spike Jonze knows that I may have played a part in the breakup of their marriage.
*I think everyone can agree that there's nothing quite like a French guy using a bicycle as a makeshift xylophone during a performance of a Best Original Song nominee from an animated film involving both French guys and bicycles. Comment Ã propos, Triplets of Belleville!
*Giving credit where credit is due: Monster make-up wizard Toni G. strikes again, making dumpy, toothy, mottle-skinned Charlize Theron into a total squirrel-eyed, shiny-faced knockout for her Best Actress acceptance speech!
*Best Actor Sean Penn, in a supremely classy move, acknowledged fellow nominee Bill Murray by offhandedly memorializing the recent firing of his agents and the tragic suicide of his personal trainer in his speech. Improvisational comedy geniuses Billy Crystal and Robin Williams drive home the point with an impromptu pantomime depicting the discovery of the trainer's body by shocked family members as Penn moves on to describing how gratified he is in finally being recognized by his peers.
*Steven Spielberg, esteemed executive producer of the smash-hit motion picture *batteries not included, caps off an incredibly memorable night by announcing the final (and record-tying eleventh) Oscar® win for Best Picture for Peter Jackson's opus Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. So dominant was this third installment of the LOTR saga that if the Kodak Theatre had been visited by extraterrestrials during the three-hour, forty-five minute ceremony, they would have no choice but to conclude that Hollywood was run totally by corpulent, unkempt spouses from New Zealand rather than by corpulent, unkempt brothers from Miramax.
Hats off to Jackson and the birds entangled in Fran Walsh's hair for truly making the 76th Annual Academy Awards a night to remember, only for positive reasons!
[*This post was simultaneously blogged in Latin and Aramaic, but tranlated into English for the convenience of our audience.]
Friday, February 27, 2004
Some Say the World Will End in Aquafina, Some Say Ice
Last Night's Episode of The Apprentice had the victims of the world's longest job interview hawking Donald Trump's newest venture, a self-branded bottled water called "Trump Ice." There's nothing really remarkable about the product itself; after all, overpriced water in a bottle is overpriced water in a bottle, despite Trump's usual, hyperbolic flimflam about it being the most delicious, wonderful, cancer-eradicating beverage of them all.
Nothing remarkable, that is, until you first see the Trump Ice label that adorns each bottle. Other water labels evoke mountain streams, icebergs, comfort.
Not Trump Ice.
The label features Trump's unmistakable mug plastered next to the water's pedestrian logo. But its background appears to be a lake of fire in the deepest bolgia of the Inferno itself. The Donald's beady eyes burn into the helpless soul of the thirsty consumer, as a corona of hellflame licks the edges of the world's most celebrated comb-over. Drink this, say the eyes, or sail in desiccated agony on a stream of magma as the blaze of the Trump Empire melts your internal organs into primordial soup. Drink Trump.
Poland Spring is doom, insist the eyes, and Evian is nothing but the douche of Beezlebub. And don't even get me started on Deer Park.
Only swallowing my refreshing Trump load can quench the pyre of eternal thirst.
The hell-label commands, and we will obey. We'll drink Trump Ice, drop a grand at the Taj Mahal, maybe even cuddle up with our dog-eared copy of Trump: The Art of the Deal.
And everything will be fine again.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Forgive Me, Father, For I Know Not How to Q&A--or--
I Don't Know why Big Media keeps insisting on questioning Mel Gibson about The Passion of the Christ. I reached Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ by cell phone during his current press junket promoting the film and Christianity in general to get to the bottom of the raging controversy surrounding the film.
An Interview with Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ
Bunsen: How are you holding up under all of the media scrutiny over The Passion of the Christ?
Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ: I gotta tell you, it hasn't been easy. On this junket I've been doing with Mel, they beat me relentlessly after every question. And sometimes during the question. HHHHHHHHHHHOOOO BOY! That stung. Cat o' nine tails.
Bunsen: Are you OK? Can we continue?
Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ: I'm fine. I've been through a lot, but you never really get used to it, you know?
Bunsen: Is Mel Gibson Anti-Semitic?
Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ: Mel? Come on. Are you forgetting that he made a movie about me and I'm Jewish? I know that it's a total cliche to say this, but some of his best friends are Jewish. [long pause]
Bunsen: Hello? Are you still there?
Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ: Yeah. No worries. It's just that there's this guy with an iron cage on his head, and he's got a pretty scary looking whip with thorns on the end, and he keeps snapping it. UUUUUUUHHHHHHH. Oh yeah. He whipped me. Me H. Me, that hurts.
Bunsen: What do you think about the Christian groups who are renting out theaters and organizing mass viewings of the movie to ensure a healthy box office opening?
Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ: I think that they're incredibly savvy about the realities of the entertainment industry. If I don't open huge, it's really going to hurt the next picture, where I'm resurrected so that I can get the shit kicked out of me for a couple of more days before I return to heaven.. FOR THE LOVE OF DAD, IS THAT REALLY #$%$## NECESSARY? This other guy just dumped salt water all over my open wounds, while someone held open my mouth and put a nine-volt battery on my tongue. In any case, I hear that they're going to read the projected box-office grosses at Mass this Sunday.
Bunsen: I know you're tired of answering this, but what's really being accomplished by all of this violence? Many critics have suggested that the sickening and graphic nature of your torture in the final hours is overwhelming your message of love.
Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ: OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH. FFFFFFFFFFFFFAARRRRRRG HHH! Whoa, what would you call a baseball bat with a stun-gun taped to the end? Anyway, Mel's just trying to drive home the point that I suffered and died for your sins. People seem to be missing that message, so he thought that this junket, where he could recreate a lot of my trials and throw in some new, equally cruel ones, would finally put all of that talk to rest and let people concentrate on the love thing. After a while you're really desensitized to the violence and can be truly open to the message.
Bunsen: Is this a movie for children?
Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ: "Suffer the little children and forbid them not to come unto me." They're using that on a giant billboard on top of the AMC Burbank 16 and giving out free popcorn for the kids. That's just good marketing. Hold on. The publicist is making a slashing motion across her throat. I can't tell if she means "wrap it up" or if the guy with the knife is coming back to pierce me.
Bunsen: I just have a couple more questions about gay marriage and Survivor: All-Stars...
Mel Gibson's Jesus Christ: Oh, it's the knife guy. I gotta run.
[see also: Deleted Scenes of Liberally-Adapted Bible Passages to be Included on The Passion of the Christ DVD]
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Dept. of Laparoscopy
"Hand Over The motherfucking chicken wings," spits Al Roker, wildy grasping at the basket in front of me. I take another sip of my beer and finger the blanket of plastic Mardi Gras beads draped around my neck. Our waitress, whose nametag boldly claims her name to be "Sunshine," hovers nearby. She rolls her eyes in exasperation, letting me know I should let go of the basket of wings and let the weatherman gorge. The smudgey, hot-sauce fingerprints dotting her tank top and orange hot-pants let me know that Roker's already a little impatient with the service; she's told him repeatedly that his order is on its way, but he wants my stash, and he wants it five wings ago.
Still, I resist.
"Slide over the wings, dog." There's a hand on my shoulder. I don't even turn around. At this point in the history of American popular culture, it's impossible not to know that the voice belongs to Randy Jackson, one-third of American Idol's dream-making/dream-taking tribunal. "The brother's hungry. He needs to get his Buffalo on, dog. Ya feel me?"
I do feel him, as his fingers dig into my shoulder.
"Can't you just share? The man is hungry," implores Carnie Wilson, one-third of the erstwhile tripartite hitmakers Wilson Phillips. For reasons not entirely clear to me, she's dressed identically to the waitresses, right down to the nametag. Carnie.
I shake off his hand and defiantly rip half the flesh off a wing and toss what's left to Roker. He reduces it to the bleached remains of something unearthed by a archaeology doctoral student at a dig in Mesopotamia.
Then it happens, the same thing that's happened each time Roker's decimated a wing at this meal. I've sat through it enough times at this meal that I can almost feel the peristaltic wave like the kick of a too-close bass drum. He leans over the side of the table and vomits into a bucket that normally holds ice and beer bottles. I cringe.
And the rest of the crowd in the Pasadena Hooters cheers. Cheers like their kid has just kicked the game-winning home-run in the Stanley Cup 500. By now I am too drunk and disgusted to compose an appropriate sports metaphor.
It's Mardi Gras, and for some reason an editor at Cosmo Girl (whom I'd been hitting on the previous week in the VIP lounge of a Sunset Strip bar I will decline to name) thought that it would be just super if I'd spend my Mardi Gras with a group of celebrities who'd never endure another Fat Tuesday -- or Fat Wednesday or Fat Friday or any other day of the week -- thanks to the miracle of gastric bypass surgery. The explosion in the popularity of the procedure (where a small pouch is created by stapling a section of the stomach and the intestine is joined to the pouch, bypassing the larger stomach section, thereby reducing the stomach's capacity to a few ounces from its usual gallon or more) among the rich and famous could have serious implications for the self-images of their teenage readers. Would they feel the need to have drastic surgeries to slim down? The editor certainly wanted to know.
In any event, there I was, surrounded by cheers and the meaty splash of Al Roker's backflow, encircled by celebrities who'd formerly good-naturedly endured easy cracks about their weight, and who'd now slimmed down to the point of accepting large sums of money in exchange for photographs of their naked forms. Well, at least in Carnie's case. I turn to ask her the token question about exactly what message these stomach staples send to our youth, blah blah blah, but she's tuned out. Her eyes are on Roker.
I follow them and watch as he reaches into the bucket and withdraws something small and dully metallic.
"Oh, shit," yelps Sharon Osborne, who previously had only stopped yakking in my ear about just how bloody dreadful it is to deal with Ozzy's constant bladder control issues long enough to lean over and remark on the size of the recently-engaged Star Jones's rock. "He's thrown his bloody staple!"
Roker's face goes pale. All eyes go from impatiently watching the kitchen door for the arrival of wing-basket refills to deep focus on the object in his hand.
"Hold on!" screams a female voice. I turn and see an emaciated Charlize Theron. How had I missed her? I'd heard buzz that she'd undergone the gastric bypass in preparation for an upcoming role as Karen Carpenter that would further prove her dedication to self-transformation in the name of her craft. But I didn't expect in a million years to see her at the Hooters.
Theron floats over to Roker and takes the object from him. She wipes it on her dress, examines it for an instant, and affixes it to her earlobe.
"I knew I'd lost that somewhere!"
The entire restaurant seems to deflate with relief, from the big-screen TV showing NASCAR to the silicone-filled tank tops of the staff. Roker smiles.
I hand over my basket. The room explodes in cheers. Randy pats me on the shoulder, Sharon's too tickled to natter, and Carnie slides me her number. I playfully scream show us your scar! at Theron, and I'm suddenly flailing in a deluge of plastic beads.
It's Fat Tuesday, and Sunshine finally arrives with more wings.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
I've Always Said I Got Lawyer in Me. Or is it Politician?
President Bush Came out on national television Tuesday in support of a constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriages to "prevent the meaning of marriage from being changed forever."
Having spent a good part of my adult life in the power corridors of Washington, DC, I know that such an amendment will likely include very specific provisions to avoid possible loopholes that would allow same-sex partners to exploit the spirit of the law. I've read the fine print carefully so that I can list for you these tricky provisions of the Bush-sponsored "Defense of Marriage Amendment":
The Quote of Our Young Year
"I May Film and sell, but I don't kiss and tell."
-- Rick Salomon, amateur erotica auteur and on-screen debutante jackhammer*, on the Howard Stern radio show. He then went on to list every woman (including a 15 year-old, emancipated Drew Barrymore) that have ever touched his penis.
Now that the full-length version is available, maybe it's time that you took a refresher course in "How to Talk to Your Kids About the Paris Hilton Sex Video."
*Bunsen Extras: Other Terms Considered to Describe Rick Salomon
Monday, February 23, 2004
Post-Mortem, Post-Partum, Post-Blahnik Debriefing
I Get The impression that you thought I was kidding when I revealed myself to be a v. secret fan of the late, great, pinnacle-of-human-achievement known as HBO's Sex and the City. Unable to get the flamorlous (they are so glamorous and fabulous that I had to make up a new word to describe them!) ladies of SATC out of my head since watching last night's finale, I spent the rest of the night trying to take the collective temperature of the Sex-deprived masses and find out how the end of a Sexilicious era is affecting their lives.
"Leaving that adorable Chinese baby to die of exposure on the side of a mountain would be infinitely more humane than permitting it to die of utter boredom in the hands of that Charlotte person. An instant embargo on the flow of unwanted infants from our country to the arms of cloying, infertile Manhattan shoe-fetishists will be enacted immediately." -- Xianhia Hiu, Minister of Child Services for the People's Republic of China.
"When I found out that Samantha had breast cancer, I was so overcome with grief that I sliced off my remaining breast and mailed it to her. If I could have figured out where my libido is, I would have sliced that out and mailed it to her as well. Yes, it did eventually occur to me that she is a fictional character, but she's so much more than that. She's living (well, not exactly living) proof that even shallow whores are not immune from cancer and can still bag young super-studs. Samantha, you go girl!" -- Nancy Reagan, former First Lady of the United States of America
"While I maintain that I'm in no way Anti-Semitic, the fact of the matter is that after watching the bald guy married to the boring chick complain that God lost his address, I remember that I indeed do hate Jews." -- Mel Gibson, director, The Passion of the Christ
"I'm sad to see SATC and all of those great shoes go, but I'm really excited for Kim Catrall's upcoming line of fetish videos where she squishes worms with her gorgeous feet." -- Ranford Bellows, foot fetishist
"I was so taken with the supreme act of love by the frumpy, red-headed one washing the crazy, old one that I immediately showed up at the nearest day-care center with a sponge, a squeegee, and a bucket of sudsy water, ready to show the depths of my love for the children. The elderly aren't the only ones who should be showed love." --Michael Jackson, erstwhile King of Pop and philanthropist to the young
"Once I realized that Carrie wasn't going to finally show her tits, I flipped over to Nick at Nite and brought myself off to the younger, Square Pegs-era Sarah Jessica Parker -- not realizing until the moment of climax that I was watching a rerun of Mr. Ed. I did cry when the caller ID told me that Big's name was John, though." -- Bunsen, internet gadfly, SATC commemorative plate collector, onanist
Saturday, February 21, 2004
Dept. of Crippling Adorableness
It Took Me some time, but I've really fallen hard for the little, singing thalidomide hamsters in the new Quiznos commercials. Maybe that's because none of the rodents with birth defects in my local Subway can carry a tune worth a damn.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
The Goodbye, Girls Dept.
I'm Willing To bet that you didn't have me pegged as a Sex and the City fan, thinking "What could he possibly find interesting about a bunch of women clucking about shoes and candidly discussing their deteriorating sex lives?"
Well, as it turns out, a lot!!! Hard-to-please Carrie, empowered-by-sluttiness Samantha, goody-goody-cold-fish Charlotte, and closeted-lesbian Miranda have been like my big sisters, teaching me everything I ever need to know about how women think.
I'll forgive you for your small-minded speculations about my taste in television shows. Now that the fabulous gals of SATC are hanging up their Choos for good (that is, until they spit out a feature film about shoes and the candid discussion of their deteriorating sex lives), I can out myself as a fan -- if you've tried calling me on Sunday nights for the past six years, now you know why you got my voicemail.
As a powerful Hollywood insider, I've been made privy to how the whole thing is going to end. I know, I know...how can I want to know what happens before this week's final episode? I must admit that I've always been the kid snooping around my parents' closets looking for Christmas presents.
For those of you that just can't wait to know the final fates of our fave, fab foursome--and I know that's most of you!--I'm going to offer you a glimpse of what awaits you on Sunday night. Here's a screenshot of the last frame (ever!) before the final credits roll on SATC.
SPOILER ALERT! Don't look if you don't want to know what happens to our girls! Scroll down if you just can't wait!!!
I'll miss you, ladies!!! 2 good 2 b 4gotten 4ever!
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
An Open Letter Apology to Our Neighbor to the North
Let Me Add my voice to the chorus of Americans apologizing to the great nation of Canada for the indignities inflicted upon it by a man with his hand shoved up the business end of a rubber puppet, for I have also on occasion been less than charitable in my assessment of the sleepy, semisocialist Colossus to the north.
For all the times, in public and private, inebriated on Molson Golden to the point of bladder failure, that I have referred to Canada as America Lite, America, Jr., or recently, given the low-carbohydrate craze sweeping my adopted home state of California, America Ultra, I apologize.
For all the times that I have insinuated that listening to one Michael Myers (a beloved native son of Ontario, which a cursory Google search revealed to be one of approximately six Canadian provinces) natter on in that faux Scottish accent causes me to lose bowel control and soil my trousers, I offer my heartfelt regret. I am nearly certain that Mr. Myers' unpleasant effect on my gastro-intestinal system has nothing to do with his Canadianity.
For all the times that I've suggested that the solution to the Quebec secession problem is to build an enormous wall around the province and allow Anglophone Canadians to hurl baguettes at the French-Canadian separatists until they quickly surrender like their cultural and linguistic forebears, I apologize. That crazy, flat bacon makes a far better projectile and would bring about a rapid and total capitulation, leaving your country intact.
For all the times that I have allowed adultery into my heart because of the naked images of Janet Jones in the March, 1987 issue of Playboy, even though I know that she did not wed the Canadian version of Michael Jordan or Jesus Christ, Wayne "The Great One" Gretzky, until 1988, in a ceremony that was carried live on the Canadian version of television, and even though that technically does not make it adultery in my heart, I say "I'm sorry." I would never think of pleasuring myself to the Canadian Virgin Mary. I also apologize that this analogy has fallen apart, because of course the Virgin Mary was not married to Jesus Christ, and presumably Wayne Gretzky had to engage in sexual intercourse with Janet Jones to produce their many offspring, a coupling that I am certain did not require the assistance of a pharmaceutical erection solution such as Viagra or Cialis, which I believe are made available for free to Canadian citizens by their universal healthcare system. I imagine that a career spent dancing on ice skates did not in any way interfere with the functioning of his male reproductive system. Again, sorry.
For all the times that I have used the Yukon Territory as a cheap punchline, e.g. "[Insert male celebrity whom I've engaged in a petty vendetta] couldn't get laid at a penguin brothel in the goddamn Yukon Territory where all the penguins were dead or nymphomaniacs!" I proffer a heartfelt mea culpa. I'm not even sure there are penguins in Canada, and if there are, they are probably not intelligent enough to start a business, especially one so ethically untenable that patrons could exchange money for intercourse with a dead penguin.
For not being able to finish this apology without indulging in a purely nostalgic self-love interlude with the Janet Jones nude pictorial in the March, 1987 issue of Playboy, I beg of your forgiveness. My bad. But God, she had some cans on her.
Thank you for listening, great nation of Canada, even though we know that your self-effacing sense of humor about the ill-informed American view of your country is so high-developed as to make this enterprise completely unnecessary.
To prove that I'm sincerely contrite, I'm planning a weekend shopping spree in Vancouver. I need a serious bargain on some cargo pants, and your wonderful country is the last place on Earth where the foundering American dollar is strong.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Q & A Dept.
Interview magazine presents: The Cooler star William H. Macy's Scrotum talks to The Dreamers' Michael Pitt's Flaccid Penis
Kept firmly under wraps in such great films as Fargo, Magnolia, and this year's Oscar-nominated Seabiscuit, William H. Macy's scrotum finally got its close-up. In The Cooler, Macy plays a Las Vegas schlub whose luck is so bad that desperate, old-school casino boss Alec Baldwin uses him to stop cold the winning streaks of The Golden Shangri-La's hot hands -- and Macy's scrotum is not just hanging around for the ride.
Just when we thought that male genitalia had gotten its one cinematic moment in the sun, Bernardo Bertolucci's The Dreamers let it all hang out on the table. Michael Pitt's flaccid penis logs more screen time than a fast-talking character actor in a Mamet adaptation. Interview persuaded Macy's scrotum to give Pitt's trousersnake a call and talk about their meteoric rise to movie stardom.
William H. Macy's Scrotum: Wow. So glad to be talking to you. You know, I'm not really a journalist or an interviewer or anything. We'll just shoot the breeze and see what happens, you know?
Michael Pitt's Flaccid Penis: Sounds good. I'm a big fan, so fire away.
WHMS: A lot of people like us just sort of fall into the acting game. But I always knew that I wanted to be in front of people, you know, inhabiting someone else. What about you?
MPFP: To tell you the truth, I always wanted to be a fireman.
WHMS: No kidding!
MPFP: Yeah, what kid doesn't? Plus I already sort of had the fireman-helmet thing going. Seemed like a natural fit. But Michael wanted to be an actor, so what are you going to do?
WHMS: Tell me about it! Bill had some crazy idea about being a lawyer, but once we got to college we got bitten by the acting bug.
MPFP: Ouch! Don't do any biting near me! I see teeth and I just curl up into a little ball.
MPFP: Was The Cooler the first time you actually got on-screen?
WHMS: Hey, I'll ask the questions here! Just kidding. Yeah, that was the first time. Got me my own SAG card. Though I did just barely get passed over to play the Ben Stiller's sack caught in the zipper in There's Something About Mary. It was just scrotum-double work, but it would have been a boost for my career. They went with prosthetics. Hacky stuff, man.
MPFP: Now it's all CGI. Pretty soon they won't even need us.
WHMS: How are you handling all of the inevitable Leo DiCaprio comparisons?
MPFP: I can't really do anything about it. People are going to say what they're going to say. Personally, I don't see it -- he's not even circumcised!
WHMS: OK, let's get to what Interview really wanted me to talk about: your love scenes with the incredibly beautiful Eva Green.
MPFP: SOOOO uncomfortable!
WHMS: I know! Aren't they? Maria Bello cupping me in her hand was great, but still...
MPFP: Don't get me wrong, Eva's a really sexy girl and it was fun. But there's nothing sexy about having to perform with all the crew around. Bernardo had the camera guys strip down so that I wasn't the only floppy penis on the room. Well, most of them were flaccid. He makes such a comfortable atmosphere for an actor's genitalia.
WHMS: How'd they keep you from, how do I ask this...rising to the occasion?
MPFP: It's something of a trade secret, but Michael dipped me in a glass of ice water before the scenes.
WHMS: Oh, Lord!
MPFP: I know!
WHMS: We've gotta wrap this up. It was great talking to you.
MPFP: We'll have to get together when I go to LA.
WHMS: I'd love that. I go wherever Bill goes! OK, let's go out with one last question. So who's your inspiration?
WHMS: That's a no-brainer.
Monday, February 16, 2004
But Please Do Call Me When Barbara Walters Sticks Her Tongue Down Joy Behar's Throat During the Seventh Inning Stretch
In Case You you missed it, The View's Star Jones got engaged on national television during the NBA All-Star game on Sunday.
Reminds me of the time [annoying television personality] got [engaged/married] to [some thinner nobody interested in money or an obviously-closeted homosexual in need of a beard] on [national television or on scoreboard at sporting event], or maybe when [overweight television personality] had [an unpleasant cosmetic procedure involving a stomach-staple/liposuction] in [People /US Weekly photo spread].
But I can't really make up my mind which one. Maybe a little of both?
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Yankees Urinate On Red Sox' infield, screw their wives while they're taking batting practice, then key their bullpen car.
[For a primer on the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry, click here.]
Friday, February 13, 2004
Lines We Wish We'd Written, Then Realized We Did, Just Now, Specious Rumors Edition
On The Much publicized dissolution of the Barbie-Ken domestic partnership:
I think it's obvious why Barbie and Ken broke up. She's fucking John Kerry.
Lines We Wish We'd Written, Then Realized, Oh, We Did, Just Now, Blasphemy Edition
On Mel Gibson's plan to open his love letter to the Messiah, The Passion of the Christ, in "select" theaters, i.e. areas that aren't Jewish or liberal:
That guy's a few nails short of a crucifixion.
Deleted Scenes of Liberally-Adapted Bible Passages to be Included on The Passion of the Christ DVD
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Scene From A not-so-hostile takeover:
INT. MICHAEL EISNER'S OFFICE -- DAY
Michael Eisner sits behind an enormous oak desk in his office at Disney HQ. He's screaming into the phone and absent-mindedly strangling a Donald Duck plush toy.
EISNER: And you tell that fucking Roy Disney that if he tries to call my cell phone one more time, I'm going to send Harvey Fucking Weinstein to sit on his little weasel face!
There's a knock at the door.
EISNER: [shouting into intercom] Doris, who the fuck is that?
DORIS: [O.C.] Mr. Eisner, it's--
The door is flung open. A CABLE GUY stands in the doorway for a moment before walking towards Eisner's desk.
EISNER: Who the hell are you?
CABLE GUY: Comcast. I'm here to fix your cable.
EISNER: Excuse me, pal?
CABLE GUY: [clearing throat] I'm here to fix your cable.
EISNER: Do I even have cable?
CABLE GUY: Doesn't matter. OK, then I'm here to lay some cable.
Eisner scratches his head, confused.
EISNER: But I think I have satellite, maybe? And is having the sleeves torn off your shirt and your shirt halfway open a proper uniform? What's with the hard hat indoors?
The Cable Guy walks around to the back of the desk and stands behind Eisner's huge leather chair.
CABLE GUY: I think you want cable.
EISNER: I've never even really thought about it. I just turn on the TV, you know, and it's just sort of "on." I don't think about how it, you know, gets in here.
The Cable Guy places his hands on Eisner's shoulders. Eisner immediately tenses up and squirms under his grasp.
CABLE GUY: You want cable.
EISNER: I don't know...
CABLE GUY: [Whispering] Trust me...
His hands slide down from Eisner's shoulders and under his jacket.
EISNER: I need, you know, time to consider this. AOL...Time Warner...
CABLE GUY: You'll really like my cable, don't worry.
Eisner stands abruptly and faces the Cable Guy.
EISNER: But I'm not sure--
CABLE GUY: [placing his finger over Eisner's lips] Shhh... Convergence. You'll like it, I promise.
The Cable Guy leans in, his lips inches from Eisner's.
EISNER: You know, cable could be good...
The Donald Duck plush toy hits the office floor, followed by a tie...and then a hard hat.
[Will someone please invent a screenplay format for Blogger or in CSS? I'm really tired of my cinematic noodlings looking so, you know, amateurish.]
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
There's An Incredibly Obvious Bitch Joke To Be Made, But That Will Not Stop Me
Was It Coincidence that the 128th Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show and the new album by the former Mrs. Cobain dropped on the same day? I think not.
Courtney Love or Westminster Dog Show Entrant?
1. Pranced around in circle with tongue hanging out as trainer tugged leash.
2. Interrupted performance to squat and take a poop.
3. Drove musical genius to blow his head off with a shotgun.
4. Spent 10 minutes preparing for show by having stylist removing nits from hair.
5. Two best albums written by Kurt Cobain and Billy Corgan.
6. Bit shar-pei on the ass backstage at show.
7. Answered journalists' questions with ten minutes of incoherent barking.
8. Hit doggy-style by Ed Norton.
9. Described by television host as "incredible bitch."
10. Threw up in Drew Barrymore's purse.
1,8: Westminster Dog Show Entrant
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
The DVD Outtakes Will Feature a Great "Yah Mo B There" Joke I Had to Cut for Time Considerations
It's The Wee hours of the morning and I've finally finished reading all the posts blogging the Grammys. While I was heroically trying to out Adam Brody's and Rachel Bilson's real-life love affair, others were assiduously compiling their minute-by-minute blow-by-blows of the hott Grammyy actionn, honing their quipilicious witticisms about Sting's poor McCartney impression, 50 Cent's sour grapes menacing of white people, and Beyoncé's thunder thighs.
And I came to the conclusion that I chose the wrong night to run around the house in my tighty whities and fedora with "Scoop" etched on the brim, frantically yelling "Item!" and scribbling furiously in my steno pad.
So in the interest of playing catch-up on all the fun I missed last night, I'm posting selections from my Grammy blog from 1984, originally published on my BBS from a friend's trusty Commodore 64.
Bunsen Live from the 27th Annual Grammy Awards, Feb.1984
8:01 pm: The show's off to a totally rockin' start as The Boss launches into a poignant, fist-pumpin', head-boppin' rendition of "Born in the USA." Whoa, I hope he gets back up to play "Dancin' in the Dark" so that stone cold fox with the LPGA haircut from the video can jump up on stage and shake that booty. Bruce is a lock for Album of the Year. This is gonna be the best. show. ever.
8:06 pm: Sorry, just fixed this problem with the period key sticking. I can't go back and edit, so that last line was supposed to read "best show ever" without all the superflous punctuation. Thanks for your patience.
8:48 pm: The camera pans across the front row, where Michael Jackson, clad in his newly-adopted Space Admiral get-up, shares some popcorn with Webster star Emmanuel Lewis. Oh, that's so adorable the way that Michael just picked up Emmanuel and dangled him in front of the camera! It's obvious that the guy loves children. Very refreshing in this "Me" decade.
9:32 pm: I don't know what kind of happy pills this Cyndi Lauper chick is taking, but I want some. Girls just wanna...win best new artist! Laugh out loud.
9:43 pm: We're into garbage time already. Billy Ocean wins Best Rhythm and Blues Vocal Performance, Male for "Caribbean Queen." Memo to Mr. Ocean: The only way you'll see the Caribbean is while serving me shrimp cocktails on a Princess Cruise. Yeah, that joke was a bit of a stretch, but he'll probably at least wind up singing on a boat, don't ya think? Come on, Ocean's probably not even his real name.
10:15 pm: Can this Prince dude get any fucking weirder with his purple, ruffled pirate shirt? I don't think so.
10:26 pm: I like Phil Collins much better on Miami Vice. Take a look at me now, Phil, taking a piss break in the middle of your song.
10:33 pm: Tina Turner's gotta be like 60 and in the words of ZZ Top, she's got legs, she knows how to use 'em. God, I wanna make like Ike and hit that.
10:55 pm: The moment we've all been waiting for...Best Album. Springsteen's already won for "Dancing in the Dark." He looks constipated with anticipation, but come on, he's the fucking Boss--it's the coolest constipation I've ever seen. And the winner is...Lionel Richie! What the f---? Mr. Penny Lover beats The Boss? I'm never watching the fucking Grammys again, not even if Huey Lewis tears off Tina Turner's shirt and exposes her breasts, plunging the country into a moral Dark Ages from seeing a brown nipple.
11:00 pm: Tempers cool slightly as an epic all-star jam of Grammy winner Ray Parker, Jr's "Ghostbusters" including Rockwell, the two fattest Pointer Sisters, Michael Macdonald, Chaka Fucking Khan (chakakhan chakakhan let me rock you chakakhan), and yes, you guessed it--Lionel Richie and Bruce Springsteen. Bruce gets Lionel in a playful noogie to show that there's no hard feelings. Michael Jackson gathers a small group of children and marches them backstage, no doubt so they can meet all the stars and watch the music history being made. That guy's got so much love to give, man.
Monday, February 09, 2004
The Shortest Grammy Recap in the World
When Justin Timberlake said that winning the Grammy for Male Pop Vocal Performance "the greatest moment in [his] life," he obviously meant to qualify his exuberance with "besides taking Britney Spears' maidenhead."
Sunday, February 08, 2004
Just Wait To Hear How I Get If I Ever See Peter Gallagher Feeding Tate Donovan Skinned Grapes at House of Blues
While Roughly Fifteen million people packed into the Staples Center to watch something called "The Whammys," [ed.--check the spelling, would you?] yours truly was out sampling the wonders of the local indie rock scene. It warms the very cockles of my heart to present to you...
My First Celebrity Gossip/Canoodling Post, Complete With Boldface Names
Caught! The OC's Adam "Seth Cohen" Brody and Rachel "Summer" Bilson canoodling in the upstairs loft VIP lounge at LA's storied Troubadour rock club, taking in one-time MTV buzz-bin castoffs turned indie-rock darlings Nada Surf.
[Or should I have gone with Item! instead? I'm so nervous! Jesus, it's as if I'd never seen sizzling on-screen chemistry blossom into beautiful and tender real-world feelings. Quick, come up with something snappy and get out of this with a shred of dignity. ]
No word on whether Mischa Barton ever found the diet pills or acting coach she had misplaced backstage at the Grammys during Justin Timberlake's heartfelt apologia for the unfortunate events of February 1st, 2004.
[Why couldn't I just go with "apology" instead of "apologia" and get out cleanly? Did I think I was classing up this profound invasion of two young lovers' privacy by throwing around an italicized word. An apologia is a formal defense. Timberlake's apology wasn't formal, even though it sounded like it was written by a phalanx of p.r. flaks. Phalanx now? Why don't I just run a stale cliché like "warms the cockles of my heart" up the flagpole instead of trying to sound intelligent? And now I've gone and mucked up a post about the *very real* off-screen love between an adorable wiseacre and his smoking hot girlfriend with a bunch of Timberlake noise. I really hope that all of those stories about Musto getting his start dropping a digression about Johnny Mathis' chest hair into the middle of a blind item about Sinatra finger-blasting Jackie Onassis in the Lincoln Bedroom aren't apocryphal.]
There hasn't been this much behind-the-scenes sizzle since Jason Priestly zapped Shannon Doherty after just two episodes of 90210.
[Oh, real nice. And I already used sizzle.]
[I can't go out on a sigh, can I? Am I going to look as amateurish as I feel when ET and E! and all The OC fansites pick up on this item, assuming that their relationship isn't already common knowledge? It's painfully clear I'm really not cut out for dealing with reporting things that *actually happened*. Back to thinking up another supermodel sandwich anecdote for free as I starve to death...]
Friday, February 06, 2004
An Important Notice from Our Programming Executives
Due To The events that transpired during the Super Bowl Halftime Extravaganza (see also: "Nipplegate," "The Justin/Janet Great Titty Flap," "Tittygate," et al.) this web site will be following the responsible lead of CBS in its coverage of the Grammy Awards and supplementing our usual five-second delay with an "enhanced delay."
Normally, when you visit Bunsen [dot] TV, you've been urged to close your eyes and count to five (utilizing the accepted "one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand" progression) before reading any of the potentially family-unfriendly material on this site, which often includes but is not limited to: graphic descriptions of sexual acts with people in the public eye that may or may not have occurred [Ed.--trust me, they occurred]; potentially offensive or "salty" language including liberal use of the "f" word (and especially lately, the diminutive formulation "titty") or graphic descriptions of sexual acts encouraged by unhinged political figures who self-destruct under the pressure of front-runner status; descriptions of the illegal sexual proclivities of erstwhile kings of pop music; artists' renderings of my exposed genitalia displaying clever pubic topiary designs (my favorite was inspired by the famed "hanging gardens" of Babylon).
In the past, the five-second delay was adequate in mitigating the impact of this potentially upsetting content.
But the events of Sunday, February 1st have ushered in a new and totally welcome age of puritanical sensibilities in our entertainment choices. Hence the immediate institution of "enhanced delay" procedures on this web site.
The following is the Official Bunsen [dot] TV "enhanced delay" Protocol:
Thank you in assisting the production team at Bunsen [dot] TV in protecting America's sensibilities!
Thursday, February 05, 2004
The Gray Lady Finds a Bottle of Manic Panic to Her Liking
Appearing soon in the newly-focussed NYT Book Review:
Books of the Times | 'Feb. 9, 2004 Issue of Teen People'
by Michiko Kakutani
"Salut," begins Vanessa Carlton with a distinctly multicultural flourish in her Teen People diary entry. "First off," continues the not-quite-a-teen, not-yet-a-woman pop star with that endearing introductory tick that teens often use to kick off their prose, "I’d like to preface this confessional with a statement of love for Teen People. It is by far one of the best mags on the newsstand. I’m not just saying that because they’ve put me on the cover and have commissioned me to blab away."
First off, Vanessa, let me second your enthusiasm for Teen People. And no one's commissioned me to blab away, unless of course you count Bill Keller for prevailing upon me to do this review. Seventeen, YM, and Elle Girl, are, to borrow a phrase from the girl at the copy desk, totally lame. It's precisely this reason that Teen People towers over the adolescent newstand, a totally rad Colossus astride the teenybopper glossies [note to ed.--Have the girl at the copy desk include a more culturally relevant superlative than "rad." I didn't get this far by sounding out of touch!] . Their editors, like a big sister giving kissing tips to kid sis, talk to teens, not at them. And they sagely turn over the pens to such talents as Carlton [note to research--she's the one with the piano and not the guitar, right? Or is she the one with that stupid fucking tie? God, I'll make it through this, I swear.] so that they can chat [note to research--or is it IM now?] directly with readers. The magazine's a heart-to-heart at a sleepover, minus the pillow fights.
Lest my enthusiasm for Teen People seem a little, ahem, uncritical, let me note that not everything between the purple cover and the Playtex ad on the back lands as effectively as Carlton's surpassing journalling skills. A photo of Adam Sandler embracing Drew Barrymore (whom I've heard is no slouch with a word processor) at a recent episode of TRL to promote the upcoming 50 First Dates (excuuuuse me, I totally can't wait!) rings false; everyone knows her taste for geeks ended when she kicked the execrable Tom Green to the curb. A rocker chick now, she kicks it with Stroke supreme Fab Morretti.
Maybe Drew and Vanessa should get together for a little girl-girl jam session. I bet Teen People would be there, behind the drum kit, keeping the "Tiger" beat.
I Couldn't Have Said It Better Without Whipping It Out
Being Anonymous Is the new being well hung."
---Uncle Grambo, whatevs.org
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
I'd Gaze at My Navel But the Mirror is So Much Shinier
Some Notes On My New Haircut
It is significantly shorter than before I visited the barber... The hair on the sides of my head was trimmed with a straight razor, and the top mostly with a small pair of scissors redolent of Barbicide... Even after three showers, a shallow finger-probe launched into my ear canal still reveals the existence of renegade clippings. Tenacious little buggers, these... The young Brando comparisons are not completely unwarranted, except in relation to this new haircut... It would probably be impolitic to describe my former hairstyle as the bastard offspring of Nick Nolte's mug shot raping the mug shot of James Brown... Or to call the new style the magnificent offspring of Paul Newman's hair seducing that of Robert Redford on the set of "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid"... Is that my hair or did my scalp throw up?... It's a little known fact that I was born with a full head of hair, which my mother claims was not taken well by the obstetrician, who was a victim of male pattern baldness since the age of 18. I've always suspected my "outie" was his (quite unprofessional) lashing out... Does anyone else wonder, while seated in the barber's chair, if there's a parallel reality in which I didn't cut my hair and lived a slightly better life?... My advisers assure me that my choice to cut my hair had very little to do with Sen. Joseph Lieberman (D-Conn.) dropping out of the Democratic Primary. I'd like to think that too... The back of my neck hasn't been exposed to direct sunlight since early in 2003... My lost-in-thought, hair-twisting affect has now been replaced with a trying-to-get-lost-in-thought, goatee-stroking affect... I'm finally able to apply product to the back of my head first, working my way to the front, as per the instructions of the Grooming Queer Eye... The status of my sideburns shall remain undisclosed, even though technically sideburns are hair and they were cut... I'm quite comfortable with the decision to pass on the pedicure.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
MAYBE NOW I can finally put this Janet Jackson business to bed like a collicky child that you just can't listen to for one more second, Jesus, why doesn't it stop crying?
In what can be extrapolated into a landmark victory in the ongoing war between Big Online Media versus Scrappy, Unpaid Internet Upstarts With Too Much Time on Their Hands, King Kaufman of Salon.com has acknowledged that he was scooped for the "first" and "exclusive" interview with Janet's exposed breast by yours truly.
It's just a testament to one man's ability to drunkenly scream until someone at his party points him to the nearest internet connection, weave himself down the hallway to a laptop with dial-up, somehow retrieve some basic HTML code from his alcohol-perforated mind, and hit "publish" before vomiting all over his host's bedroom. When faced with the prospect of watching the beginning of the second half of the Super Bowl or posting some nonsense about talking to the boob of some washed-up popstar singing the hits of 1991, which would you choose?
I thought so.
It's really a victory for us all.
Note to Jann Wenner: I know of an internet "magazine" that could definitely use some of your Rolling Stone bucks to prop it up. Just click here and let the influx of venture capital begin.
An additional, sing-songy note to Salon.com: Call me!
I Try to Get Out, and They Keep Pulling Me Back In
A HIGH-LEVEL CBS staffer just leaked Les Moonves' actual memo about The Justin/Janet Titty Flap.
TO: All CBS Employees
FROM: Les Moonves, President
My CBS family,
I seriously regret the media hailstorm that's befallen our proud network. Let me set some things straight while I have your ear:
We paid Ms. Jackson a hefty sum to appear in our Super Bowl Halftime Extravaganza. And with that princely remuneration, it was clearly (read: VERY clearly) understood that we would be getting the entire breast for our money. None of this "solar titty-plate" nonsense; Camera #8 was to get the breast, the areola, even the little pointy part in the middle, which I guess technically is the nipple. (Which, I might mention, was to be fully perked up, and who could tell with that ridiculous suit of armor around it?)
Again, I apologize to you, my network brothers and sisters. This won't impact your 401(k). Trust me.
And you have my assurances that our big Grammy "personal grooming accident" where Britney shaves Beyoncé's genitalia clean with an easily-identifiable Lady Shick disposable razor will come off without a hitch.
Here's to a great 2004!
Monday, February 02, 2004
Great Minds and All That Dept.
HOPEFULLY,THIS WILL be the last I write on the Great Justin/Janet Titty Flap. I know, I know. I took the words right out of your collective mouth.
King Kaufman's Salon.com Sports Daily column is running an "exclusive" interview with a certain Jackson whose nipple was ripped into the spotlight at halftime at the Super Bowl. [Click on the "Day Pass" option to see the entire story.]
But readers of this site know that Kaufman didn't have an exclusive with the world's most overexposed breast, and that the breast certainly wasn't speaking "for the first time." I think a certain red-hot mammary's publicist is gonna have some 'splainin' to do. What's next, Slate announcing Britney's retaliation against the Timberlake scene-stealing?
The last time this sort of coincidence happened, it was Elizabeth Spiers' Gawker juggernaut that subconsciously channeled the same deranged Zeitgeist, and a new (exceedingly lame) strain of Bunsenmania was unleashed on the (not-so-curiously indifferent) internet.
Top Euphemistic Excuses for Your Ill-Considered Celebrity Breast Exposure
--"darn good couture intelligence leading us to believe in the absolute stability of said garment"
--"inadvertant mammary deployment due to pop-star exploited sartorial inefficiencies"
I'll Get You Naked By the End of This Post--or--
Used-up Pop Star Countermeasures Dept.
I HAVE IT on darn good intelligence that a response from the Spears camp to the Great Justin/Janet Titty Flap is forthcoming.
Britney's going to "accidentally" shave Beyoncé's cooch bare onstage at the Grammys.
My sources aren't exactly sure how the deed's going down, but rumor has it that the Grammy propmaster was seen at a Burbank Wal-Mart purchasing a weed wacker and a five gallon drum of Barbasol and that Coldplay's Chris Martin has been instructed to practice his "I can't believe the total accident I'm witnessing" reaction shot.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
For Another Five Hundred Large, We Could Have Seen a Jackson Brazilian Wax
IN THE INTEREST of being first to press, and at the peril of missing part of the second half of the big game...
A Few Questions with Janet Jackson's Suddenly Exposed Half-Time Nipple
Bunsen: So how did it feel to be introduced to a huge, extremely bored halftime Super Bowl audience?
JJSEHTN: I have to say, the whole thing has been something of a shock. I'm not thrilled with Timberlake at this point. I've kept a low profile my entire career.
Bunsen: How long did it take before Steven Tyler made a pass at you?
JJSEHTN: He's old enough to be my grandfather. That's disgusting. [pause] Three minutes.
Bunsen: Is there any truth to the rumor that Paul Tagliabue (the commissioner of the NFL) had you perk youself up with an ice cube, you know, just in case something--say perhaps, a wardrobe failure--occurred?
JJSEHTN: He did brush by me in an uncomfortably close manner with a pint of Ben and Jerry's...
Bunsen: I knew it!
JJSEHTN: I'm sure that was just an accident.
Making Super Sunday Slightly More Superer
The Fastest Super Bowl Preview in the World
New England Patriots: Quarterback Tom Brady is boning actress Bridget Moynihan.
Carolina Panthers: Quarterback Jack Delhomme, as far as anyone can tell, can't get laid in a monkey house where the monkeys are total sluts and you can pay to have sex with the monkeys.
New England Patriots: 32
Carolina Panthers: 29