Monday, December 29, 2003
Still On Vacation
I'M STILL ON holiday. I'd love to tell you what I've been up to, but there's no time. Let's just say the day after Christmas may or may not have involved a bottle of Rumplemintz, Angela Lansbury in elf shoes, and something called The Intruder.
Do with this possible information (or standard "alcohol + elderly celebrity + ominous-sounding sex toy" joke) what you will.
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Not a PSA Dept.
WHATEVER YOU DO, don't go to Downhillbattle.org and give money to thieves who are taking food out of the mouths of multiplatinum selling artists like me and multinational media conglomerates who strive to give us the best possible value for our $18.99. Have you seen the insert on the new Best of Sheryl Crow CD? Those liner notes thanking Kid Rock for "all of his support, LOL :-)" didn't print themselves.
Merry Christmas Eve! I have to run. That eggnog isn't going to spike itself with absinthe, those tight 'lil onions in naughty Mrs. Santa skirts aren't going to pinch themselves, and the blackout that leaves me passed out between three drunk she-elves and a guy named Walter in reindeer antlers isn't going to kill the braincells that remember my fourth birthday party all by itself.
Monday, December 22, 2003
After Eyes Wide Shut the TV Wound Up in the Pool and There Were Boar's Head Wrappers Everywhere
YOU KNOW THAT no one is at work right now, sitting in front of their computers, reading the words you're leaving them for the holidays. Everyone's home trimming their Christmas trees or lighting their menorahs or whatever funny, lame thing you dismissively and probably racistly imagine people do for Kwanzaa. But still you write, because you're on deadline from three major magazines, none of whom realize they've assigned you the same "Best of Lists List" article that you tricked them into thinking is a really clever twist on year-end lists, a meta-list that will sting best running after the start of the New Year.
You write because Tom Cruise is sitting in the Eames chair in your office, eating perfectly-calibrated one-by-one-inch cubes of diced ham out of a nine-by-nine Tupperware cube. Cruise always stops by to "help" with your writing following the less than smashing success of one of his big Jesus-complex blockbusters. You haven't seen him since Vanilla Sky. You wince as Cruise pops yet another ham cube into his mouth and offers an abortive list topic, as you assure him that "Top Five Red Economy Cars" is not exactly what you're looking for. You notice that Cruise's nonstarter list engine requires exactly three ham cubes to turn over. Another involuntary wince rockets through you as you anticpate the swallowing of the third cube and its inevitable list output.
Best Nineteen Things that Can Double as a Whisk in a Pinch, he says, and you realize that somehow you hadn't noticed he's wearing a Santa hat with "Theta-Free since '93" scrawled in glitter across the fuzzy, white brim.
You tell Cruise you'll keep that one in mind, fully intending to scrub it from your synapses, but still somehow involuntarily type it into your brainstorm list. His endless, constipated, self-congratulatory smile that's been flashed across countless movie screens makes the room feel cramped.
You watch as he picks up the pace with the ham cubes, knowing the lists are going to start flying. You'd hope that he'd run out of ham, but you know better; his assistant is in the pantry chopping pork like she's trying to obliterate the field in a county fair butchering contest.
2003's Five Best Undervalued Treasures on Antiques Roadshow....cube cube cube....Top Two Cable Channels Featuring Home-Swapping Decor Improvement Shows of the Year...cube cube cube...The Year's Ten Best Toppings for Your Vegan Wedding Cake...cube cube...
You watch as he examines the third piece of ham like a pawn shop chiseler trying to get up the nerve to tell you that your Rolex is fake, but he thinks he can move it. He asks if you're listening to him, and you assure you him you're taking down everything he says, as you certainly don't want another three-day Far and Away handwashing jag in your place. You're not entirely sure why he shows up here. You wish he'd just have some toast and go. The assistant arrives with a fresh Tupperware bin of ham, and you can tell from the evil look in her eye (probably put there by one too many samurai-sword sparring matches) that there's one cube in there that's got a rounded-off corner, and that the Eames chair may likely wind up kindling in the ensuing rage if you don't get this piece finished right now.
Of course I'm listening, Tom, of course I am, you echo, throwing in that he's been such a help that you're probably going to have to give him a byline. He flashes that smile again.
Sunday, December 21, 2003
Obligatory Holiday Travel Post Dept.
NEW YORK CITY -- Bunsen is in the house, if by "house" you mean the Bethlehem where the rough awkwardly-referring-to-himself-in-the-third-person beast slouched off to be born less than three decades ago. Because my continuing efforts to convince Mayor Mike that Rockefeller Center would look so much more Christmassy relocated to the vicinity of Hollywood and Vine have thus far fallen on deaf ears, I'm forced to travel back east to my beloved homeland if I want to watch figuring skating tourists go fannypack-over-elbow into pileups of expensive photography equipment, black socks, and Teutonic swear words. And how I miss those silly motherfuckers who think the Rockefeller rink is a dandy place to show off their triple lutzes! There's no damage I can do with mere words that years of 5 a.m. figure skating lessons hasn't already wrought. Keep spinning, Dorothy, keep spinning. That Japanese couple clutching the siderail like they're barring the door of their Godzilla-attack shelter are very impressed.
The vast expanse of fallow America that lays between Los Angeles and New York presents a travel dilemma for the bicoastal elite. On the one hand, I normally wouldn't dream of taking any form of ground transportation cross-country for fear of actually coming into contact with fly-over country folk who might own pickup trucks for strictly utilitarian purposes. On the other hand, there are drawbacks to being aloft for five hours between the two cities on more terrorists' wishlists than a gift subscription to Boxcutter Martyrdom Monthly.
In the end, flying won out because a certain nameless airline offers a tiny satellite TV in every seat, and this setup is close enough to the 45-inch LCD I have on the wall opposite the bidet in my master bathroom. Despite serious misgivings about consenting to be a selfless hero in the event of a tragedy, I took a seat in the exit row; if I can't comfortably cross my legs while lining up my fifteen in-flight bottles of Absolut on the seat-back tray, I tend to hyperventilate and speak in tongues. In this sensitive time, speaking in anything other than straight-up New Yawk en route to JFK will land you on the wrong side of a Sky Marshal's tazer gun, and my neurologist says that if this happens again my ass is going to run like a beer tap at Oktoberfest and everything I eat is going to taste like pennies permanently, not just for the duration of the seizure.
So I washed down a Xanax with a miniature Swedish vodka bottle, expecting to wake in a cold climate no matter how many times the flight attendant shook me to demand that I place Voltaire, my stuffed in-flight anxiety-buffer bear, completely under the seat in front of me. But then I saw it on the postcard-sized screen on the seat in front of me: Mayor Mike and a bunch of suits at a podium, poker faces on, a graphic floating above their heads: "NYC: Terror Level Orange."
My thought immediately turned to my fellow travelers. Surely they'd understand that if the plane was overtaken and a water landing ensued, they would immediately abrogate my exit row Samaritan duties and even go so far as to applaud my foresight in selecting the seat that would best facilitate the saving of my own ham. Powered by my comrades' cheers of "Row, Bunsen, Row!", I would paddle the inflatable life raft to a terror-free zone like Rhode Island, whose twee status as "the biggest little state in the Union" renders it too fucking lame to ever be a target of fundamentalist destruction. Once absolutely sure I was safe, I'd alert the tiny local militia as to the plight of the downed plane, they'd get in their cute Rhode Island Department of Tourism "Biggest Little Rowboats in the Atlantic" and putter out to rescue the other passengers. I'd lay low just outside of Providence, operating an I-95 rest stop souvenir booth specializing in pewter spoons engraved with the Rhode Island "Biggest Little" motto until the heat died down. I'd modestly deflecting any hero talk with denials as I rang up customer after customer, No ma'am, you've got me mixed up with a hero. Then, infuriated by a tragic casting choice in an unauthorized NBC MOW (Giovanni Ribisi, couldn't you have played me a little less twitchy and fey?), I'd come out of hiding to sell my story to Miramax. Yeah, I know it's trite, but Harvey likes to spend for Oscar bait.
But then there was Mayor Mike smiling and telling us not to worry, there weren't any specific threats, so keep on shopping, be patient with the invasive security procedures etc etc. The Xanax kicked in, or maybe it was the vodka, and I dreamt of snuggling in a fetal position in a basket of California oranges under a brilliant, orange sun. I awoke with an embarrassing erection when jarred by a particularly rough landing (note to the male flight attendant who thought that quipping "Whooooa!" over the PA was an acceptable comic relief for the inept touch-down: it wasn't, and perhaps you'd like to butch up that career choice with something in a male nurse gig).
So, Mayor Mike, I'm not going to worry. I'm going to shop. I'm going to smile when a National Guardsman paws my goodies in Grand Central on my way to Times Square, where I'm going to stand in a crowd of a million of my closest friends, all of us trying to get the first drop of booze-saturated 2004 urine to hit the freezing asphalt at precisely the moment the ball rings in the New Year.
Saturday, December 20, 2003
But I'm Still Figuring Out the Kwanzaa Angle
IT JUST OCCURED to me that this site is a lot like Hanukkah. I give you a little gift every day.
Friday, December 19, 2003
Sperminator vs. Forrest Hump Dept.
BY NOW YOU know that I don't normally do this, but since Lindsayism is doing the world a good end-of-year turn and I contributed, please go immediately to the "Come Justin, On Kelly: Porn Titles For 2003 Movies" list.
[I will also throw in my all-time favorite in this milieu, Three Men and a Baby = Three Men and a Man. Not my favorite to watch. It doesn't exist. Although now it probably does. It's just clever, OK? Fine. Three Men and a Hot Decidedly-Female Slut.]
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Wright Stuff Dept., Mile High Edition
I'VE NEVER BEEN one for historical tidbits, but today marks the 100th anniversary of the twelve-second first flight of the Wright brothers, ushering in a century of aviation and tiny bags of stale pretzels.
This calls to mind my initiation to the Mile High Club. Like that historic jaunt by the brothers Wright, my induction lasted a mere twelve seconds. Here is a breakdown of that twelve seconds:
:01--:03: Make eye contact with stewardess while standing in line for tiny 747 bathroom. Coquettishly roll eyes towards tiny 747 bathroom.
:04: Very briefly ponder using "hot dog into donut" pantomime as seduction tool, but abandon tactic when stewardess slips into tiny bathroom and beckons with "come hither" pantomime of her own.
:05 -- :06: Fumble with latch in panicky fashion to make sure it's locked, recover by asking stewardess if commode usage sign indicates "flagrante delicto" instead of "ocupado." Realize she speaks no Spanish and that my knowledge of archaic Latin is barely enough to get by.
:07: Engage spring-loaded pants-dropping apparatus I had prepared for just such an occasion.
:08 -- :010: Stewardess hikes up skirt as I fumble with brassiere hooks, which apparently were designed with the uncanny foresight to thwart any possible terrorist airplane-bathroom-sex incursion.
:011: Wonder about stewardess' hopes, dreams, satisfaction with her job, and relationship with her mother, whom I can tell from a faraway look in her eyes has been withdrawn ever since her father ran off with a cocktail waitress in Topeka. Thrust our hips against each other with both hunger and sadness.
:012: Collapse onto cold, brushed-aluminum toilet seat as our passion topples us. Ignore angry knocks of elderly passenger whose adult undergarment has reached capacity due to server too generous with her in-flight beverage service. Lost in the moment and overcome with the import of the situation, mistake tiny bathroom commode for high-end bidet and the flush button for the activator of a cooling-yet-totally-kinky backdoor jetstream. Press button and await carnal sensation like none any airplane bathroom sensualist has ever experienced. Face twists into Guernica-esque tableau of horror as suction force just north of the pull of a black hole yanks at my hindquarters instead of expected paroxysm of ecstasy. In unspeakably violent override of nature's delicate plans for the human reproductive system by the plane's waste-elimination apparatus, ejaculate through human waste-elimination apparatus. Seed ejects from tiny airplane bathroom over North Platte, Nebraska and settles on field, creating improbable but delicious variety of white corn. Quick-thinking stewardess saves me from permanent duodenal damage by triggering flush failsafe mechanism, slaps me for being so stupid, and storms out of tiny bathroom. Collapse to floor as elderly passenger finally gets to change adult undergarment. Think very briefly about "getting inducted" a second time, but realize that it's just the suction trauma talking and that elderly passenger isn't that cute besides. Press "stop" on stopwatch, realize just how much has transpired in a mere twelve seconds. Sigh meaningfully.
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Remember that 'Separated at Birth' Thing SPY Used to Do? Yeah, That Was Pretty Cool
THERE IS NO truth to the rumor that Michael Jackson tried to beat the shit out of El DeBarge at a Sacramento nightclub.
[I am quite uncomfortable with the "blogginess" of this post. It may disappear at any time. Please scroll down and read the Amazon thing.]
DEAR AMAZON.COM RECOMMENDATIONS Page,
Once again we find ourselves brought together by the holiday season. When my loved ones, acquaintances, and business associates ask me what I'd like for Christmas (yes, Amazon, you were right in guessing I was brought up a Christian!), I'm often at a loss as these people are rarely in a position to offer me an impromptu deep-tissue massage with French release, perhaps with a finger that "slips" around the area of my backdoor. So I turn to you, figuring that given our long relationship as eager impulse buyer and online super-retailer, that you might have some gift ideas for the many, many people who want to give me things to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.
But you have failed me.
Pardon me for saying so, Mr. Amazon Recommendations Engine, but I'm quite sure I would rather rape my favorite uncle with rusty salad tongs than buy the paperback version of The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing. (Tragically, the author photo is just large enough that I was compelled to masturbate to it when you somehow tricked me to "Take a Look Inside." I can't really blame you for that last part, as it's become an involuntary response to any image of a female projected onto a computer screen.) But I can't help but feel that somehow you entrapped me into this unseemly behavior by misinterpreting a harmless search for a coffee-table book of top-heavy Hungarian women in hip-waders as a sublimated desire to spend a day on the beach devouring the exploits of a twentysomething gal toiling in the book-publishing trenches to feed her cute-shoes jones. I've already been forced to sit through a full season of SATC just to get a handjob by someone who'd obviously honed her technique by weeding her garden immediately beforehand. I won't get fooled again, Amazon.
I don't want to seem like I'm piling on, but I'm not exactly sure why you'd think that Norah Jones would find a suitable home in my stereo. Once I'd finished servicing myself before her fetching portrait on the album cover had completely loaded onto the page (a landspeed record I'm proud of considering I have broadband), I'd already stopped wondering about the provenance of that recommendation. There's neither soft jazz nor adult contemporary pop in my CD rack. Another swing and miss, Amazon.
Understandably, my online recommendations session left me a little spent. So in my weakened state I thought I'd give you another chance to come up with my perfect gift. You obviously lack a keystroke-logging feature on your website, or you'd know that I have absolutely no need for a "Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing" software package. My words-per-minute rate was the envy of the secretarial pool. But something about that vixen Mavis' self-satisfied grin made me want to challenge her pop-up window image to a one-handed typing contest. I won't mention who won, but I will say this: that's Ms. Beacon if you're nasty.
I'm still without a viable gift idea.
You don't know a thing about me, Amazon.
See you next Christmas.
Monday, December 15, 2003
YOU CAN THANK me later for the whole Saddam thing.
Not for the information I provided that indirectly contributed to his capture, but for the fact that the celebratory bullets I fired into the air from the roof of my compound did not crash to earth into your pickup truck. I don't want to say too much more about this, but there may or may not be one fewer blimp patrolling the skies over LA tomorrow.
Demands Made by Saddam Hussein in Return for His Peaceful Surrender at the Bottom of that Eight-Foot Dirty Hole
--That the Great Satan immediately surrender to the newly-established Noble Iraqi Eight-Foot Dirty Hole Republic, headed by president-for-life Saddam Hussein
--That John Ashcroft represent him in his battle to wrest the trademark for "Eight-Foot Dirty Hole" from Paris Hilton*
--That his son Uday's gay tiger, Mandor, be immediately installed as a "man-eating" consultant on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
--That each week he be brought a Kurdish family to meet his personal gassing needs
--That he be awarded fifteen minutes in a janitorial closet with Strom Thurmond's seventy-eight year-old love child
--That Beyonce and Jay-Z stop playing coy and finally admit that they are in a loving, monogamous relationship, his "bitches n' hoes" frontin' be damned
--That he be advanced thirty-seven virgins on his posthumous seventy-two virgin martyr allotment; failing that, four nonconsecutive issues of Oui from 1981 for his jail cell
--That he receive one of those Howard Dean web sites so that he may mount a campaign for the Democratic presidential nomination; failing that, he'd like to attend one of those Dean house parties, bringing his trademark "wicked falafel"
--That George H.W. Bush and George W. Bush both be beheaded and that their skulls be used for a game of pick-up football in the streets of Tikrit if he is able to capture them in an eight-foot dirty hole in Potomac, Maryland
--That in the upcoming second season of Average Joe, the choice between a brain-dead, humorless hunk and a nice-guy millionaire be so painfully obvious so as to make all of America scream "you shallow bitch!" at their television screens as the comely bachelorette follows the shallow genetic imperative to engage in the act of procreation with the hunkiest reality-show contestant available
--That each of these list entries begin with the word "that" and launch into grammar so tortured as to render William Safire violently incontinent some three thousand miles away
--A DiGiorno pizza. He's really fucking sick of the pepperoni Tombstones he's been eating while in hiding.
Friday, December 12, 2003
Lines We Wish We'd Written, Then Realized, Oh, We Did, Just Now, Dead Horse Edition
ON THE FLU outbreak:
It's just God's way of thinning out the herd of the elderly, children, and people without health insurance.
ON THE RELATIVELY light publication schedule this week:
Get off my back. I'm a busy man. All you do is take, take, take. Those Hollywood starlets, such as Jennifer Connelly, Katie Holmes, and Rachel Bilson (Summer of The O.C. fame) aren't going to pretend to fuck themselves.
Excuse me. They're not going to pretend to zap themselves?
They're not going to pretend to make love to themselves?
Well, it's not really love. We're not in love. Although Rose McGowan keeps sending me Ken dolls with those little corn on the cob holders jabbed into the spot where the genitalia would go.
To be fair, I could've handled that situation better.
Oooh, you didn't send her a bottle of "Bitch Be Gone," did you?
I may have.
Didn't you learn from the Demi Moore fiasco back in 1992?
What can I say? Sometimes I'm a naughty boy.
Sometimes I think you're a lost cause.
Really, I'm a romantic at heart. Just last Wednesday I covered myself in Nutella and surprised Angelie Jolie by sneaking into her bedroom through the window. She just goes insane for Nutella, let me tell you.
You told me you were out with the boys?
I was, baby, I was. It's all pretend, remember? I'm just making things up for the people, baby. No one wants to hear about my night playing Madden with the boys, a night that most definitely did not include having Nutella greedily slurped off my body by Angelina Jolie as her fifteen adopted Cambodian children slept like angels in the next room. And that Billy Bob tattoo right above her cooch certainly did not melt my tumescence like fudge on a frying pan.
It happens to every guy.
Not to this guy! And this is all pretend, remember? I have to go...
Go and pick up your pump? No, you strike me as an injection guy. You told me it was the whiskey!
This conversation is over.
You can't see me, but I'm wiggling a damp piece of spaghetti in the air.
I'm alredy gone! I can't hear you!
See you later, Mr. Wiggly.
I hate you, fake narrator, I hate you!
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Lines We Wish We'd Written, Then Realized, Oh, We Did, Just Now, Part 2
ON A MICHIGAN State University graduate student's discovery of the largest known prime number:
What a huge fucking nerd.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Lines We Wish We'd Written, Then Realized, Oh, We Did, Just Now
ON AL GORE'S endorsement of Howard Dean:
No one is suggesting that currying Gore's favor is the kiss of death, but three of his children dropped dead when he smiled at their excellent report cards. Unfortunately, Karenna was a "C" student.
On a trend in the movies sure to catch on:
This Friday, Love Don't Cost a Thing, an "urban reimagining" of the 1987 Patrick Dempsey blockbuster Can't Buy Me Love, premieres in theaters across the country. Miramax is already planning on riding the coattails of this strategy, planning a Memorial Day release of The Breakfast Club remake Your Mama's So Fat I Got to Roll Over Twice To Get Off Her.
Bunsen Is All Around
NORMALLY, MY LOVE is spread only around the space you see before you so that I can kick back and watch the advertising revenue roll in. (I pay a fortune to myself for that banner at the top.)
But every once in a while, I'm so overcome that the love spreads elsewhere, my love rays warming other corners of the internet. Go and taste the love.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
TO: DORKS, NERDS, "Fags" (Non-homosexual), "Homos" (Non-homosexual), Dweebs (arcane usage), and Losers
FROM: The Universe
RE: The Status Quo
BODY: Now that comely "Average Joe" bachelorette Melana has once again proven that looks are of primary importance to the beautiful and therefore has restablished herself as "unattainable" to you, you may resume using her as the target of your angry masturbatory fantasies.
Even if you are secretly rich.
P.S. Thank you for fixing my network printing problem. You guys are the best!
Monday, December 08, 2003
The Failure of Democracy
THIS IS THE last thing I'll say on the subject of the 2003 Weblog Awards, in which roughly 3.4 percent of this site's readership voted Bunsen, thus easily obliterating the voting rate of this wonderful nation of ours. Give yourselves a hand, America! (My Canadian fans, however, should be ashamed and self-effacing.) It was an honor to be nominated [cough
I understand that the publicity machinery that makes Dave Barry the which-public-urinal-is-it-socially-acceptable-to-pee-in multimedia humor juggernaut is in full gear. Hell, CBS once had the lovable scamp Harry Anderson play him on television. Remember that? Me neither, but IMDB says it's so.
But, for the love of all that is good and holy, how can anything that is called Giggle Chick be ahead of Bunsen? If Giggle Chick were a novel, the cover would be hot pink and depicting some squiggly lines in high heels juggling shopping bags and a squiggly-line infant. And talking on a cell phone.
Perhaps I wouldn't come off as so bitter at the chick-lit world if my first novel, The Burly Man's Guide to Getting Blowjobs from Bimbos Hotter than Yourself, hadn't been rejected in favor of something called The Sassy Lady's Club Guide to Having It All: That Is, Lots of Fabulous Girlfriends, an Unlimited Charge Account at the Sex and the City Factory Outlet Store, a Size Zero Dress Size, an Irrepressible Wit, a Neutered Man-Friend, and a Formerly Distant, Fabulously Wealthy Lover Who Comes Around in the End.
Never fear, loyal readers. These stories always end up with Bunsen on top, don't they? I triumphed in the end. I sold the book to David Sedaris, who put his name on it and published it himself with minor edits. I walked away with a thick stack of singles for the nudie bar, and I'm pretty sure I step over Mr. Sedaris' blanket bazaar of incense and patchouli oil on the sidewalk in front of my Trader Joe's.
Friday, December 05, 2003
If You Show Me Your Plaudits I'll Show You My Laurels Dept.
IT'S COME TO MY ATTENTION that this site has been nominated for Best Humor Blog in the 2003 Weblog Awards. I'm not sure if there were Weblog Awards in 2002, but if there were, I wasn't nominated, and, therefore, all involved might as well have been dead to me. Luckily, this year they've been resurrected in my eyes, the giant stone in front of the tomb of weblogging having been rolled away by my second biggest fan, and it's certainly an honor to be nominated, etc etc.
Interestingly, Dave Barry is among the nominees in this category. Mr. Barry, a writer famous for his columns about the inadequacy of flush force in many household toilet bowls, is syndicated in over one million newspapers across the globe and reportedly paid ten thousand dollars per word. Oh, and he has a blog. I'm sure that Mr. Barry would prefer to take time out of his "igniting stacks of twenties with the hooker of his choice just to see what hues the new, technicolor Andrew Jackson turns when singed with the end of a crackpipe" schedule to accept another accolade.
If that last sentence seems a bit labored, it's because I passed out from the fumes of my jealousy halfway through. Luckily, I was revived by Winona Ryder and a basket of smelling salts after she'd climbed through my window, lured in by a White Stripes CD I'd been playing. When I came to, she expressed some disappointment that she hadn't stumbled into the middle of a three-way with me and Jack and Meg White. Life is full of disappointments, I explained to her, and surely she could relate having had more bad musicians' lips on her than an oboe in an inner-city school marching band.
But I digress.
It's an honor to be nominated, etc etc, and I honestly don't care if you
click on this link and vote for me (Bunsen) one or more times.*
I enjoy thinking of myself as a "cult phenomenon" or "guilty pleasure." And unlike Winona, it's somewhat unlikely I'll be disappointed and run off and try to fuck Dave Pirner of Soul Asylum because he's the last guy with dreadlocks that told me my ears aren't too big.
They aren't, are they?
[*I've been assured that there are "mechanisms in place" that will prevent you from corrupting the voting process. Two CPA's from PriceWaterhouseCoopersTouchersonwickNtage who have never heard of Dave Barry, but who nonetheless harbor a lingering, elusive dissatisfaction with the performance of their wimpy toilets, are crouched over the IP and referrer logs, ready to "flush" any vote tampering. ]
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Polynomial Nomenclature: Celebrity Birth Canal Edition
ACCORDING TO THE PERSON to whom a large sum is paid to make strategic denials about their personal lives, Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin of Coldplay are having a child together. It may seem that unwed celebrities get pregnant at a greater rate than the general population, but that's only because when one sees a pregnant, single celebrity at the supermarket, one is consumed with thoughts of the newborn's adorable upcoming pics in People and US Weekly, not on the additional burden the offspring will put on an already overtaxed welfare system.
In celebration of another gestating fetus forcing a power couple to acknowledge that their heretofore wink-wink "we're just good friends" relationship did indeed involve one ejaculating into the birth canal of another on at least one occasion, I offer some relief for the cumbersome task of naming famous progeny.
Suggested Names for the Gwyneth/Chris Martin of Coldplay Bastard*
--Gwyneth Paltrow, Jr.
--Christopher Martin of Coldplay, Jr.
--Paris Hilton Paltrow-Martin**
--Anonymous Neverland Litigant #1438 (male baby only)
--Totally Over Ben So The Moody Limey Singer Will Do Paltrow-Martin
--Shakespeare In Utero
--If I Name Her Jennifer Do You Suppose Ben Will Notice Me Martin-Paltrow
--Jaylowe Paltrow I'm Not Taking Any Chances At Ben Not Noticing Martin
[*I acknowledge that the couple in question already may be secretly married or may choose to marry and confer technical legitimacy on the child before its birth next summer. Additionally, everyone knows that talent is diluted as it's passed down, so the best the poor kid can shoot for is a Daytime Emmy or an American Music Award.]
[**So fucking sue me, that bag of sex-tape bones is haunting my dreams!]
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Paris Is Burning...Well, At Least Part of Her
I GIVE UP. I realize that Paris Hilton has officially annexed this site into her personal multimedia empire. I can only hope that she doesn't choose to downsize me.
In the meantime, enjoy this interview I conducted after my "The Simple Life" viewing party, during which my guests and I played "The Simple Life Drinking Game: Preemptive Strike Edition" and got stinking, Ted-Kennedy-in-the-throes-of-a-Chappaquiddick-flashback drunk.
A Brief Interview with Paris Hilton's Pixelated Ass Crack
Bunsen: Good evening.
Paris Hilton's Pixelated Ass Crack (PHPAC): What's shakin'?
Bunsen: So...how do you feel about your digital annihilation by the Standards and Practices people over at FOX (all-caps theirs)?
PHPAC: I really thought this show was going to be my coming out party. My debutante ball, if you will. I talked Paris into wearing the lowest-riding dungarees in her dungaree-only walk-in closet so that I could get some equal screen time. I went so far as to give all of her thong underwear to Nikki, who spirited it away to her secret hideout that allows her almost complete media anonymity.
Bunsen: And when Nicole and Paris finally arrived at the farm...
PHPAC: I was ready for my close-up. I'd managed to sneak a full five inches above the waistband. Paris climbed out of the truck, then -- Wham! Pixel city, population my vertical smile. Scrambled like the Spice Channel on a basic cable subscription.
Bunsen: I'm assuming the people at FOX didn't warn you this is how it's going to be.
PHPAC: Of course not. I wouldn't have signed on. The Girls Gone Wild people had an offer on the table, but we thought we'd want network exposure.
Bunsen: FOX is hardly a network.
PHPAC: I hear ya. Mistakes were made.
Bunsen: One more thing: that pick-up truck had a functioning reverse gear, didn't it?
PHPAC: I'm pretty sure, but she was sitting on me at the time. I can still smell the vinyl seat.
A Simple Plan Dept.
AT THE RISK of plunging this space even further into the black hole of Paris Hilton Sex Tapey/Michael Jackson Molesty fun that it's become, the fact that everyone's favorite cellphone-answerin', eye-glowin', reverse-cowgirlin' socialite heiress is back in the public eye mandates additional coverage. Tonight, FOX (all-caps theirs) premieres "The Simple Life," wherein Hilton and gal pal Nicole Richie trade in their platinum cards for milking machines on a farm I presume to be in fly-over country. (Isn't that where we keep the farms these days?)
I haven't seen an advance copy, but that's not going to stop me from blindly offering...
"The Simple Life" Drinking Game -- Preemptive Strike Edition
*Each time a banjo plays to punctuate a pained facial expression by Paris or Nicole at some horrifying facet of country life they have to endure, take one (1) drink.
*Each time one of the girls wears wildly inappropriate couture in the commission of some horrifying bit of animal husbandry they're asked to perform, take one (1) drink per identifiable designer.
*Each time Paris or Nicole makes a disparaging remark about New Jersey in response to some horrifying feature of the small town they're forced to live in, take two (2) drinks.
*Each time someone in your viewing party asks, "Wasn't Lionel Richie black?" when wondering if Nicole's skin tone is the result of interracial parentage or some fabulous bronzing product, take three (3) drinks.
*Each time Nicole Richie dons a long plastic sleeve and inserts her arm up to the shoulder into the birth canal of a farm animal, take three (3) drinks, high five the closest member of your viewing party, and loudly ask, "Who's dancing on the ceiling now, penny lover?"
*Each time a local, adolescent male approaches Paris and makes a sly reference to "makin' our own humpin' tape" and gives the thumbs-up to the camera with a knowing wink, take five (5) drinks because we didn't know about the sex tapes while they were filming the show. Prepare for the release of the "Paris Takes on Five Townies in Flannel" tape. Drinking game to come.