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Friday, April 30, 2004

Rerun Dept.

 
I Know That I've been neglecting you, my children. But I've been busy following Michael Jackson around with a bullhorn, demanding that he explain exactly how these "platonic" sleepovers of his could possibly work. Here's a little stroll through the archives, with MJ on our minds:

Michael Jackson Song Titles That Will Conveniently Double as His Prison Bitch Name

-- "Billie Jean" [Thriller]
-- "Dirty Diana" [Bad]
-- "Girlfriend" [Off the Wall]
-- "The Girl is Mine" [Thriller]
-- "PYT" (Pretty Young Thing) [Thriller]
-- "Liberian Girl" [Bad]
-- "Albino Man Barbie" [Dangerous B-side]
-- "Sexy Sexy Nose Hole Jackie" [Japanese Import]

Michael Jackson Song Titles That Take on a Decidedly Sinister Spin in Prison

-- "Leave Me Alone" [Bad]
-- "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" [Off the Wall]
-- "Get on the Floor" [Off the Wall]
-- "Jam" [Dangerous]
-- "Give in to Me" [Dangerous]
-- "You Rock My World" [Invincible]
-- "I Most Certainly Did Not Drop That Bar of Soap, Sir" [Forever Michael Remasters]
--"(Even If I Didn't) Drop That Bar of Soap, Sir (You're Still Gonna Do It, Aren't You?)" [Bad Studio Sessions]
-- "(That Swatstika Tattoo) Really Brings Out Your Eyes" [Bad -- The Interview Disk]
-- "Your Love Hurts a Lot Less the Fourteenth Time" [Number Ones Bonus Track]


Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Dept. Of Militant Feminine Hygiene

 
Still Hobbled By a profound depression brought on by the end of The Apprentice, I've been doing nothing but eating chocolate-covered strawberries while joylessly being straddled by strippers. Sure, it might sound great if you're tilling the soil on a dirt farm in Omaha, or perhaps if you're a chocoholic. But the anhedonia of my post-Trump existence is really no laughing matter.

I saw my first episode of The Restaurant last night, hoping to capture some of that Mark Burnett reality TV magic. I've never really taken to the Survivor franchise, as the sight of beautiful women slowly reduced to feral sexlessness tends to make me incontinent. Again, not as fun as it sounds. But this episode of The Restaurant featured a crazed intern named Drew who cut a swath through the televised food service industry. This kid tried to get some reality-groupie/barfly skanks drunk on free margaritas (he's only 20), then topped it off by calling boss Rocco DiSpirito "Captain Douchebag" after he was dressed down for answering the telephone before he was properly trained.

Sure, Rocco DiSpirito's kind of a douchebag, but he had fight to make Captain. So I happily present Rocco's progression through the quasi-military/feminine hygiene ranks, and where he's headed if he continues to apply himself:

*Private First Class, Kotex Battalion

*Sergeant Tampon String

*First Lieutenant Maxi Pad (with wings)

*Captain Douchebag (current rank)

*Major Panty Shield

*Colonel Feminine Napkin

*Brigadier General Uterine Balloon


Monday, April 26, 2004

And It Seems That Steve Martin Had the Week Off

 
Surprising Revelations About humor gleaned from thumbing through the New Yorker's recent "Spring Humor" issue:

--With a deadline looming, an inscrutable political cartoon involving a society woman, a butcher, and a reference to trickle-down economics is an editor's best friend.

--Black people dance like this (photo inserts of MC Hammer doing the "typewriter," James Brown shuffling his feet); white people dance like this (inserts of a 1950's-type patriarch smoking a pipe and tapping his foot, Hitler)

--Successful television sitcom writing involves a great deal of time devoted to speculating about the contents of Courteney Cox's vaginal cavity.

--Bruce McCall finds that a pithy animal necrophilia joke will reliably deliver some low-brow chuckles, especially if one joshes about killing the animal oneself.

--Woody Allen has never been remotely funny.

--David Remnick finds Elizabeth Kolbert's constant flatulence hilarious, and has on more than one occasion left a cork on her desk with a note indicating the cork's Victorian-era utility as a "foof plug."


Thursday, April 22, 2004

I'm Not Picky; Waking Up as Salma Hayek Would Also Be Pretty Great

 
13 Going On 30 premeires this Friday. You're smart, you understand the concept: Big with a vagina.

An Itinerary for My Day If I Woke Up and Found Myself Suddenly Transformed into a 30-year-old Jennifer Garner

10:00 am (For whatever reason, I imagine I'd be sleeping in.)
While snoozing alarm clock, notice manicure. Freak out. Stand in front of full-length mirror, clutching mouth, like those chicks on The Swan when they finally see how the surgery turned out. Disrobe, clutching breasts, like a man who has suddenly found out that he's been mysteriously transformed into a very, very attractive woman.

12:00 pm
Finally break mirror's spell, after breasts get sore from two hours of fondling. Eat small salad for lunch, pretend to feel full. Don't want to mess up this fantastic bod. Homegirl's in shape.

12:30 pm
Realize that I'm still naked. Put on one of my white oxford shirts, unbuttoned, and prance around the house. Pick up a broom and do light chores. Quickly realize this was a lot more enjoyable when I was paying the topless maid service and not performing chores myself.

2:00 pm
Fashion show! Scare up various items of clothing left by ex-girlfriends. Decide it's much more fun to have a pretend fashion show in the nude, merely visualizing what trashy lingerie might look like if I were wearing it.

4:00 pm
Overcome by curiousity, finally decide to once and for all find out where the clitoris is.

5:00 pm
Finish autodidactic anatomy lesson. Wonder if somewhere Jennifer Garner woke up as me, and consider going to find out so that I can have sex with myself. Her. Whatever.

6:00 pm
Dinner. Another small salad.

7:00 pm
Consider breast augmentation surgery. Sure, mine are pretty perky and great. But I have a career to think about, and I'm sick of Jennifer Connelly getting all the juicy parts.

9:00 pm
Ponder the bigger questions I've been ignoring. Am I ever going to turn back into a man? More importantly, am I going to turn back into a man before I get my period? I don't want to deal with that.

10:00 pm
Am I retarded? I've been a woman for 12 hours now and I still haven't had a lesbian experience. There are probably a hundred bars in Hollywood I could walk into and find a struggling actress who'd be willing to stretch her boundaries for a television and movie star. No, she can't bring her boyfriend along. I'm not gay.

12:30 am
Get so tied up in naked fashion shows and personal anatomy lessons that I forget to go out and have that hot, lesbian action. Realize that I've had a totally typical day. Fall asleep watching Conan.


Tuesday, April 20, 2004

How Bunsen Spent His 420 Day

 
Indeed, The Day is not yet concluded. But I've been awake since 12:01 a.m. on this, the twentieth day of the fourth month of the year of our Lord two-thousand and four. I'm sure it has not escaped my Magic Weed puffing brethren that this is perhaps the grandest 420 Day of them all, as 04/20/2004 is very nearly a palindrome. Just take the dual, plump zeroes and roll them outward like benwa balls waltzing inside your passion tunnel, letting them bring together the two and its double-self like sweaty, eager lovers. 04200240.

Exactly what is it I was saying? Oh, yes.

I must first admit that I'm not usually an aficionado of the joint, nor the blunt, nor the glass tower of the bong. Bong. Do you hear the bells? I digress... Usually I prefer my mind-altering substances to substantially increase my chances at sexual congress--a touch of ecstasy, a dash of rohypnol, the odd crack-rock tantalizingly dangled in front of the genitals, deliciously just out of reach. But once and again I'll encounter the musty patchouli-stink of my neighbor, back from a month-long stint peddling hemp leg warmers in the parking lot of sundry Phish tour venues, and he'll invite me to join him in a recreational toke. On this, 420 day (and a numerologically historic one at that), he would not take no for an answer.

One joint turned into two, which, in turn, by some obscure law of geometric increase, became an entire day in the thrall of THC and a particularly catchy Widespread Panic album. But somewhere between the jackhammer-like hit I took from a gravity bong and the deep inhalation from a contraption that looked like a hookah being date-raped by a mechanical octopus, I began to harbor some intense paranoid ideation. A great rage began to subsume the paranoia, as I remembered my rabid disdain of the hippie culture.

I can't be entirely sure, but I think I may have beaten my poor neighbor to death with a Birkenstock snatched from his very own, filthy foot, and absconded with his Widespead Panic album, convinced that it contained the very rhythm of the universe.

In the cold light of hard-won sobriety, I can be certain of but one thing: Widespread Panic is rather shit.


Monday, April 19, 2004

Next Up for Tarantino: A Five-Part Serial Homage to Industrial Training Films of the 1950s

 
Things I Learned From Watching Kill Bill Vol. 2 This Weekend.

--John F. Kennedy Jr. had a pirate fetish. Wait as you might, Darryl Hannah will not doff her top and entreat you to "shiver" on her "timbers."

--If you're ever buried alive, you simply must train for years with an abusive martial-arts guru who forces you to punch a block of wood until your fingers gnarl from stress fractures, then merely punch through the pine box before your oxygen supply expires, and claw your way to freedom through the loose soil.

--Quentin Tarantino has succumbed to an on-screen love affair with Uma Thurman's feet. Watch for the DVD outtake documentary footage of Tarantino sucking her toes which cleverly references the obscure chopsocky flick Night of a Thousand Flying Instep-Licking Monks.

--If you decide to shoot your extra-deadly assassin/girlfriend/baby's-momma in the head on her wedding day and massacre her new husband and all of her friends, make sure to show extra vigilance in protecting against the Five-Fingered Exploding Heart technique when she comes looking for vengeance. Also, if you think of it, please ask her to exact her revenge while topless.

--Kill Bill has revived David Carradine's acting career and can now take a hiatus from renting out his face as a leather sleeper-sofa in the Encino Jennifer Convertibles showroom.


Friday, April 16, 2004

Apprentice Friday: Finale Edition

 
We Thought We'd never hear those sweet words, squeezed out between the pursed lips of one Donald Trump:

You're hired.

Once we realized that The Donald wasn't offering us the job of repeatedly, sweatily, multiply-orgasmically pleasing stunning Trump-trophy Melania while he's off attending to his golf courses, gauche hotels, and television sequel concerns, we admittedly became less enthused. But, you know, we're still sort of excited that Bill was coronated as the Apprentice. We did pick him to go all the way.

The final boardroom reckoning was decidely intense. Trump solicited opinions from The Fired Apprentice Jury of the Damned, from buttoned-down-businesswomen-on-the-verge-of-a-carnal-awakening Carolyn, from grouchy, old-school George. And they split exactly down party lines. The Jessica Simpson concert team thought Kwame was the boss material, and the golf tourney cohort showered their love all over Bill.

Indeed, The Donald knew that this was gonna be a tough one. So tough, in fact, that fake receptionist Robin was forced to go off book and improvise to the effect of "You can have a seat" to the nervous candidates instead of immediately ushering them into the inner boardroom sanctum. Trump had some quick thinking to do. This shit was live. He needed some time alone to sweep office supplies off the conference table, roll up his French cuffs, and mud-wrestle with his conscience.

So we waited.

Finally, Trump was ready to face Kwame and Bill.

He asked the hopefuls who should be hired. Not surprisingly, each thought he was the right one for the job. This touched off a pitched battle of self-promotion, where the surprising fact that Kwame was a graduate of Harvard Business School was unearthed. Kwame's self-presentation included a Harvard Business School fashion show in which he modeled crimson sweatshirts, Harvard-crested boxer shorts, and an apron bearing the slogan "Kiss the Cook, Who Happens to Have an MBA from the Harvard Business School." Trump cut him off in the middle of his virtual tour of the Harvard Business School's campus. He'd seen enough from Kwame. It couldn't be argued that the kid's pedigree was impressive, a pedigree that was issued by the Harvard Business School.

Bill Rancic's pitch was vintage Bill Rancic: intense, confident-bordering-on-arrogant, intense. Bill's an intense perfectionist who doesn't let his intensity taint his perfectionist attention to detail. And Bill Rancic, despite what his otherwise admiring teammates may have intimated, does not ruffle. He gets the job done. Sure, sometimes there are hiccups. Mr. Trump, Bill's not in ruffling business.

Trump's decision-making apparatus whirred audibly underneath the combover that keeps it protected from the energy-sapping fluorescent lights. Finally, it came to him. He hadn't considered The Omarosa Factor. He'd seen firsthand evidence of Omarosa's deceptions and guile, and they weren't Trump Organization-quality duplicitousness. Kwame had chosen her for his team (early on in the draft, Carolyn noted), failure number one. He didn't fire her, despite the fact that he was immune from her trademark fake racism allegations, when her weak lies were uncovered. This did not please The Donald. He likes to fire people. Doesn't The Kwame like to fire people? Bill hadn't fired anyone, but Trump could easily see him downsizing with a perverse sneer.

"Kwame...you're going to be a big success," said Trump. Kwame began mentally composing his class note for the Harvard Business School alumni magazine.

Kwame Toure Jackson (MBA '00), recently was chosen by Donald Trump as his "Apprentice" on the reality television show of the same name, and is now CEO of the Trump Organization's Free Cell Goldbricking Division. He is a graduate of the Harvard Business School.

"But for right now," continued Trump, "Bill..."

"You're hired."

Bill leapt from the table and was swallowed by a mob of high-fiving, back-clapping, cheek-kissing well-wishers.

Kwame disappeared down a trap door in the floor of the boardroom set, where he was beaten to death by disappointed Harvard Business School alumni, as all traces of his matriculation at the school were erased from the registrar's rolls.

In the ensuing post-coronation bedlam, the boardroom was disassembled and we're surprised to discover it was located (at least for the finale) on a soundstage and witnessed by a live studio audience. Layers of reality peel away in the wake of this dizzying reveal. I'm nearly certain that at one point, they were performing a special edition of Saturday Night Live and that Omarosa was being played by the black guy SNL hired to play black women when Tracy Morgan doesn't feel like putting on pantyhose.

But none of this matters. Bill hopped into his new Chrysler Crossfire and drove off into the night, triumphantly accelerating into Midtown Manhattan gridlock, hardly noticing the car's top was down in the middle of a chilly April downpour.

And as for us? We're lost in reverie for the 13 week Apprentice interview process, with only a half-empty handle of Jack Daniels, a value-sized bottle of Lubriderm, and the still-fresh memories of Carolyn, Robin, and Melania to keep us company.



See all previous Apprentice Friday entries:

The Final Two: It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over
Troy and Kwame: The End of the Affair
Bunsen handicaps the remaining Apprentice hopefuls
Drink Trump Ice
Goodbye, Omarosa: A Recap in Haiku
Fire & Ice: An Appreciation of Carolyn
You Can See Mr, Trump Now: Robin the Fake Receptionist's Fake Receptionist Job Duties
The Apprentice Coke-Binge Game


Thursday, April 15, 2004

And the Bandstand Plays On Dept.

 
Dick Clark, Ageless television host and Hollywood superproducer, revealed he has Type-2 diabetes. Clark's known about his disease since 1994 but has kept it a secret until now, but was prompted to come clean by a recent gossip item in the New York Daily News.

I immediately placed a call to Mr. Clark's diabetes' publicist, who arranged for a brief talk by telephone.

A Conversation With Dick Clark's Type-2 (Adult-Onset) Diabetes

Bunsen: So you've been living with Dick Clark since 1994. How does it feel finally to be recognized?

DCT2(AO)D: It's never easy keeping a secret. I'm just glad that it's all out in the open now.

Bunsen: Has Dick had to change his busy routine at all since you came into his life?

DCT2(AO)D: Let me tell you, keeping up with him has been a royal pain in the ass. That guy is go-go-go, all the time. There was that time that he was so busy with the American Music Awards, he got distracted and injected insulin about four times in an hour. That would have turned the average guy's pancreas into Sizzlean. But Dick collapsed for two minutes, got up, brushed himself off and coordinated a sound-check for Erykah Badu like nothing happened.

Bunsen: That guy's a dynamo!

DCT2(AO)D: He's still eating fifteen Butterfingers a day. I don't know how he does it.

Bunsen: It sounds like you really admire him.

DCT2(AO)D: I do. I've been trying to take him down for ten years, and I just can't get traction. Once I had him urinating every ten minutes during a New Year's Rockin' Eve special, but he just had a PA bring him Evian bottles to piss in.

Bunsen: They don't call him "America's Oldest Teenager" for nothing.

DCT2(AO)D: That nickname really bugs me. Teenager, my ass. I'm adult-onset diabetes, motherfucker, and teenagers ain't getting the Type-2.

Bunsen: Whoa, sounds like we touched a nerve.

DCT2(AO)D: Let's call an insulin-deprived spade a spade, OK? I've seen that guy's internals. Everything's held together with dental floss and spackle. I respect the guy, but I'm gonna get him. I'm shooting for the American Bandstand 75th Anniversary Reunion Speical.

Bunsen: Isn't that in about 23 years?

DCT2(AO)D: I'm just biding my time, brother. He's gonna let his guard down one of these days.


Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Call Me When Christina's Cutting Video Drops

 
Scenes From The Britney Spears suicide-themed video for "Everytime"

Britney soaks in a bathtub, barely covered by strategically-placed bubbles. She's surrounded by candles. Tears stream down her face, and she picks up a note written on a nice piece of stationery. "From the Desk of...Madonna" is clearly visible at the top of the note.

The camera pans down the page. "Brit-- You're a really shitty kisser. Love, M"

Britney shreds the letter and lets the pieces flutter into the bath water. She turns on a radio sitting next to the tub, and the tune of "Everytime" is interrupted by Ozzy Osbourne's "Suicide Solution," which, obviously unbeknownst to her, is a song about alcoholism, not suicide. She switches off the radio and the sounds of "Everytime" return.

Britney sees the fragment of paper that says "shitty kisser" float by. She reaches for a nearby toaster, closes her eyes, and drops it into the tub. And...

Nothing happens. It's not plugged in.

She grabs a towel and storms into her bedroom. She picks up the receiver of a pink princess phone and dials 911.


Operator: 911 Emergency Services, how can we help you?

Britney: I'm about to die from a broken heart!

Operator: Do you need help, ma'am?

Britney: (singing) I may have made it rain/Please forgive me/My weakness caused you pain/And this song's my sorry

Operator: Is there something I can help you with?

Britney: (singing) At night I pray that soon/Your face will fade away

Operator: Ma'am, if you need--

Britney: (singing) Everytime I try to fly/I fall without my wings/I feel so small I guess/I need you baby

Operator: Ma'am, are you reading from a fifth-grader's diary?

Britney: Oh, it hurts so much. I want to kill myself! Listen...

Operator: We're here to help, just tell me where you are.

Britney: ...I had sex with Fred Durst!

Operator: Oh, my. Plug in the toaster this time.

Britney stares into the receiver of the phone. There's a picture of Durst on the nightstand next to the phone. Britney smashes the picture with the receiver. She picks up a shard of the broken glass, looks at her wrist, and smiles.


['Everytime': Britney's Suicide Video at stereogum]


Tuesday, April 13, 2004

FOX Summer Lineup: Celebrity Swan

 
Our Host, Amanda Byram, a comely foreigner of indeterminate British Isles provenance, stands in the marble-bedecked atrium of an enormous mansion. She's surrounded by a serious-looking group of people dressed in lab coats and clutching clipboards.

Amanda: Hello, and welcome to Celebrity Swan, the most extreme beauty pageant ever staged. I'm Amanda Byram, and I'm here to lend a facade of class and sophistication to the proceedings.

She motions to the group behind her.

Amanda: This is our team of life reconstruction consultants, who will help two very lucky celebrities make themselves over and reclaim some of their former aesthetic glory. And maybe, just maybe, rejuvenate their careers in the entertainment industry.

The team nods appreciatively.

Amanda: But only one of our lucky, lucky ugly ducklings will be chosen at the end of our program to compete in the Celebrity Swan pageant, the greatest beauty contest ever conceived! Let's meet the contestants!

Video: Amanda is approaching the double doors at the front of a breathtaking Malibu mansion, trailed by the Celebrity Swan camera crew. She knocks on the door. Amanda turns back to the camera crew and silently mouths 'This is going be GREAT!' The door swings open, revealing Pam Anderson. Once she realizes what's happening, she covers her mouth, her squeals of delight still recognizable through her tears of joy.

Pam: Oh my God! I can't believe this! This is so great!

Amanda: It is, Pamela, it is.

Back in the studio, Amanda turns to her life reconstruction team.

Amanda: Ok, team, what are we going to do with Pamela?

A woman in a lab coat, the team's therapist, steps forward.

Therapist: Pam's had a lot of turbulence in her personal relationships. I think this makeover can make her feel like she deserves all the love that's showered on her.

Video: Tommy Lee sits on the edge of a waterbed.

Tommy: Yeah, we're thinking of getting back together. She's a great chick, really, she is. Her tits could be bigger though, you know? I mean, they're big? But like, they could be... [inflates his cheeks and pantomimes juggling two beach balls] You dig? Also, I got her when she was a lot younger. Can we do anything with those little wrinkle things around her eyes? I'm banging this chick that pees on people in Penthouse, and she doesn't have those. Whaddya think? Also, fix her ass. I don't think I need to explain that one.

Amanda points to a team member with a stethoscope around his neck. He's the plastic surgeon, and he's trying to look down the therapist's blouse.

Amanda: Doctor, what do you think we can do for her?

Surgeon: This is gonna be a total home run. We're gonna blow up those fun bags like the Underdog float at the Macy's Thanksgiving parade. We'll do the same with her lips, because Tommy looks like a lip man. I'll lipo the inside of her thighs so that there's the official four-inch clearance between them. We're gonna settle for nothing less than Hollywood perfection, Amanda!

Amanda: Anyone else?

Nutritionist: Pam's already on the Atkins, so we're gonna go ahead and cut out all of those proteins. Nothing but water and sawdust for two months!

Amanda: Looks like we've got our work cut out for us, team! Let's meet our next lucky girl!

The mansion's double doors burst open, and Kathy Griffin enters.

Kathy: I'm in! We're doing this!

Amanda: You really want to take on Pamela?

Kathy: I'll do whatever it takes. Bring it on, bitch. I kid, I love you.

Amanda: Welcome to the greatest beauty pageant ever!

Video: A network television executive sits behind his desk.

Exec: We've had many meetings with Kathy. She's incredibly funny and irreverent, and we want to be in the Kathy Griffin business. We've told her to get some work done. She's been incredibly cooperative. What did she get, the boob job, the nose job, the tummy tuck, the body sculpting? Ears pinned? Yeah, she's done it. But she's still missing that 'X Factor,' and we can't put her in a pilot that's never going to series until she finds the X. Give her the X, Amanda!

Kathy: He's totally right! We gotta do this!

Amanda: Team?

Surgeon: I've got some bold ideas. It's gonna be a challenge, but we're gonna knock it out of the park, throw it back on the field, and then knock it right back outta that park!

Amanda: Kathy, how do you feel about this?

Kathy: Carve my shit up!

Video montage: Inserts of Pam and Kathy in gray jog bras and panties, with green circles highlighting trouble areas. Lists of procedures and goals stream down the screen. Clips of Pam and Kathy on the operating table, being prodded and vacuumed, as the surgeon repeatedly gives the thumbs-up to the camera: "Can we go bigger? F--- yeah, we can go bigger!" A nurse rolls a wheelbarrow containing two saline implants up to the table.

Pam lies in a bed in the recovery room. Her face and body are completely bandaged.


Pam: No matter how many times you do this, you never remember how much it hurts. I miss my kid, but I can't remember his name right now. Anyone got some oxycontin? Tommy loves me! Baywatch 3, here we come!

Therapist (voiceover): Pam is having some postsurgery depression issues, but she's going to pull through
with the variety of antidepressants, pain killers, and scream therapy I've prescribed.

Kathy is suspended in a full body sling above a hospital bed.

Surgeon (V.O.): Yeah, she's gonna be out of commission for a while. But she's going to be thrilled when she sees how the surgical risks paid off!

The Celebrity Swan Transformation Coach sits on a couch in a tastefully-decorated office.

Coach: Both women had their challenges to complete their transformations. Pam had a little trouble with the water and sawdust diet, and kept trying to eat her shoelaces. Kathy's foot-binding made it slightly uncomfortable to use the StairMaster, but eventually she came around. I think they're both going to be really pleased. They put in the work.

The transformation team is once again assembled in the mansion's atrium. Amanda stands next to the extravagant velvet curtains that hide the mirror where the contestants will first see their new bodies.

Amanda: OK, team, it's time to bring in the girls. To recap, Pam's ready to reconcile with Tommy, but he thinks that she should be at least as good as the new generation of Playmates he's bedding. And it can't hurt her floundering career! Bring her in!

The double doors open, revealing Pam in a slinky, black evening gown. She's cloaked in shadows, and the camera's too far away to see her improved face. She walks into the room, and two men in tuxedos rush to greet her. Each escort supports a massive breast in his hands.

Pam: Thanks, boys.

They cross the room to the curtained mirror. We still can't see Pam's face.

Amanda: Are you ready to see the new, much improved you?

Pam: I can't wait!

Amanda: Boys, it's time to let Pamela have her moment.

The escorts let go of Pam's breasts. She collapses to the ground under their weight. The curtains pull away from the mirror.

Pam: I'm so...hot! Wow!

Amanda: You are, dear, you are!

Pam: I'm going to have to get used to these lips. Is the top one supposed to cover my nostrils?

Surgeon: No one wants their nostrils showing. Nostrils aren't sexy. And don't worry, the tightness in your face from the wrinkle removal will eventually fade.

Pam: I always thought blinking was totally lame. It makes you look so, like, old. And I think I'm going to get used to smiling all the time!

Amanda: You're so hot, girl!

Pam: I love me.

Amanda: So do we, Pamela. So do we.

Pam: Where's Kathy?

Surgeon: There were some complications. She's fine. The strobe lights I installed in her nipples shorted out and she suffered some minor internal burns. No biggie. But I have to brag and tell you that she's a big fan of the propeller I mounted on her forehead. It really makes her seems fun! And don't get me started on the rack! (Kissing the tips of his fingers like a proud chef) Whew!

Amanda: Pamela, that means that you're going to the Celebrity Swan pageant! You surrendered to the transformation!

Amanda motions to the escorts, and they lift Pam's breasts so she can stand.

Pam: This is like a dream come true! Thank you, thank you!

Amanda: On behalf of FOX, your career, and the stripper in the green room with Tommy, you're welcome!

Pam: Hey, am I supposed to bleed from my navel?

Surgeon: (laughing) Pam, that's your vagina!

Pam: Oh...duh! What's it doing up here?

Amanda: Tune in next week when Rhea Perlman faces off against Hilary Duff in the greatest personal reclamation show on television! Bye!


Annals of Advertising: TOS Edition

 
I Was Just informed by a helpful staffer from Google AdSense (provider of the fine advertising products you see in the right-hand sidebar) that it's against their Terms of Service to place text such as "Every time you click an ad, Bunsen gets a supermodel sandwich" above the ad banner. It's since been fixed.

I want to make clear to rmy eaders that the advertisers are not direct sponsors of this site. Those of you who are regular visitors and were witness to the Jesus Ad Fiasco of two weeks ago are probably aware that Jesus is not an explicit sponsor or endorser of Bunsen.tv. I haven't talked to Him in a while, and the last time I did, He asked me to write something in which Pamela Anderson's botched cosmetic surgery results in the placement of her female genitalia on a part of her body where one would normally expect to find a navel. I didn't get around to that until this morning. So, J-man, if You're reading, I hope You liked it. Inspiration comes from the strangest places.

And my readers are now clear on the endorsement situation, so keep the ideas coming.

[And perhaps You have some pull and can get those Google guys to deliver ads with high click payoff rates. TiVo, Jaguars, luxury vacations, what have You.]


Monday, April 12, 2004

Also, Angelina Jolie Is Sporting a Bandito Mustache, And I'm Not Saying Where

 
'Passion' Casts Out 'Hellboy' [LA Times Calendarlive, subscription req.]

I'm beginning to think that the American moviegoing public is choosing their weekend viewing solely to create headlines on Monday morning. Sure, we can blame Passion's (yes, I'm going to do it) resurrection at the box office to the holiday weekend. Apparently, millions of Christians, crazed from the insulin-induced fervor of Church-sanctioned Peeps eating contests, felt the need to see their Messiah carved up like an Easter ham. (And there just isn't enough heat on the "Christ slaughters defenders of the Alamo" theme to propel the Billy Bob Thornton flick to number two. I think we'd need to reimagine Generalissimo Santa Anna as Angelina Jolie with a candle wax fetish to get The Alamo over the hump.)

Can we please just get this over with and rush a special-edition Schindler's List into the theaters this week, just so we can have

Gibson Denies Holocaust

and be done with it? But I suppose Schindler could triumph, and we'd wind up with

Jews Kill Christ, Again

The resulting conflagration could then only be extinguished by the ecumenically-minded, double-bill rerelease of Behind the Green Door and the 36th anniversary edition of Debbie Does Dallas. If there's one thing that all faiths can agree upon, it's retro porn.




[Note: I fully realize that writing about The Passion is going to tempt the Google Ads gods to plaster this site with low revenue-generating Jesus links. I really need to do more posts on TiVos, Jaguars, and escort services.]


Friday, April 09, 2004

Apprentice Friday: It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over Edition

 
I Know That I often seem omniscient to you, but even I was surprised to see Amy and Nick treated to a brunch of Trump's delicious "You're Fired!" flapjacks. Nick always had a bit of the Bayonne flimflam artist in him, and it was clear that The Donald had taken a shine to the guy. But Trump hasn't amassed a global empire of luxury properties draped in mediocre, French monarch foppery by letting the three-card monte guy run his game out of the corner office, charming the business development department out of their milk money by materializing binder clips from behind their ears. Nicky, it was fun, Trump's eyes seemed to say, but I can still smell that Hooters waitress on your fingers. Indeed, Nick. Trump has to shake that hand. The Los Angeles document reproduction industry is getting back its superstar. I can't wait for the hero's parade in aisle 5 of the Cerritos OfficeMax.

But Amy? The sweet, charming, nearly-undefeated Aimster? She seemed like even more of a lock to get trounced by Bill in the finals once it was announced that the next challenge was an interview with four Trump Organization henchmen. Her librarian-on-the-verge-of-a-bender skillset seemed a perfect match for the task. But Trump's personal assistant and his three captains tore into her like a box of Ding-Dongs after a Laser Floyd planetarium show. I'm not entirely sure, but I think one of their recommendations was "Ditch the tomatah, Boss, there's no there there." And in what was probably the biggest surprise so far, Trump let Amy go without snapping the catchphrase cat o' nine tails. Yeah, he was a little sweet on her. When The Donald douses you with gasoline, more times than not he's going to watch you roll around for a while after he drops the match.

So here we are, left with Bill and...hold on. Who's left? Nick? Nope. Crazy Sam's coming back? No. And I'm pretty sure they just fired Amy after we got a fabulous montage of the "Girls of the Apprentice" photo shoot for FHM, starring Ereka's six-pack.

I guess that leaves Kwame "Silent But Deadly" Jackson. Kwame of the book smarts, the post-Jordan Chicago Bulls losing record, and no discernible leadership qualities past the occasional high-five. Kwame, who's likely to make senior VP at thirty-two, draw the blinds in his office to play fifty thousand hands of Free Cell until an early retirement. Kwame, whose bonfides start and ends with the bizspeak gobbledygook they teach on the first day of the Harvard MBA program before handing out your tee time and golden parachute cyanide capsule. Kwame, your Apprentice finalist.

Maybe I've been wrong about Kwame. He'll perform under pressure, right? Rise to the occasion and show us how he clawed his way to the top of the pile?

Cut to the rooftop patio of the Apprentice compound, where Bill and Kwame share a celebratory glass of champagne. But some tricky producer's replaced the Dom with a magnum of Veuve Cliché. Kwame takes a deep swig and lets fly a string of tired platitudes that would make even a Sportscenter anchor incontinent.

Kwame: "It's time to go big or go home."

Bill: "Um, yup."

Kwame: "Let the best man win."

Bill: "Uh, I think we already have."

Kwame: "Big risks, big rewards...man"

Bill: "Indeed."

Kwame: "Ass...you gotta kick it or kiss it."

Bill: "Yeah..."

Kwame: "Yup. (A long beat) Man, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

Bill: "I wonder if there are any more crackers back in the suite. See you later."

I'm sure that Amy and Nick, perhaps watching via close-circuit TV during Trump's taxi ride down the Avenue of the Downsized, felt much better knowing that the guy who beat them to the finals cribbed his conversational skills from the backs of No Fear t-shirts.

The only consolation for the outraged audience is that Trump's clearly got an idea of the eventual winner, all but tracing on Bill's forehead a holy water "T" with his death pinky. Trump gives The Anointed One first pick for his final challenge team from the returning Cohort of the Damned, ensuring that Kwame would be saddled with a certain...let's just call it an Albatrosa and wait for next week's live finale.

Where I fully expect Kwame to propose to Troy as strains of "Reunited (And It Feels So Good)" play over their final, televised hug, making us all forget who's been chosen as The Apprentice.

As Kwame would say, we're all winners.

See previous Apprentice Friday entries:

Troy and Kwame: The End of the Affair
Bunsen handicaps the remaining Apprentice hopefuls
Drink Trump Ice
Goodbye, Omarosa: A Recap in Haiku
Fire & Ice: An Appreciation of Carolyn
You Can See Mr, Trump Now: Robin the Fake Receptionist's Fake Receptionist Job Duties


Thursday, April 08, 2004

Then Again, Maybe They Will

 
Yes, I Watched The Swan last night.

And this is just about all I can say about it: They probably won't show the suicides on camera.


You Don't Have to Spell It Correctly to Yelp It in the Throes of Passion

 
National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice delivered a defense of the Bush Administration's efforts to combat terrorism, as she publicly testified before the commission investigating the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001 today.

Ms. Rice's testimony has sent copy desks clerks everywhere scrambling to check and double-check the spelling of her name. (One z or two? Three? Two or three e's? Rice like motherfucking Rice-a-roni? For the love of God, why are there three goddamn z's? ) Here are the top misspellings of her name, pulled directly from various sources:

  • Condoleeza Rice

  • Condoliza Reiss

  • Condoleeso Ricceé

  • Condoleezza Riceberg

  • Condoleeza Gibbons

  • Condorosa Manigault-Stallworth

  • Condomania J. Lubricates (spammers only)

  • "Three Days of the" Condi Rice (frequently-used Bush nickname, internal White House correspondence only)

  • That nice black girl that's gonna lie for us (Dick Cheney e-mail only)

  • Donna Rice (Gary Hart staffers only--error led to very embarrassing, short-lived attempt at 2004 presidential campaign and purchase of a new yacht)

  • Condolarence Thomas-Rice (Unnamed Supreme Court Justice's legal pad doodlings with little hearts only)

  • Nomar Garciaparra



  • Wednesday, April 07, 2004

    Sometimes I Like to Think of This Site as Misanthrope Magazine

     
    Please Forgive The lateness of this post, but I've spent nearly the entire day in my own broadband-deprived Gethsemane. But my internet access has been restored, and I've already cut the crazy person beard and hideously long fingernails I immediately started cultivating while I waited for my connectivity to magically reappear. Onto today's topic...

    People Magazine, longtime purveyor of "personality journalism," is turning 30 years old.

    Obviously, any institution with that kind of staying power is going to have had its share of missteps. Here's a list of some of the magazine's darker, celebilicious moments, which almost certainly won't make their anniversary issue.


    * A 1977 profile of Donny and Marie Osmond's tight-as-thieves brother/sister relationship featured a photo revealing that one of Marie's breasts, visible because of her low-cut blouse, had escaped the confines of her brassiere. The accidental breast appearance was not nearly as embarrassing to the Osmond clan as was Donny's google-eye, laser-locked gaze on the runaway areola.

    * Fueled by one of People's notorious "three drink" lunches, a top editor demands a cover story proclaiming Downs Syndrome-stricken Life Goes On star Chris Burke as heir to Sly Stallone's action hero throne. A savvy copy desk staffer brings this to the attention of the editor when he sobers up, and instead they run a cover of Princess Di eating hot cakes off a commemorative plate depicting her wedding to Prince Charles. Circulation goes through the roof, leading to 84 subsequent Lady Di covers.

    * In an attempt to prove that his relationship with medical school skeletal system demonstration prop Calista Flockhart hadn't dulled his leading-man edge, Harrison Ford poses for a photo spread in which he's splayed on Flockhart's couch like a 1950's cheescake model. In one photo, a sparkling stud in his left earlobe is prominently displayed, framed nicely against the embroidered "I Love My Tabby!" throw pillow in the background.

    * Back in the early days of his career, Tom Cruise absentmindedly strangles to death Hubbard, his lhasa apso, when a People reporter asks him an un-preapproved question about the lipstick collection that dominates the south wall of his sitting room. Uber-publicist Pat Kingsley (with whom Cruise has recently parted ways) "accidentally" stabs the scribe in the eye with a fondue skewer, reminding him that he definitely didn't see any lipstick tubes and to make sure to note in his piece that Cruise's rottweiler, Genghis, had playfully distracted them during their entire conversation.
    (Note to the Cruise legal team: Yesterday I saw Cruise at the Sunset Blvd. Coffee Bean, having intimate, incredibly heterosexual relations with any number of would-be starlets [read: female!] while having a latte.)

    * A recent spread of post-Grammy party photos contained a caption misidentifying Elton John and Little Richard as "Unknown partygoing dandy and crazed, homeless companion."


    Tuesday, April 06, 2004

    I'll Sound Bitter If I Say He's Never Been as Good Since Going Electric

     
    I'm Watching This new Victoria's Secret commercial.

    The angel wings, the shimmering bra and panty set, the ethereal model just exotic enough to make you think that if you were stranded on a tropical island after the unexpected, tragic sinking of your 40-foot yacht, she'd do nothing but service you and pour mango juice down your gullet to restore your potency for another sand-encrusted go-around.

    The model slips in and out of the shadows, and I immediately reach for the Kleenex and Lubriderm. I'm a child of the television generation, and as such, powerless before the images flickering on the screen. The serendipitous appearance of a high-quality lingerie commercial requires instant, intimate attention, as time is short before I'm stuck holding my manhood and wondering how to transform a Swiffer into an object of lust.

    Things are progressing quickly. The living room burns away, and there we are, on a shadowy beach, where no helpful clerks in headsets can ask us why we're testing the satiny sheen of an Angel bra on the scruff of my face. Passion. There is passion.

    And what's that music? A lightly strummed acoustic guitar with raspy, plaintive singing scoring our carnal encounter. Adriana, that's her name. But who's the old guy by the fire watching us? Singing to us?

    Bob Dylan is in my commercial. A craggy Peeping Tom leering at us, raising an eyebrow, skulking around and sizing me up. A wizened, folk-rock legend/vampire has taken over my thirty seconds of release.

    Where did our beach go? And I certainly don't remember this song containing the lyrics "Hot hard steel, meltin' away/Nothin' but a soggy banana, she ain't gonna stay." Please, Bob, sing something from Blonde on Blonde!

    Adriana looks down and shakes her head. Her eyes say she understands, but her arm is interlocked in Dylan's, and she's gone. I watch as her angel wings and gossamer thong retreat into the dark.

    I sigh and look at the wreckage of my oasis. The faint smell of aloe lotion stings, but there is hope. The smart housewife in the Swiffer commercial's got one too few buttons on her husband's powder blue Oxford buttoned. Her khakis are just tight enough. And Devo is the perfect soundtrack. I always liked them better than Dylan.


    Monday, April 05, 2004

     

    We Could Have Devoted an Hour to Attacking the Dodgers, But the Dodger Fans Would Have Left By the Seventh Insult



    We Could Write the easy joke about Hellboy's victory at the box office this weekend, but we've never gone for the easy joke unless it's the first, second, or third thing that we've thought of. We're reasonably certain that at least 25 percent of you are partially fluent in English, so we'll direct you to the box office results here.

    But baseball's back, and a secret ballot distributed among this site's content providers turned out thusly:

    Write about weekend box office: 0
    Bait Red Sox fans: 216


    With Boston's 7-2 Opening Night loss to the Baltimore Orioles, the Red Sox are on pace for an unprecedented 162-loss season. To solve the mystery of how a team that won the American League Wild Card last season (and stretched the Yankees to seven games in the AL Championship series) could lose 95 wins from their 2003 incarnation, we'll take a brief look at their projected lineup and pitching rotation.

    [Note to readers: Our mail filters have been adjusted to immediately trash all incoming messages containing the terms "Boston" "Red Sox" and "motherfucking Yankees," so don't bother. Furthermore, we invite you to tell us how wrong we were if the Red Sox should somehow finish ahead of the Yankees. Fair is fair.]

    Lineup

    1. Johnny Damon, CF
    Yes, Damon's long hair and beard make the Jesus comparisons both easy and predictable. But when he changes his pre-game ritual to include five miles on a stationary bike wearing only a crown of thorns and a blood-soaked loincloth, he's pretty much inviting Messiah talk. Johnny, Jesus got on base more than 34% of the time from the leadoff spot.

    2. Bill Mueller, 3B
    Mueller's wife eventually adjusted to his habit of wearing high stirrup socks and a batting helmet in the commission of his husbandly duties, but never really made peace with his use of pine tar.

    3. Nomar Garciaparra, SS
    It's a well-known bit of trivia that the shortstop's name is just "Playing second for the Yankees in 2005" spelled backwards in Spanish.

    4. Manny Ramirez, LF
    Known as perhaps the best pure hitter in the game when he's motivated, but teammates are said to secretly resent his "motivational" use of Ecstasy and an iPod playing Massive Attack while he's patrolling the field in front of the Green Monster.

    5. David Ortiz, DH
    Fans lovingly refer to the Sox DH as "Cookie Monster," but Ortiz cries himself to sleep caked in Chips Ahoy crumbs each night.

    6. Kevin Millar, 1B
    Teammates will never let him forget that his 2003 "Cowboy Up" battle cry has been appropriated for a series of all-male, "chaps and six-shooters" adult films.

    7. Trot Nixon, RF
    Teammates will never let him forget that "Trot Nixon" has been appropriated by certain Internet slang dictionaries to describe an arcane sexual practice involving a trumpet, a bucket of shaving cream, and a Viking helmet.

    8. Jason Varitek, C
    Athletes are notoriously slow to adopt the tolerant attitudes of society at large, and the switch-hitting catcher still feels a chill in the clubhouse.

    9. Mark Bellhorn/Pokey Reese, 2B
    2004's two-headed second base combo calls to mind the Red Sox's bold experiment of 2000, when they epoxied a chicken to the leg of Jose Offerman.

    Pitching Rotation

    1. Pedro Martinez
    Still amped up after his playoff confrontation with Yankees bench coach Don Zimmer, the righty blew off steam in his spring training downtime by wilding in South Florida retirement communities.

    2. Curt Schilling
    The flamethrowing righty endeared himself to fans by making himself available on a Web message board for Red Sox fans, but has quickly worn out his welcome by spamming the site with comments about how "EVERQUEST EFFING RULEZ AND ULTIMA IS FOR BEDWETTING PU$$IES LOL!."

    3. Derek Lowe
    The sinkerballer has enjoyed great success pitching in Fenway Park, but has taken to wearing adult undergarments in away games to mitigate his embarrassing "road splits."

    4. Tim Wakefield
    After surrendering a season-ending home run in Game 7 of the ALCS, Wakefield was abducted from the clubhouse to nearby Sox pub The Cask & Flagon, where the name "Aaron F*cking Boone" was branded across his buttocks. Mercifully, the angry mob allowed a certain, convenient part of Wakefield's anatomy to represent the *.

    5. Byung-Hyun Kim
    Teammates (both in Arizona and in Boston) have been slow to accept the customs the Korean hurler has brought to the majors, chiefly the one where he's compelled by tradition to collapse each time he sees a Yankee uniform.


    See also: A Primer on the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry.



    Friday, April 02, 2004

     

    The Bunsen Apprentice Friday Supplement



    Trump's Chilly Sidekick Thaws a Bit Off Camera [NY Times, free reg. req.]

    A helpful reader e-mailed this to me yesterday, but in my orgy of April First tomfoolery, I didn't remark upon it. [For those of you with short memories, go read my Apprentice Friday: The Hottest Blizzard entry, in which I offer my appreciation of Carolyn Kepcher.]

    Some reporter obviously didn't do her homework, failing to mention that this tundra has been well snow-shoed, to twist a phrase. As usual, The New York Times is three weeks behind the curve.


     

    Apprentice Friday: End of the Affair Edition



    To Briefly Quote myself, "Whew!" I don't know what got into me yesterday...the prolific posting, an untoward concern with actual news, a strange, confessional tone. Let's just say that it was a passing phase and be done with it, shall we?

    Back to the business of make-believe business.

    This morning, we must shed a tear for the dissolution of one of television's great onscreen romances. Over the years, we've had Lucy and Desi, Sam and Diane, the first Joe Millionaire and the chick who blew him in the woods. These legendary pairings can now all retreat into the squiggly-line fades and sepia tones of the flashback episodes of our collective memory.

    For now we have the tragic decoupling of Kwame and Troy.

    Last night's episode of The Apprentice taught us that love and business simply do not mix. Donald Trump, iconographic mogul and manager of supermodel (ahem) assets, knows this. What do you think stops him from throwing his high-backed leather chair to the ground and lustily mussing the hair-helmet of smoldering ice-queen Carolyn, prone on the boardroom table? The Donald smartly hires a fake receptionist to tend to his offscreen needs.

    After Protege's fine performance in this week's task was (ahem) trumped by Versacorp's eleventh-hour, faux-romance-saving deal, Kwame and Troy seemed assured of letting their mutual passion continue to boil. Their mission debriefing was a squandered opportunity to gang up on Bunsen-Anointed Apprentice Bill and dress him down in front of the Trump tribunal, paving the way for the frontrunner's dismissal.

    But it was not to be. Say it along with me, kids: Love and business simply do not mix. Without the pressure of The Donald's appraising stare and the heat of the stage lights, Kwame's self-preserving admission that he was a better candidate than Troy would not have wrecked the home that love built. But we all saw the flickering sadness in the corners of Troy's hound-dog eyes, the twitch in the corner of his mouth. Oh, so THAT's how it gonna be? In a more innocent television era, an aproned Troy would have slightly sped up his onion-chopping and clanked down the table setting in front of Kwame and his afterwork newspaper. And we'd know there was trouble in Paradise.

    Instead, Troy takes Kwame to the boardroom, and a shocked Bill retreats to the safety of The Suite.

    Trump himself, who'd for weeks seen Kwame and Troy's slow-motion montage of the couple's back-clapping, one-arm-hugging, finger-pistol-blasting courtship waltz, was stunned. Like a New Paltz or San Francisco mayor, Trump seemed eager to preserve the couple and keep the crackling sexual tension in play, just as he had saved Nick and Amy's ersatz romance a week earlier. But the spatters had cast their lots and headed into the boardroom as the Redhead and The Dame private-jetted off to an incredibly opulent lunch at Mar Lago. Trump's amorous Midas hands were tied.

    In the boardroom, the odd couple let it all hang out. Kwame is book-smart, Troy ain't much for the book-learnin'. Troy's a leader and Kwame's a follower. A quick cut to Carolyn, then the sound of two thumps as manhoods hit the table. Carolyn's eyebrow raises. Cut to Trump, who's seen all he needs to see, sharpening his Downsizing Pinky of Death on a whetstone.

    Troy's fired. It's over.

    The separated duo retreat from the boardroom and engage in one last, teary tango of hugging, back-clapping, and audible finger-gun click-clicking. Mark Burnett, The Apprentice's wily behind-the-scenes mastermind, somehow subliminally inserts the Paul McCartney/Stevie Wonder classic "Ebony and Ivory" under the tableau.

    Even fake receptionist Robin seems to mist up as Troy takes the elevator down to the street.

    "That was the toughest one yet," reflects Trump, and we're inclined to agree. We've seen reality television tear asunder so many relationships over the years, but this one stings sweetly like Eric and Julie on the first Real World.

    Excuse us, we need to curl up with a pint of Ben and Jerry's and a fuzzy VHS copy of Breakfast at Tiffany's.




    [A note on last night's program: Upon Amy's return to the suite after escaping elimination in her first trip to the boardroom, Kwame remarked, "Popped your boardroom cherry, isn't that great?" This is perhaps the filthiest thing to elude network censors since Milton Berle dressed his penis in a wig and chased around a cameraman on an early installment of Texaco Star Theater.]

    See previous Apprentice Friday entries:


    Bunsen handicaps the remaining Apprentice hopefuls
    Drink Trump Ice
    Goodbye, Omarosa: A Recap in Haiku
    Fire & Ice: An Appreciation of Carolyn
    You Can See Mr, Trump Now: Robin the Fake Receptionist's Fake Receptionist Job Duties


    Thursday, April 01, 2004

     

    Whew!



    This Blogging Deal is the shizzydizznizzy, but so titally tired-machen. Ya feelz me? Schmobitty dobitty, mo-effer. S allover ya tees. Me needz to flip some winkz, ya rollin me? Nighty-night, blogga. Gotta gets ma napz on.

    Tobvs to the gobs.

    Obviously.





     

    I'm Hungry



    I Think I'm going to have a turkey sandwich with swiss cheese for lunch. But should I go with whole wheat or white bread?

    Fuck it, I'm doing whole wheat.


     

    An Immodest Proposal To Dispossess Me of My Modesty



    I Know That I don't discuss my private life often enough with you, my internet buddies. Today's as good a day as any to start.

    So...

    OK, I don't know how to say this except to just say it. I'm a...virgin.

    There, I said it. There's something really cathartic about this soul-bearing stuff, ya know?

    Anyway, I'm not getting any younger, and one day I think I'm going to get married. And I don't want to show up at my honeymoon without having, er, taken the equipment out for a test drive. That probably a mixed metaphor, but whatevs. You all know what I mean.

    This is where you come in. There are a bunch of available, semi-available, and possibly-available-in-the-name-of-helping-out-a-fellow-inexperienced-blogger female bloggers out there. Wonderful ladies that might be able to help me with my "problem." (I really shouldn't call it a problem, because it's totally cool to be a virgin if your religious or personal beliefs run that way. I'm not one to judge.)

    So, bloggin' sistas...who can help me? Some of you have men in your lives. Hopefully they'll understand!

    In the interest of being more open with my readers (all ten of you, you rock!), I'll post the best responses here.

    C'mon, Elizabeth, Maccers, Eurotrash, Hag, Lindsay, Zulkey, Sarah, Anna, Emma, Choire (Gawker's written by a girl, right?), Jessica, Kerry! Hell, TMFTML's probably drunk enough to give it a go!

    I don't want to sound like I won't be tender and caring, but in the words of an immortal love poet, "Let's get it on!"

    Hope to hear from you soon!


     

    Dept. of Impersonation



    I Don't Want to jump the gun here, but I may be the victim of identity theft. Let's shut this creep down!

    And on a Blogspot blog, for Chrissake! You'd think I'd at least get an impersonator on Livejournal.


     

    Other People Read This Site!



    Bear With Me. I'm relatively new to this blogging thing. But today I discovered these little buttons that lead to "referrer logs," and I found out that other sites have linked to things that I've written, or just to this site in general. This is v. cool.

    Check out these blogs:

    Lasagnafarm has deduced what I already knew: That Google's figured out that hard-core Christians are my target audience.

    You give just one rabbi a handjob at a Los Angeles Mystical Judaism Society meeting, and C. Monks finds out and brands you B________!


     

    Crapulous Can Be Found Elsewhere



    I'm Going To go out on a limb here and guess that this anonymous blogger guy can't possibly be hung over at his desk as often as he claims. He'd lose his day job!


     

    Long Goodbye Dept.



    Why Is Everyone quitting their blogs today?

    Rob Diener's Funnsylvania hangs it up. [Funnsylvania]

    Jim Treacher: "See you later, suckers!" [Mother, May I Sleep With Treacher?]

    Come back, guys!


     

    News Roundup



    This Is What's happening in our world:

    French President Jacques Chirac looks to regain voter confidence after last month's election shakeup. Well, it's about time he did something! [The Australian]

    OPEC cuts could mean even higher gas prices in California. What else is new? It's getting so I can hardly afford to drive my car, despite its reasonable mileage. [Miami Herald]

    Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon defends his plan to remove troops from the Gaza Strip. An important step towards a free Palestinian state or a hawkish stall tactic? I guess time will tell. [Cnews-Canada]

    Prince William is irritated at paparazzi photographs of him with his "first girlfriend." This raises serious privacy issues. Where do we draw the line? Are public figures (royals included) entitled to keep their private lives private? [CNN]

    Japanese companies feel that business is better but worry about the strength of the yen. Yet the big corporations are planning on trimming capital spending? What gives? Are they shooting for economic expansion or not? [Reuters]



    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
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