To: The Honorable Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger ____________________ Paris Whitney Hilton, as you no doubt know by this point, Your Miraculousness, has been indicted on charges of violating her probation concerning a previous D.U.I. offense awarded her by--in all its infinite wisdom--the great state of California (and its swarthier, less-fragrant subsidiary, Tijuana). Since that time, she has been ordered to serve 23 days in a correctional facility as punishment, the term of which is to begin no later than June 6th, in the Year of Our “Terminator 2: Judgment Day” [wink, wink]—if I may say so, Sir: Greatest sci-fi flick of all… TIME!!!—2007. ____________________ ____________________
Subsequent this, you have also no doubt become aware of contentious campaigns being mounted by ideologically-differing sects of the United States population to curry favor with yourself, with the expressed end result(s) of garnering either a pardon or non-action from you concerning Ms. Hilton’s sentence. Have you not already received these petitions, they have been titled the “Free Paris” and “Jail Paris” petition drives, respectively. I, however, would like to offer my OWN solution to the stalemate these conflicting requests might stir up in your gubernatorial decision-making processes. Your Magnificence, please consider, as a viable alternative to the “Free Paris” and “Jail Paris” campaigns, the following, slightly more outside-the-box tack:
“Rape and Execute-Via-Lethal-Injection Paris Hilton.”
Please hear me out, now. I know, at first glance, that this might seem a somewhat… “excessive” (?) stratagem for dealing with a recidivist violator of CA state traffic law, but, in truth, when ALL considerations are taken into account, you will see it clearly is NOT. For instance: Didn’t “House of Wax” SUCK?!?! I mean, REALLY-awfully suck? As a former thespian YOURSELF—one of the HIGHEST caliber, too, I might add—you can no doubt recognize what a grievous blow was dealt to the illustrious historical lineage of filmmaking with the release of said pic.
Visualize, if you will: “Hercules in New York”… “Last Action Hero”… “Jingle All The Way”… “Batman & Robin”… “House of Wax”??? WTFWJD?!?! It even SOUNDS ridiculous, doesn’t it?! This factoid ALONE should be enough to secure Ms. Hilton the first portion of this petition, one would think. But wait! There’s MORE…
Paris Hilton is a whiner. SOME might even term her… a “girlie-man”… I think you see where I’m going with this. 45 days in jail is NOTHING compared to the adversity YOU faced when you were putting all those nurse F**KS (!!!) in their place, remember? Or how about when you were filling those potholes YOURSELF?! Or how about when you spent those millions upon millions in taxpayer dollars to hold a special election to cram those unpopular statutes down the throats of all those—not to kick a dead horse here—“girlie-men” voters in CA? ____________________ ____________________
(Or, as long as we’re on the subject of accomplishment, how about when the T-1000 stuck your arm in that rotating smelting factory cog, and you had to rip the entire thing OFF just to save a young, transgendered John Connor? One arm!
Or how about when you threw that knife at that Guatemalan or Mexican or whatEVER it was that was sneaking up on you with that M16 in “Predator”, and you were like, “stick around” when the knife pinned it to a girder and it died in great pain? Minuteman Project-a-LICIOUS!
Or how about when you used that sawed-off shotgun to shoot right AT those drugged-out kids making out on the couch absent-mindedly at the beginning of “Kindergarten Cop”, and then they jumped out of the way just in the nick of time—like you’d PLANNED—and you were like, “I’m the pahty poopah.” Bad… ASS!!!)
Anyway, like I was saying: Paris doesn’t have your kind of family values. So why NOT rape and kill her? You could even scream in her face, “SEE YOU AT THE PAHTY, RICHTER!” when she’s squirming around, strapped down on the execution table, right after you’ve PERSONALLY injected her, and she’s choking on her own vomit and blood and pissing herself and shitting herself in her hyper-agonized death throes. It’d be just like the OLD days! But the production company footing the bill THIS time would be The Voters of California Pictures! “I’ll be back,” INDEED!
What else? Oh, right! You know there’s this video floating around with her doing some guy in explicit fashion, don’t you? Well, not to go too far in the direction of spoilers or whathaveyou, but he "blows it" on or IN her like two or three times (according to the morbidly-obese gentlemen-of-refinement who work in the Service Department of the craphole automobile dealership where I enjoy gainful employment). What BETTER means of getting a little vicarious revenge on the whole of the fairer sex for all those snitched-about groping sessions of yours than to execute some chick that went BEYOND second base—on PURPOSE?! If there IS one, I don’t know what it could possibly BE! If it would help at all, you could just pretend you’re groping her when you plunge the needle into her fornication-actualizing temple. If you MUST, visualize groping her at the furniture store; Maria’s shoe closet while she’s on-assignment; the Mr. Olympia ’74 competition; anywhere! Just KILL the trollop! ____________________ ____________________
Not to make this entry a Rape-'N'-Kill-Paris BIBLE or anything, but did I mention already that she’s ALSO ludicrously-wealthy, and didn’t earn a PENNY of it herself! She didn’t have to take steroids, and grope half of the known population of planet Earth just to make a scant living for herself and her kids as a filthy, degenerate Governor! Teach her some modesty: Rape and execute her?
Lastly—at least for NOW—is the fact that she’s been engaged, like, four times—and every time to a GREEK! Greece: The sworn enemy of Austria (and/or Sacramento). Need I say more?
I think all of this clearly demonstrates the moral imperative resting on your grope-weary shoulders to consider my proposal, Your Splendiforousness. Do the residents of the state of California proud. Do the global COMMUNITY proud. Rape and execute-via-lethal-injection Paris Whitney Houston, and become the very Terminator you SHOULD’VE become were it not for petty-and-interfering screenwriters during the production of the original, classic film. Stop “House of Wax 2” before it is even CONCEIVED! In FACT, this MAY be just the ticket to getting that whole, f’d-up “no foreigners as President of the United States of America” clause of the Constitution rescinded. Picture it: Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger, President.
I hope you’re all QUITE aware by this juncture in the Cunninglinguyst canon of just how very MUCH I enjoys me a daily smattering of celebrity-related news. Not to get too “18th century British aristocracy” on the mutha or anything, but I can honestly say—with only the CRISPEST of enunciation, mind you—the following about the institution of celebrity updates: It IS my de-LIGHT.
[Taking a moment’s respite from anti-blogging to rape a member of my chateau’s peasant help, and then immediately flaying her skin for, seemingly, not enjoying the honour (NOTE: Phoneticize "honour" using a hard “h”, if you please)… The tease…]
Aaanywho! While I was skimming over the contents of the main page of The Huffington Post, a brash little online rag concerning only THE choicest of saucy escapades of Washington D.C.’s Beautiful People, I unexpectedly happened upon a link concerning Paris Hilton’s forthcoming imprisonment stemming from drunken driving and probationary violation.
[Turning my head to stare straight into the monitor] TAAAAAA-sty!!! [Diligently returning to my hunched-over, hunt-‘n’-peck repose]
Being the glamhound that I am, I followed the link to its inevitable conclusion: an online petition addressed to Governor of California (and—little-known fact—first choice for the headlining role in the upcoming A&E biopic entitled “Fabio: Butter, Jugs, and Read; One Man’s Delicious, Unbelievably Easy-Spreading Journey Into Literary Greatness”), Arnold Schwarzenegger, the link to which can be found here. ____________________ ____________________
If you would, please take a moment to read the petition in its entirety before continuing with this LiveJournal entry. Appreciation.
For the sake of brevity, I’ll forego the usual criticisms of how…
—sorry, the precise adjective eludes me—
…
…AHA!!!
—how “RETARDED” this petition is, and just cut to the quick, point-wise. In response to this plea for clemency on poor Paris’ behalf, there was mounted the obligatory response/breathless outcry from those folks of a more prosecutorially-minded bent who care not wit ONE for the—and I quote “Joshua”—“beauty and excitement [Paris' adventures afford] to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives.” That rejoinder petition can be found here.
Again, please read the petition in its entirety before proceeding, yeah? Thanks, cheese(s)!
Long story short: I decided that I was, apparently, OFFICIALLY no longer that interested in/riveted BY the goings-ons in—to name but a few—Darfur, Iraq, North Korea, Syria, Iran, Afghanistan, Turkey, New Orleans, Washington D.C., vaginas (internationally-speaking), the beds (of the marriage OR hospital variety) of gay persons-at-large, the U.S.-Mexico border, etc., etc., über-BORING (!) etc...
So NOW I’m into Hollywood! As such, I figured I would hazard imperiling my “cool cred” right out of the gate with either faction, pro- OR anti-Paris Incarceration, and just toss my two cents, willy-nilly, into the celebrity stratosphere on the subject.
The following entry, then, is the preliminary maquette of my OWN iPetion, to be posted in its entirety later this week or whenever I feel an inexorable inclination toward receiving thousands of death threats from persons who, seemingly, NEVER practice the full scope of modern Death Threat Etiquette through the simple act of signing their names (check the “Free Paris” petition’s signatures section; you’ll see what I mean).
So! Without further ado, I give you my future petition to Governor Schwarzenegger regarding the imprisonment of one Paris Whitney Hilton. Boner petite, my lovelies! ____________________ To be continued...
In honor of the guy who's so influenced my life (little-known fact: one of the first jobs I took on to support myself through college was as a Crispin Glover impersonator--a position that culminated in my first-ever molestation and, subsequently and even MORE auspiciously, my first appointment with a professional-grade otolaryngologist), here's the "official video" of a song entitled "Clowny Clown Clown" from Crispin's debut--and ONLY, as of this juncture--musical outing, "Big Problem Does Not Equal the Solution. The Solution = Let It Be."
(And before you mention it: I REALIZE I've been relying on video clips more than usual of late to fill out my LiveJournal bustier, as it were. But, in THIS instance, I don't think there is anything I could POSSIBLY write myself that would more faithfully render the utter anti-intellectualist hokum that is the observance of "4/20" moreso than the presented video-in-question. [Falsetto]: Oopsy-doopsy-DOO-oo!)
Enjoyment!
The single GREATEST (!) aspect of the preceding music video, to my mind, is that Señor Glover makes multiple mention of a "Mr. Farr" in a colloquial sort of sense ("Like Mr. Farr, GET it? 'Mr. Farr'? [Laughing]")--as if everyone watching the video is in on "the joke" (a reference, in actuality, only the 23 people who've seen the über-rare, VHS-only feather-in-the-cap-of-movies-dealing-with-social-retardation that is "Rubin & Ed" could POSSIBLY catch... and STILL wouldn't be amused by, mind you...). *Tee hee!* Crispin's so deluded concerning his social impact! Regardless! On this most venerated and holy of holidays observed EXCLUSIVELY by people who go out of their communal way NOT to matter, remember--though advising such a demographic to "remember" is sort of like telling a baboon to show some modesty, buttocks-wise--to schmoke a fatty or two in dual honor of ol' Hitler and Crispin, would yee? Appreciation!
[Waggling my finger at the computer monitor]
Hey, you! Heil Rastafari... right now! ____________________ Post-Script: Is anyone else out there expectantly counting the minutes to a release date that doesn't exist for "Simon Says" as am I? Is it just me? I don't know, man... There's just something about seeing a movie wherein Crispin offs a bunch of libidinous teenyboppers in the redneck woodlands by way of booby traps fashioned with pick axes that gets me all tapioca'd up downstairs. I'm not alone here, am I? ____________________ POST-Post-Script: ...not to MENTION a film featuring Crispin Glover, Jeffrey Combs, AND Brad Dourif, all in leading roles?!?! Valhalla-on-acid, says I! Have I just surpassed myself in terms of geek-cult cinema patheticness or what...?
To continue with my original thought, I heard this morning that Harvey Weinstein, head of the Weinstein Company (ancillary faction of Miramax and primary distributor of Tarantino’s films, among others’ fare), has basically vowed to split the two features comprising “Grindhouse” into two separate movies—as had been the original schema for theatrical presentation overseas—and RE-RELEASE them as, supposedly, “new films.” His reasoning? 1) The Easter weekend release killed the otherwise-spectacular showing the film would’ve OBVIOUSLY had; 2) the movie was too long; audiences can’t get into long films; 3) the ad campaign was too male-oriented; chicks would’ve LOVED the zombie holocaust/muscle car crashing/sluts-with-guns themes prevalent in the film(s), had they been but given the chance; and the winningest justification that’s SURE to endear the viewing throngs to cough up the extra $8.00 and 3-odd hours’ worth or personal expenditure: American viewers are morons, and wouldn’t be able to recognize “quality” product if it came up and plagiarized elements of their screenplay. Paging Roger Avary of the entire cast and crew of “City on Fire”…
Aaaanywho! Completely disregarding the more OBVIOUS fallacies inherent of the first three facets of this delusional train of thought—For instance: am I insane, or was “Lord of the Rings” NOT a triptych of 3 1/2-to-3 3/4-hour movies filmed almost ENTIRELY in slow-motion; YET going on to win, like, EVERY Oscar category available, AND thrice conquering, to record-breaking degrees, mind you, the box office… [Smarmily]: PLUS garnering Sean Astin an effortless requisition just afterward as top billing in a little epic you MAY have heard of, known as “Icebreaker”? HUH, ya f**ks?!?!—the fourth exemption strikes me as IMMEASURABLY retarded.
If you Google “Grindhouse failure,” you’ll find links to practically THOUSANDS of online mongoloid Tarantino apologists, waxing exceptionalist on his behalf concerning how stupid American movie-going audiences really are. Well, YEAH! But is that, in fact, the case in THIS particular instance? I think not. Consider the following:
Was not the haphazardly-constructed/shitty aesthetic nature of “Grindhouse” supposed to be the IMPETUS behind its inception; its very EXISTENCE on celluloid? Was this, or was this NOT… a “loving homage,” as it’s been repetitiously tagged, to the papier-mâché quality of ‘60’s and ‘70’s semi-/über-exploitation films shown in the discount, semen-encrusted strip theatres of yesteryear? You can’t really have it both ways. It’s either a willfully-inartful pastiche played for nostalgia-infused shits-‘n’-giggles, or a carefully-crafted, groundbreaking magnum opus that is willfully over the heads of the paying public-at-large.
The WORST part of this whole debacle is the inferred meme not-so-subtly broadcast by Weinstein and his minions through this announcement (regardless of whether the intentions reared therein ever actually come to fruition or NOT): “We will not ALLOW anyone to disregard or hold in low esteem any product having gestated for ANY amount of time—even for the short duration required to rewrite someone else’s script—within the creative mind-uterus of the almighty Quentin Tarantino. Even if it means subjecting you to said product in countless non-differentiable permutations over and over and OVER again until you finally concede to that fact and contribute your eight bucks to his cocaine-and-obese-black-prostitute habit. Got it, shitheads? It’s not YOUR decision.”
In the all-too-brief interlude between online pronouncements of the movie’s failure and the distribution company’s culturally-condescending mulligan concerning an otherwise throwaway movie’s opening weekend shortfall, I can tell you with no undue shame that I was on CLOUD… NINE! Literally… (I have the accidentally-dreadlocked fur asymmetrically peppered about a certain overly-investigative Tabamese INTERLOPER’S normally-lustrous coat to prove it [How’s that for “blowing my load”… ADJECTIVE-wise, that is?].) When the latter headline premiered on the Internet, I KNEW I prolly should have expected as much.
[A week and a half’s-worth of LiveJournal distraction via actual life occurrences later…]
ManohmanohMAN!!! Am I ever OVER this subject at this point! But I feel bad… As a token of my guilt at having abandoned all my loyal Cunninglinguyst reader(s) midway through a train of thought, here are a couple of oddities concerning thematically-topical hallmarks this site has seemed to adopt of its own eerie volition: A) retarded “people,” and B) age-extravagant breastfeeding!
A) Have you ever seen a “Down Syndrome Doll” before? Apparently—from the inference one rightfully posits after perusing the products and associated comments of the proprietor of the site (which you can visit here), anyway—all one needs to attain the Golden Fleece that is Retardation is to either keep your mouth partially ajar at all times, or just to be a black person in general. RETARDEDLY-awesome!
B) And here’s the obligatory (by this point, anyway) “Mother nursing her child during its college matriculation period” clip from my Senior Wetnurse Video Menagerie—my “Mammagerie,” perhaps? *Snicker*. Hope y'all forgive me for getting sick of writing here! Toodles!
Granted, the following doesn't compare to the ever-impending headline of “U.S.A. Attacks Iran As Ahmadinejad Proven To Be O.J. & Anna Nicole's Love Child,” global import-wise, but it’ll do... Over the weekend, I went to the local movie theatre and saw “Grindhouse,” the thusly-dubbed “double-feature” from indie director-turned-sellout, Robert Rodriguez, and sellout director-posing-indie plagiarist, Quentin Tarantino (shown below, displaying some of that completely-independently-GENIUS moxie he's so revered for). ____________________ ____________________
When the idea to attend the film first occurred to me, my rationale was two-fold:
1) I’d tangentially been exposed to rumblings through my daily, non-specific Internet browsing that the Rodriguez portion of the film involved zombies. I am a confessed zombiphile, and will, admittedly, rent even the STUPIDEST-looking crap the cult film rental boutique in Arcata has to offer if a zombie is even PICTURED on the DVD slipcase. Sometimes, this obsession bears sweet fruit (as in the case of the surprise gem, “Zombie Honeymoon”). Other times, the resultant fruit just constipates me.
(I thought the hour-and-a-half filmic colon blockage known as “I, Zombie” would NEVER end. Imagine it: The protagonist’s penis rots off after the first fifteen minutes, and he spends the next hour-and-fifteen sitting around in a ridiculously-obviously zombie mask whining about it and crying alone in his apartment over pictures of his girlfriend who was killed in the zombie attack which transpired under the opening credits—all while eating NO ONE, I might add!—entirely set to the cinematic tune of a director of photography who apparently cut his teeth, camera operation-wise, during the heyday of the BBC serially-televised production of “Dr. Who.” Breath-taking, to say the least!)
2) I possess an overpowering affectation toward researching in detail all that I despise. Call it a sort of “Know Your Enemy” leitmotif times a TRILLION. If I had to expound on this urge, I would probably say that my self-professed omniscience concerning everything even extends as far as that which I would never want to mentally cohabitate with, at least film-and-music-wise. Translation: If I have to talk shit about something—and I do… CONSTANTLY—then I have to, in the least, have some semblance of knowledge in the topic to, I GUESS, back my shit-talking up. Lest I’m proven wrong on something I could, otherwise, so easily prove myself RIGHT about, maybe? I don’t know. It’s a theory…
Regardless! The movie was, as expected, nothing mind-blowing. The Rodriguez half of the film, called “Planet Terror,” was actually fun in a "'Xena' Effect" sort of way.
[Tangent: "The 'Xena: Warrior Princess' Effect"—or the "'Xena' Effect," for short, for the uninitiated—occurs when the viewer takes delight in some form of visual entertainment, not so much in a manner that said entertainment DESERVES his/her delight, but in that the viewer’s mind inhabits a confused state somewhere between pity at the entertainment’s attempt and self-loathing at exposing and/or prolonging his/herself to the attempt in the FIRST place.
…
The presence of vaguely-closeted, sword-fighting lesbians always seems to lend a certain air of substantiation to the observance of this often-subjective phenomenon. End Tangent!]
“Planet Terror” was no “Dead Alive.” But it made a valiant effort toward such an end. “Death Proof,” the Tarantino half of the intended “B-movie” couplet, on the other hand, was complete mule guano. Whereas Rodriguez’s film functioned as a more apt homage to the shitty production values of ‘60’s and ‘70’s underground films—even insofar as digitally imitating grainy and skipping film stock and populating the film with nothing but willfully-awful dialogue—and therein functioned in the intended modality it confessed itself to be a tribute TO, Tarantino’s film was just… a Tarantino film. There were overly-arty camera movements; R&B “classics” ubiquitous as background scoring (rather than the obligatory semi-porno funk or Muzak-cum-country aural dreck that inhabits MOST cult films of the SUPPOSEDLY-evocated period); dialogue GALORE—what was the last B-movie you saw where four characters sat in a circle and discussed their private lives for 25 STRAIGHT MINUTES?!?!—and the standard operating procedure-by-this-point, trademark-Tarantino self-referentiality to his previous films. Even the film stock quality was pretty upper-crust, even by TODAY’S standards. ____________________ ____________________
However, by MY guesstimation, anyhow, the storyline was so outside the constraints of “dramatic, ‘legitimate’ storytelling,” as Tarantino has so happily earned plaudits for in the past, he probably felt the only way to pull such a showing off without completely losing face to the critical masses was to package it with another, less-than-serious film, slap a pretentious label of “an exercise in novelty” on it, and pawn it off on an unsuspecting, too-mainstream-to-know-better general audience as an “homage”—as if every SINGLE movie he’s ever made ISN’T an “homage” of some sort. Shall we do the list? Let’s!
1) “Reservoir Dogs”: “homage” to Hong Kong gangster movies. “Homage” being a pretty subjective term, when referencing a movie that was almost ENTIRELY based on a preceding one, plot elements and all.
2) “Pulp Fiction”: “homage” to too many films to even recount or convict the offending party on. For being culturally considered a touchstone film for the 20th and 21st centuries, this movie seems an awful lot like the final, filmic vindication of plagiarism when compared to the source elements for many of its scenes. Look it up if you have a couple of hours.
3) “Jackie Brown”: “homage” to blaxploitation films of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s. If Tarantino hadn’t based this movie on a pre-published novel, I would’ve presumed he’d just stolen said novel. He gets a semi-pass for this one, plagiarism-wise. It STILL sucks, though.
4) “Kill Bill”: “homage” to chopsocky films, Chinese Wuxia films in the mode of “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” spaghetti westerns, etc. Like “Pulp Fiction” before it, this is a practicum grimoire of plagiarism and plot element “sampling” (i.e. wholesale lifting of exactly-similar persons, events, costumes, names, etc.)
5) “Grindhouse”: for the first time in Tarantino’s ethically-bereft career, “homaging” is used as the actual supposed predicate behind the very existence of one of his films. And, true to Tarantino form, this is also the ONLY film in his oeuvre that isn’t really homage. How institutionally-retarded of him, no? ____________________ To be continued…
Here are two recent articles from The Onion—which I’m NOT an avid fan of, before you ask; I’ve just been over-bored lately, I guess (just ask my stockpile of ossified socks if you don’t believe me)—that summarily describe most of the activity that transpires on the Cunninglingust anti-blog at any given time. If one were to somehow take the multitude of letters that constitute these two titles, and rearrange them, anagram-style, they would probably come up with a subverted message pinpointing Cunninglinguyst’s desired purpose in existing… plus a bunch of well-strategized gibberish tantamount, basically, to pandering on my part toward the more lobularly-challenged members of my regular reading audience (MySpace users, I’m looking in YOUR Special Olympics-ing direction…): ____________________ 1) Man Who Plays Devil’s Advocate Really Just Wants To Be An Asshole ____________________ 2) College Senior Hopes To Turn Love Of Data Entry Into Career ____________________
On a pleasant side-note: The Onion are the FUCKS (!!!) that didn’t even bother to RESPOND to the “audition package” that I emailed their personnel department a few years previous; back when I was afresh of having just matriculated from university to Life, and still had some retarded semblance of “hope” in utilizing god-given talent for personal gain (i.e. garnering eventual celebrity-style immunity from repeated charges of domestic abuse). The job opening-in-question eventually went to, admittedly, an incredibly satirically-gifted young upstart writer named Orenthal James Simpson. Lucky bastard… You’ve probably heard of his latest hysterical magnum opus railing against “The Man”: ____________________ ____________________
Regardless! Judging from The Onion’s lackluster output of late, I would say my rejection from their ranks, and subsequent associated sodomy at the hands of the security staff of the Applebee’s in Eureka—during the whole Onion debacle’s depressive aftermath; that’s a DIFFERENT diary entry altogether, though—probably go a ways in tarnishing the joy they once experienced in continuing on with their pitiable little FARCE of a publication. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I would say these two articles are almost an attempted olive branch of sorts being extended in prostrate concession to MYSELF; an offering of conscience laid delicately in the palm of my triumphant and permanently-Applebee’s security staff-scented fists now held aloft to the heavens in supreme VICTORY!!!
[Five straight minutes of diabolically-convulsive laughter]
Which reminds me: Can anyone recommend a good antibacterial hand soap that’s reliable in deodorizing the smell of, say... a digested Chicken Quesadilla Grande? No particular reason, it's just, you know... [Mumble] Eatin' Good In The Neighborhood and all [murmur]...
BASTARDS! As those of the Cunninglinguyst readership intimate enough with me to engage in the occasional "conversation"—[shudder]—are probably well aware of by this point, my personal "take" on the institution of Television isn't one of even low-key half-admiration. I just flat-out HATE the shit. Granted, there are more than likely a FEW diamonds-in-the-rough lesser known to the puckering and flatulating abyss that is the mass television viewing audience—did I just hear someone whisper "Wonder Showzen"?—but, more often than NOT, even the shows demograph’d to be mass-construed as "maverick programming" are total crap. Take, for instance, "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart." ____________________ ____________________
Suffering a drawn-out, tormented, self-sustained, and terminal case of progressive suckiness the likes of which have only been PREVIOUSLY attained by the likes of Used-To-Be-Decent stalwart über-show "The Simpsons," The Daily Show is on a downward slide toward COMPLETE poop at a FRIGHTENING clip. I've long held this conceit, having been a previous micro-viewer of Stewart’s via the Comedy Central web site's video snippet library. That was LOOOOONG ago, however.
And now, I find as a side note on my daily perusal of Salon.com the following clip. Included on the news site as a strained attempt at confronting satirically-“risqué” material, the following video is supposedly newsworthy in that it has inspired fallout for Comedy Central the likes of which the network has rarely experienced previously. The following bit aired Monday, March 12. Watch and decide for yourself: ____________________
[UPDATE, 5/8/07: The clip-in-question has, quite suspiciously, been removed from The Daily Show website for reasons undeclared. Having been no doubt tipped off by this very entry while perusing the Cunninglinguyst site for future appropriable-and-broadcast-worthy comic GOLD (!!!), they made off with the evidence.
On a more REWARDING note, whilst typing the above update, I happened--in a slip of the wrist, typo-wise, to quite accidentally come upon the following discover: ((@))
Is that NOT the GREATEST typographical representation you've ever SEEN of the "feminine mystique" aka "the ol' greazy bloodhole" (for all the masculists in the Cunninglinguyst readership)? Well worth the video revocation, yeah? And yet, my apologies for not having source material from which to guage the qualities of the offending topic of this entry. Regardless, you'll just have to trust me on this one: The clip sucked.] ____________________
BEYOND the fact that Samantha Bee is just not funny since returning from her maternity leave--MY guess? That sidelined placenta of hers housed all her funny sauce--and that the visually-thematic underpinnings borrowed from "Inside Edition"-type programs get tired after the first MINUTE, have you noticed the SUBJECT? If you’re a regular Cunninglinguyst reader, you sure HAVE, I can tell you! Arrow me to leflesh you, lound-eye. Here’s O.G. Me, commenting on the lamentable coupling choices, and the existentially-pointless brood resultant of such ovular fruition, stemming from Hollywood celebrity parentage (in THIS case, between Gwyneth Paltrow and “that Coldplay retard”):
“…In all likelihood, we probably won’t have to worry about such an eventuality ever occurring, since they’ll probably never have another child of their own—what with the blossoming celebrity foreign adoption trade making such a killing of late. If you haven’t been made aware either purposefully or at media gunpoint, adopting underprivileged children from third world villages is the new en vogue ’thing.’ MALNOURISHED AFRICAN BABIES, IN PARTICULAR, SEEM TO BE THIS SEASON’S GUCCI HANDBAG. With their missing teeth, gout, and over-exposed ribs, they accessorize wonderfully with floral patterns, recreation attire, Kabbalah wrist-strings, or even a fading career as a pap culture icon. Some friend of Billy Corgan’s really ought to do the right thing by him, and turn him on to the practice…” [Emphasis mine] ____________________ [click for magnification] ____________________
This is not a transcript from the UNABRIDGED version of the clip you’ve just viewed, but rather an excerpt from a journal entry of mine entitled “¡Celebrity Miscellanea! ¡Olé! (Artículo Dos)” from OCTOBER 21, 2006! Not only is this now-recycled ([murmured]: …plagiarized…) joke worded almost EXACTLY like the Cunninglinguyst commentary FAR preceding it, but what the fuck TOOK them so long in propagating said blatant rip-off? Nevertheless! This is, in fact, not the FIRST instance of Daily Show-cum-Cunninglinguyst that I’ve observed, writing such past doppelgangerisms as “parallel thought.” It’s at least the THIRD—the last that I recall dealing with… Well, you’ve heard it BEFORE…
So, I’m aware of—but, unfortunately, not well-versed in—a copyright statute which states, to paraphrase, that material “published” by means of Internet display is considered as viable (i.e. recognized as legitimate, copyright-wise) as material published through more orthodox, Library of Congress-sorts of manners. So what do you think, folks? Should I sue their collective asses?
Hey! (Not) Speaking of deus ex machinas: “The Daily Show w/ Jon Stewart”? It SUCKS.
A Nader Automotive Group service writer, upon overhearing a video clip from a previous date’s posting on this very web site as it is being watched by another employee; a clip in which Andrés Segovia performs Mozart’s “Variations On A Theme” via the classical guitar: “I feel like I’m about to be ass-raped just LISTENING to this crap!”
Me: “What do you MEAN?”
Them: “Well, isn’t this that ‘Deliverance’ song with the banjos and whatnot?”
Me: “Wow! It’s INCREDIBLE how profoundly RETARDED you are…”
[The discouraged service employee leaves the office at this point, PRESUMABLY to attempt coitus with a service filing cabinet before becoming disinterested at its coyness and spending the next hour straight screaming gibberish at it instead.] ____________________
To play Michael Jackson Clue (!!!), one must have the following: 1) The board game Clue; 2) construction paper; and 3) FAR too much time on one’s hands
The rules of Michael Jackson Clue (!!!) are fairly simple. It is based, in structure, upon the “classic” board game entitled "Clue," which some of you may already have some familiarity with.
In the aforementioned "Clue," in order to win the game, players have to figure out the mystery of a murder by bringing certain “clues”--hence is derived the game’s name--involved in the crime together in the single proper grouping through trial-and-error deduction and the process of elimination. These clues include:
1) The Suspect (ex: Colonel Mustard, Madame Peacock, Professor Plum, etc.)
2) The Scene of the Crime (ex: The Lounge, The Study, The Kitchen, The Billiards Room, The Library, etc.)
3) The Weapon (ex: The Candlestick, The Wrench, The Noose, The Knife, etc.)
Were a player to successfully configure said clues into a correct combination, correctly making an “accusation”--rather than simply “suspecting” the elements involved, which would only allow one to further refine her/his elimination processes--to the other players aloud, he or she would, hypothetically, win. The format of the accusation would be phrased as such:
“I accuse PROFESSOR PLUM of the murder, in THE STUDY, with THE KNIFE.” ____________________ ____________________
Michael Jackson Clue (!!!) is no less simple, except the items--the “clues,” if you will--to be deduced and separated for accusation are altered slightly, in accordance with what Michael would do/has actually DONE in the past. The new categories are as such:
1) The Victim (ex: The 12 Year Old Boy, The 5 Year Old Boy, The 9 1/2 Year Old Boy, The Child Cadaver [aka The “Michael Was Desperate” Victim Card], The Snitch Neighbor Boy, The Adult Male [aka The “Big Little Boy”], & The Woman [aka The “Michael Plays Pretend” Victim Card], etc.
2) The Scene of the Crime (ex: The Llama Pen, The Studio, The Neverland Ranch Ferris Wheel Purposefully Stuck at the Top of Its Circumference by a Well-Paid Lackey, The “Wee Dungeon,” Tito’s Old Room, The McDonald’s Ball Pit, etc.
3) The Weapon (ex: The Elephant Man’s Bones, The Oxygen Chamber, The Triple-Platinum Record, The Sequined Glove, Bubbles the Chimpanzee, The Surgeon’s Mask, etc.)
The format of the slightly-revised accusation would therein be phrased as such:
“I accuse Michael Jackson of the pederasty of the 9 YEAR OLD BOY, in TITO'S OLD ROOM, with THE ELEPHANT MAN'S BONES.”
Beyond the refurbishing of the gaming board itself, and the cards to be chosen as clues, the only OTHER perceptible difference from the original Clue board game would be that the winner would THEN have to go through a lengthy criminal court proceeding, followed by multiple runs through the appellate courts after YEARS of stalled litigation on behest (and out of the pocket) of The Jackson Legal Team in order to prove the obvious validity of HIS [Note: No females of ANY kind can EVER "win"!!!] accusation.
Then the winner of Michael Jackson Clue (!!!) would be paid $50 million and would be shipped under a gag order to a Haitian island where he would, from time to time, be forced--most likely against his will--to take on more “clues” as the defendant saw fit... or whenever said defendant had a low-selling concert in the area, or made a complete JACKASS out of himself at an non-Michael Jackson-related awards ceremony which he attempted to direct toward HIMSELF, and needed a pick-me-up in morale.
And there you have it!!! Michael Jackson Clue!!! It couldn’t be simpler than THAT!!! ____________________ Note: "O.J. Simpson Clue" is just as easy--if not EASIER--of a game to appropriate for home play, though the goal is slightly altered. In "Clue: Juice," as I'm calling it, one needn’t any clues WHATSOEVER to detect the truth; simply the mental acumen of a cat box scooper and a pair of EYES to perceive the blood caked all OVER that filthy, murdering MURDERER!!! ...AND his vehicle... AND his clothes... and his property, golf clubs, and specially-crafted “I See Dead People... IN THE HONEYMOON SUITE!!!” novelty bumper sticker.
Wow. I'd heard tale--AND witnessed first-hand, actually, what with the ever-dwindling amount of [interesting/thought-requisite/longer-than-two-sentences] posts in my "Friends" page of late--that LiveJournal had an über-apathizing effect upon its user, but, until recently, I'd never fallen victim to such a side effect MYSELF. I guess I can no longer lay claim to such a statement. In light of work woes, issues of a more PERSONAL nature (e.g. being dumped by Pearl just about every other weekend for the past couple months or so), and actually ACCOMPLISHING something in the spectrum of creative expenditure--no matter HOW quaint and low-key--I've come to the realization that this site is really only efficacious and interesting for those persons who have absolutely NOTHING going on for themselves.
Now I'm not saying I'm suddenly Lindsay Lohan, social butterfly-wise. I COULDN'T be; I don't have a liver and/or cervix the consistency of tapioca, and I haven't taken part in the transmission of chancre sores--from EITHER end--to or from Paris Hilton... YET! ;)
What I AM saying is that I've recently become involved in something that will, hopefully, allow me to exorcise the kind of repressed energies I've been extolling on this site for the past year or so, only to a much more reader-involved and, thusly, SATISFYING degree. You guessed it: I've enrolled in a pornography film club! Just kidding. (As I, for some inexplicable reason, have to CONSTANTLY explain to my full-time girl-hole, Pearl Isis: If I WANTED to jerk off as a biorhythmically-meditative sort of exercise, I wouldn't purchase "VR-69" from the local Adult Emporium. I would just watch a certain five-minute scene involving voyeuristic handmaidens from "Caligula" on repeat. ____________________ ____________________
The difference, you may ask? "Caligula" is ART! Just ask Bob Guccione, co-director/producer/"writer" [of the XXX hardcore "art scenes" of the film, as clarification for all you art-desirous hep cats out there] and founder/publisher of world-renowned "art magazine," Penthouse! He'll tell you! [For the entire 45 mind-numbing minutes of the DVD's making-of featurette--backed, incidentally, by a late-'70's porno soundtrack, and surrounded by a backdrop of gratuitous-to-the-feature naked women, all while wearing a silk shirt unbuttoned to belly button-level--he'll TELL you, alright...]) ____________________ ____________________
A friend from Colorado and I have been attempting to publish my first book, actually.
Regardless! During the procedurals incumbent of such an undertaking, I've found that the excitement and prospective thrill of knowing for CERTAIN that my thoughts--INSIGHTS, really--are being propagated to actual, verifiable READERS has overshadowed the quasi-(at BEST)-prospectus of continuing in the LiveJournal writing vein, rendering the latter a fairly trivial pursuit. Thus my ostensible no-show within this hallowed URL for a while.
Aaaanywho... My Coloradan friend and I share the tandem task of finding like-minded illustrators to join us in our cult-ready literary escapades at present, so I can't say with any sort of determination that my reserved carriage as far as this anti-blog is concerned will radically alter any time SOON. However! I promise to check back in every now and again, to answer the über-odd Cunninglinguyst reader query/make respondents look like asses in public, and to post commentary when I'm jonesing so badly that even an evening of Caligulation won't dampen the screams of revulsion ricocheting off the insides of my skull like the clanks of Bob Guccione's giant, golden medallion smacking against his furry, moistened ribcage. Hoorah for Art! ____________________ ____________________
As a LiveJournal anti-abandonment "promise ring" of sorts [Translation: "I MIGHT be able to get a hotter chick sometime in the future, but for NOW..."], here's a little extra-special something for all the loyal-yet-silent Cunninglinguyst readers out there, a sneak preview of possible future infamy from the book-in-question my Bob Denver-loving comrade and I are attempting to reveal to the world en masse--our Super Bowl halftime pasty, if you will. The book, tentatively titled "Fæbles of the Ödd, Vol. I: The Prodigal Pariah," contains an Intermission section not directly dealing with the storyline implicit of the REST of the tome. Rather, the Intermission's subject is a matter whole unto him/itself; deserving of his/its own forum in which to be lampooned and ultimately forced into self-hatred and celebrity suicide: Michael Jackson.
Now, I KNOW one might say to themselves: "Michael Jackson's been done a MILLION times... And I'm not even talking about by CHILDREN!" I concede to this notion. But my take on him/it is SUBTLY different. I openly court Michael as an abomination fit to be EMBRACED during those rainy Sunday evenings when there isn't a decent flick to attend in service of Family Time, and mom and dad aren't psychologically warping their children to the degree in which Family Time is something that compels little Dicky and Janie Offspring into acts of self-mutilation like razoring their thighs, or listening to Fall Out Boy CDs in relative sincerity of appreciation for it as a musical form, or something SIMILARLY disgusting.
And the future Family Time staple which will one day sweep the globe in all its inspirational glory toward inter-generational unity IS... ____________________ To be continued...
It turns out that, after all the hullabaloo that I was stirring up concerning what a waste of DNA Anna Nicole Smith was/most definitely IS (!), there has come to light some damning public evidence to the (however-unlikely) CONTRARY effect. BEHOLD! The following video clip... Incontrovertible PROOF that, after all was said and done (or, speculatively, "slurred and self-medicated-into-premature-Bimbo-Valhalla"; whichever you prefer), Anna Nicole Smith was, in actuality, truly the "Candle In The Wind (Jr.)" that everyone--most vocally, HERSELF--claimed her to be.
The following I display in this forum as A) a concession-of-sorts for my one-time inaccuracy, and B) as a final LiveJournal reminiscence of that very figurative wannabe-candle who, inexplicably, managed somehow to defy the odds and, like the Bad News Bears, overcome adversity (and virtual narrative OMNISCIENCE) to prove the naysayers wrong/die a retarded death in a Hard Rock Cafe & Casino hotel room in Florida. So here's to the wannabe-candle! That beautiful, BEAUTIFUL... methadone-chugging, son-humping, pathologically breast-enhancing, letting-everyone-and-their-celebrity-DOG-cum-inside-her-just-months-before-announcing-her-second-pregnancy'ing wannabe-candle.
Watch this clip... in remembrance of her:
Boy! I AM ashamed...
At this point, I'd like to register a grief-stricken plea to all my Cunninglinguyst regulars: Let's be big about this, can we, people? Let's NOT hold this über-anomalous, so-called "admission of error" over my head for eternity, can we? I'm still unfailingly correct concerning absolutely everything ELSE I've ever written about, spoken of, or even exercised THOUGHT on! Trust me on this one, huh? Do a humble narrator/all-knowing, self-professed demigod a solid, yeah? Okay, then...
Phew! I knew I could count on y'all. You're the bestest friends who never respond to me EVER! Until the next unrequited display of supreme infallibility, then? Great! Seeya then! Toodles, mes amis! ____________________ Post-Script: And no, I won't be taking advantage of this "Celebritard Hussy Wastes, Redux" moment to pontificate on the carbon-copied fate now, seemingly, befalling Britney Spears. Granted, Britney--like Anna Nicole Smith--was, is, and probably always WILL be a retarded waste of DNA until the day she dies and I do a celebratory Moonwalk. Fair enough.
But you MUST realize something crucial. There's another, less-OBVIOUS angle to this inbuilt prejudice of mine, and it is this: BRITNEY never had giant tits. Which... APPARENTLY... are the two primary deciding factors delineating such wastes of DNA as are adjudicated by myself as being either "reflection-worthy", or, conversely, being classified as "passable". Poor B(-cup)ritney is, unfortunately, most certainly the LATTER... ____________________ POST-Post-Script: Make no mistake, though: I will STILL do a celebratory Moonwalk when Britney Spears dies her respectively-pathetic celebrity death. To wit: My white sequined glove stands at the ready, ceremoniously displayed on an altar at home that was specially-constructed--carved out of solid marble, no less; spare no expense!--for just such a contingency. So! Cross your glittering fingers for me and Britney, would ya? Appreciation!
Jesus FUCK!!! (I’ve ALWAYS wanted to start a posting out that way…)
The situation actually gets WORSE, if you can believe it! The “genius” behind this conceptual turd, Rhys Chatham (pictured below in all his mulleted glory), has an oeuvre not dissimilar in compositional breadth stretching well into the past. He’s made a LIVING at this type of thing! He’s like, RICH! I REALLY can't decide whom I despise MORE: The kind of people who come UP with this stuff, or the "art-collecting" MONGOLOIDS who shell out hundreds of millions annually (and, in doing so, lend creedence to the philosophy that such outlets are legitimate forms of art)... But I guess that's an entry for ANOTHER time. Getting back to "the artist": You should hear his crap, you really should. Two-thirds of it is likewise amusical laziness finagled onto the self-fashioned “next generation” critical mass as a genre called “post-minimalism” (aka “next-to-nothing”). The OTHER third is jangle-pop sound-feces the like of… Jesus, god… All I can think to compare it to is that “Kiss Me” song by that Christian-pop group, Sixpence None the Richer.
[Post-Script: YES, I had to look that band’s name up on AllMusic, bastards.]
Seriously, it sucks THAT badly. And, mind you, with this sort of leitmotif covering ALL the instrumental bases for this immusical jackass, he STILL has the Cojones Rancheros to refer to himself as a “composer”. Wow. I guess that would sort of, by default, make Wesley Willis the next Beethoven, yeah? (Willis, incidentally, has ALSO been cited as “a visionary genius” by, among MANY other musical luminaries, Jello Biafra, Perry Farrell, and fellow borderline-retarded Bush [HOPEFULLY] ex-frontman Gavin Rossdale, if that’s any consolation to all of Wesley’s innumerable fans reading this LiveJournal as to his inclusion in “The DERNTH! Pantheon” of artists I discuss in this entry.
R.I.P., Wesley. And hey, fella: Be sure to whip the grim reaper’s ass—or, while you’re at it, make him taste a donkey’s cock, as you’re such a enthusiast of doing to, according to your lyrics, nearly EVERYONE—while you’re in retard purgatory, won’t you?).
…
Jeez, all this syrupy sentimentality made me lose my train of thought. Where was I...?
Oh, yeah! Rhys Chatham and others in the conceptual vein of “art” sucking so incredibly! They DO! And no amount of three-hour, five-note “magnum opuses”; nor elephant dung-cobbled canvas “masterpieces”; nor even Björk gagging over the backing score as she and her petroleum jelly-obsessed boyfriend dress up like seashell Japs and cut bits of each other’s flesh off to reveal the wondrous, WONDROUS sperm whales hidden beneath will convince me OTHERWISE. And WHY, you may ask…
Simple: Concepts are trite and easily toppled. Now HATRED! That’s where it’s at! Make all the philosophical advancements you want, Society, but you’ll NEVER be able to top the single-handed monolithic social achievement behind a pronouncement like, say… hating ALL gays during a professional basketball-related interview! Now THAT’S hot (sorry for the trademark infringement, Paris)! Substituting philosophical gobbledy-gook for actual TALENT may be a lucrative trade these days, but it will NEVER outlast bigotry. That’s why everyone I know—men INCLUDED—want to screw Sean Hannity. Take, for instance, the following:
HahaHAAAAA!!! TOO easy! Not only is the guy a FRUIT, but he’s ALSO a SPIC! Man, his parents just WALTZED into THAT one, didn’t they?! Jeezum POST, guy! Did you hear the way the audience was laughing at the ridiculousness of his very EXISTENCE? It’s like they were a couple inches shy of just straight LYNCHING the wop! You could practically hear them gathering up their hoods and pitchforks and torches and shit right where they were sitting. It’s a good thing he’s in outer space, boldly going where no faggot kike like HIM has gone before, or you could be rest assured he’d get it but GOOD!
[Laughing manically]
…
…
…
Eeeee… MERCY! [Winding-down laughter] Aaaanyway… Rhys Chatham, you suck.
I was preparing to go to bed the other night (i.e. I was getting DECADENTLY naked; interpret that how you will…), and happened to have the little radio alarm clock next to the bed turned on, just as a sort of “soundtrack” to the nightly ceremonial burlesque I perform for my kitty during the nudification process (the mood has to be JUST right for her to loosen up enough and really make with the Benjamins slipped under my garter straps and all that jazz). Regardless! The radio is generally affixed to the local independent station, as they not only A) have theme shows far out-contrasting, in stylistic diversity, the mundanity of the more syndicated spectrum of shows—Rick Dees, will you just fucking DIE already? PLEASE?!—but also B) serve as the carrier station for the NPR programming that I prefer to wake up to in the mornings. Nothing says “Celebrate a brand new day!” quite like hearing the news that the nation of Israel is still being a triumphant whiny ASSHOLE (!), or that those pesky Sudanese are FINALLY getting their comeuppance for producing Denzel Washington’s genetic line. Go get ‘em, Sudanese! Teach those Sudanese a lesson they’ll/you'll NEVER forget!!!
Anywho! The show fated to be airing at that particular moment was some sort of ill-conceived, no doubt BEATNIK-produced “experimental” hour of crap so incredibly unconstructed in form and GENERIC, it probably couldn’t find a home integrated with the other, more thematically-based material composing the REST of the scheduled day’s programming—even in such über-generic company as house, rave, drum ‘n’ bass, or techno programs. Which reminds me… ____________________ ____________________
“House of the 12-Inch Circle”: You… SUCK. Please pull your head out of Queer London’s ass, and kill yourself in a highly-publicized erotic double-suicide with Rick Dees. It’ll be the best thing either of you have ever done… But back to the story at hand:
I was HORRIFIED to hear a “song” consisting of, maybe, a triad of notes at MOST being droned over the course of—no joke/hyperbole here—about FIVE… MINUTES, before changing to a different, equally unimpressively-played triad for ANOTHER five. As I stood in half-naked shock, my Tabamese surreptitiously sidled across the bedspread to my evermore-drooping shame now parallel to the bedframe to venture cautious licks to my exposed and astonishment-frozen scrotum. I wanted DESPERATELY to stop the inane garbage littering my subconscious, but I was also, strangely, mesmerized. This couldn’t POSSIBLY continue in this vein, could it? This MUST be a sort of lulling, half-joke of a divergence from otherwise-dynamic music; making the lull even MORE dynamic in contrast, right?
It wasn’t. Eventually, the program’s DJ had to resort to OVER-THE-TRACK announcement of the song and album titles, as there was no break in the “song’s” continuity of AWFUL (!!!) in order to OTHERWISE make such declarations. There weren’t even the requisite commercial breaks. In total—from the moment I turned the program on, until the point when the song finally concluded in tandem with the close of the program presenting it—the song lasted 29 MINUTES. For those of you readers out there of an actuarial bent, that’s about 6 chord changes TOTAL.
At random points throughout the debacle—I was completely nude by this point, mind you; Pontóuf (the aforementioned kitty) taking advantage of my despondent face-down-in-a-pillow pose by moving her licking vigil to the jointed structure formed by the convergence of the back of my thigh and my buttock—I somehow found the resolve to turn the radio off, complaining voraciously of the horribility of the music to my repository-for-gripes, Pearl Isis. By THAT point, however, I was too unconsciously entranced to turn back. Like a passerby observing an El Camino-full of rednecks thrown from the wreckage and splattered across the interstate—their mouths still firmly affixed in a death mask of pre-demise delight to their siblings’ genitalia—I just couldn’t look away…
Through some instinctual reservation of auxiliary lucid thought, I managed to peripherally pick out a bit of the track’s title: “400 Electric Guitars [Something-Or-Other…]”. Upon later Internet investigation, I sussed out the remainder of the information I’d been too guffawed to eek out DURING the aural debacle, and learned the background behind the atrocity. The “piece” [wink, wink, grunt, grunt (if you catch what just fell out of me)] was entitled “A Crimson Grail (For 400 Electric Guitars)”, written by some prince-among-mongoloids I was, previous the incident, unfamiliar with named Rhys Chatham. What to say about ol’ Rhys? Well, to start: His grip on musical composition gives Down syndrome paragon Chris Burke (of “Life Goes On” fame) a run for his retarded money, in all seriousness. For example: ____________________ ____________________
“A Crimson Grail” is, essentially, a live “composition” wherein 400 guitarists gathered in an amphitheatre and played the exact same super-slow progression of tri-tones through electric compression of the e-bow variety [Note: An e-bow, by the way, is an electronic gadget that allows for synthesization of bowing on instruments USUALLY requiring plectrums, for those not “in the guitar effects loop”] at the 2005 Nuit Blanche Festival in Paris, France—a “composition”, mind you, which was COMMISSIONED (?!) by the City of Paris, no less! The piece in its entirety is almost an HOUR of similar sloth-like chordal shifts supposedly representing evolution, transcendence, and, I suppose, OTHER philosophical bollocks that requires one year or less of practice on the electric guitar to reproduce sonically… ____________________ To be continued...
After having actually taken the requisite time to post on this site about the death of Anna Nicole Smith, which seems a bit to me like someone raping THEMSELVES, figuratively-speaking, AND having nothing of substance to wax UN-retarded about in the meantime, here’s a quickie that I’m rationalizing to myself as being dedicated toward the end of cleansing my LiveJournal palate—rather than the more OBVIOUS explanations of A) pure laziness, and/or B) disenfranchisement with an expressive outlet, the “expressive” element of which is nullified by the fact that no one ever visits this site.
So! In the interests of well-manicured states of denial, I at LEAST endeavored to choose some media that I felt a certain actual kinship with. And, being that my professional ladyfriend and I have been more and more getting into the scenic rejuvenation mode (aka the “Let’s get the fuck out of hippie Dodge!” mode), and our tentative moving plans seem to be aimed Seattle-way, the thought of finally getting back into musical performance struck me. Hence! Here are two sources of pretty constant musical admiration from myself: Andrés Segovia and The Jesus Lizard.
While I enjoy both thoroughly, I must admit their mutually-enjoyed status is quite disparate. Andrés Segovia is a certifiable INFLUENCE on my own guitar stylistics, while I simply discovered (somewhat past my “ingestive prime,” technique-wise) The Jesus Lizard after-the-fact, and very strongly agree with their aural approach. It’s ALMOST like I heard a whole slew of their songs in some unconsciously-rendered condition, appreciated it but took no conscious notice during parallel technical study of similar OTHER groups, and RE-ingratiated myself into them at a later date. Either way, both acts represent core constituencies of what I would, one day, like my own musical offering to sound like.
If I were forced, upon pain of reading further Anna Nicole Smith developments, to throw a preliminary guesstimate out into the ether as to what said future “project” might aurally sound like, in its most distilled and generic description (for those who are interested), I’d probably say the following:
Segovia The Jesus Lizard TOOL (when they DIDN’T suck) Hendrix (...plus “Angel Dust”-era Faith No More, Primus, Enya, The Dillinger Escape Plan [sans the vocals, naturally], and DannyElfmanTheatricalScoresPanteraFrankZappaAnd16thCenturyACappellaPolyphonicMadrigals)
Fairly generic… Regardless! Here, in their elementally-disparate presentations, is half—give or take—of said future über-group’s signature sound. Until I get the motivation back to begin tweaking the evermore-static nature of this anti-blog, I hope this will be entry enough to allay the creeping apathy those two-to-four of you diehard Cunninglinguyst readers must be experiencing, lo’ these last few lean weeks of non-updatage. And if it DOESN’T? Blame Anna Nicole. A societally-dystopic retardation critic is nothing without his foil…
I don’t want to spend too much thought or effort confronting this matter, as there are PLENTY of unintentionally-hilarious/overly-“sincere” broadcast tributes to this hot corpse plastered all over every square inch of EVERYTHING lately to be topped, retardation-wise. So! Just a quickie, beginning with this clip of, APPARENTLY, a magnificent TRIUMPH of the indomitable human spirit snuffed out premature its expiration date:
Isn’t that AWESOME in its inspirational scope? I know it kind of single-handedly convinced ME to never become a one-dimensional, pill-popping, gibberish-slurring, celebrity-craving quasi-prostitute on a nationally-televised awards show held exclusively for artists who certifiably suck ass.
[Wiping brow in relief] Phew! THAT was a close one...
The über-clichéd phrase I continue being aurally violated with concerning Anna Nicole’s demise—I don’t watch television, mind you; yet I STILL find myself unable to escape this sort of propagandist bollocks—is this maudlin tripe that it was “a tragedy” of some sort. Seriously… I’ve experienced more significant “tragedies” in my life in the form of pesto stains on my cat claw-frayed, Technicolor sectional couch. Granted, my couch doesn’t have ridiculously-augmented mammary glands and a dispensation toward sensationalist-loving public displays of chemical dependency, but then again… Nothing’s perfect, right? However! My couch IS a slut. Just ask my purple-faced Tabamese (who straight turns that muthah OUT [!] on a nearly hourly basis).
As my parting farewell to the tragedy of celebrity fawning that is Pap Culture’s idiotic celebration of famousness for famousness’ sake—culminated in their affected presiding-over of a peroxide do-nothing’s unremarkable turn as big-name maggot food—here’s a pic (from tabloid culture pioneers TMZ, no less; ooh, the delicious, big-breasted irony…) of the inside of Anna Nicole Smith’s refrigerator, taken posthumously by someone-or-another.
[click for magnification]
I WILL say this: Anna Nicole WAS a stalwart example OF and martyr FOR the pop-obsessed sensibilities of her day—a Joan of Arc, if you will, for the ditzy tramp jet set. Notice, if you will, the handy-dandy, “on-the-go” bottles of Slim-Fast on the shelf just above the vials of barbiturates and economy-sized JUG of methadone.
A dope fiend; but a PRICE-CONSCIOUS dope fiend, nonetheless. Wal-Mart of the Bahamas will miss her, I’m sure… Especially their opiates department (just to the left of the sporting department, if I remember correctly from my last shopping trip/crazed scavenger hunt for a fix).
[Taking a hit in remembrance]
R.I.P., Arma Berscholen Smernth! You werenza frickin' GEEEENIUSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! Now! Where diddunz my WAFFLES durnta?!?! GRA-RUARGHGHGH!!!
BEHOLD!!! Further proof, which I learned of only MOMENTS ago from coworkers, of a certain indisputable FACT that I’ve consistently touted (even in unrelated social situations in über-non-sequitur fashion); one that I’ve virtually adopted as my personal MOTTO regarding the institution of Life en totale.
[Shaking my head side-to-side in disgust, as if to pantomime the word “No,” or maybe even "Uh-uh"]
If only Life had been “with it” enough to have ALREADY acknowledged my prescient philosophical acumen, and to have publicly coronated me, as it SHOULD have, with the official designate “Superordinate Tastemaker for the Milky Way Galaxy (Including Wyoming)”. Stupid f**king Life…
Anywho! The recently-reaffirmed factoid-in-question?
Wrestling is THE… GAYEST (!!!) “sport” ever foisted upon an unsuspecting public since, well… the aggrievedly-bygone “Golden Era” of golf. To wit: Here's, literally, the UN-GAYEST picture I could find within the ENTIRETY of the Google image archives using strictly the search criterion of "wrestling": ____________________ ____________________
Coincidence? There's an old adage that goes: "The proof is in the pudding"--not to sound too WRESTLER or anything (*girlish giggle*). I would say that, as far as classic analogies go, this "sport" has the aforementioned proverbial PUDDING smeared all over its glistening, well-muscled tokus. [Shuddering in delight]
[Tangent: Whatever HAPPENED to "golf," anyway? Was Tiger Woods ever acquitted of those charges of sodomizing Ernie Els during the Tour de France? Did the game ever RECOVER from the gaffe? I only ask as I haven't watched television in nearly five years, and have become, lamentably, pretty out-of-touch with the sports world and its rampant-but-subverted overtures toward social expressions of physical deviance--"The Homosexual Golfing Agenda," if you will. I must admit, though: Curiosity have I (interpret that phrase how you will)...]
I must confess that even as I consider myself none-too-inclined toward frenzies of homophobia, I’ve STILL always held reservations concerning ANY recreational activity so supposedly-MASCULINE, yet integrating, in an AFFIRMATIONAL pretext, such homoerotic jargon as “riding time”. Just as a parallel example of ANOTHER extracurricular activity utizing such "manly (-on-manly)" terminology: Bull riding. Wow, is that sport ever QUEER! Ah, well! ¡C’est la vie! Right?
I suppose I COULD expend MORE analytical vigor on this subject, but I think, rather, I'll just go to the bathroom for five minutes or so for no topically-related reason INSTEAD. I guess you didn't really need to know that, as it's not pertinent whatsoever, but ah well... ¡C’est la vie! Right? ____________________ ____________________
Disclaimer: No offense through the presentation of this entry was intended or should be inferred by any LEGITIMATELY-homosexual wrestling fanatics presently reading (i.e. enthusiasts of either the Greco-Roman style of wrestling, or WWE exhibitions in GENERAL). Keep on keepin’ on, you gladiatorially-bemulleted little minxes, you!
The toddler, apparently feeling excluded from Family Lactation Time, began SQUEALING and banging his WHOLE BODY against the postal employees-customer partition, going—to use the diagnostic vernacular as prescribed by the DSM IV-TR—“apeshit”. I myself being a greenhorn, as it were, in the paternity department— ____________________ [Tangent! The following represents the latest tally of my "Reproduction Scorecard":
Miscarriage/Clinical Abortion/German-Exported Morning After Pill (This WAS the early, un-swingin’ 2000’s, you must understand! *Snicker*)/Self-Induced Miscarriage via the Utilization of GIANT Quantities of Hard Liqueurs and the Illegal Hashish-Drug as an Abortifacient: 4!
God: 0! Updates as time and boxer shorts usage warrant! End Tangent!] ____________________
—I couldn’t for the life of me fathom HOW the nursing mother would EVER pull herself out of the parental quagmire she now faced, given such otherwise insurmountably-dicey conditions. I guess it just goes to show you: If you prize your free time enough to flout the overpopulation-necessitating Will of God, you’re limiting yourself in INCALCULABLE ways, problem solving-wise. Evidence of this fact: Without missing a beat, the young woman sat the baby down on the patron-employee divider, pulled her adult anime-style breast from its mouth, and bent down to pull the still-shrieking 3-year-old up to be seated alongside its younger sibling. Having previously dispelled, in gymnastic fashion, any possibility of encountering any prospective breast-encumbering brassiere or similar apparatus with which to contend, the young woman scooted the newborn and the tot as close together as was possible given their blustering, and—you guessed it—slid her remaining shoulder strap to a hanging position at her underarm.
She then observed what I—in a manner conducive with the scant amount of contact with athletics aphorisms I’ve had over the course of my self-emasculated lifespan—would ignorantly describe as a “jogger’s cool-down” approach to t-shirt self-adornment (i.e. she lifted the ENTIRETY of the front of her garment OVER HER HEAD, keeping her arms within the shirtsleeves, and pushing the REMAINDER of the garment behind her neck for safe-keeping and later, easy restoration)—LEAVING HER entire ABDOMEN AND THORAX completely EXPOSED. For those of you who haven’t kept… “abreast” [wink, wink; nudge, nudge; retard, retard]… of their 9th grade biology terminology, this means the majestic appearance of HOOTERS, people!!! Completely-naked BIGGUNS, to quote the Iowan lexicon. She then took both children—one hand per developmental generation—by the back of their respective heads, and plunged their faces into the respectively-situated teat(s), at which point they began loudly sucking away in concert. ____________________ ____________________
While, granted, the act WAS successful in mitigating the shrieking of both children concurrently, it ALSO had the consequent ADDENDUM effect of rendering a mindless, dreadlocked Penthouse über-archetype TOPLESS in a mid-day municipal—and presently quite HECTIC—forum for all to casually ogle to their hearts’ (and other, more below-the-equator organs’) content.
And ogle they DID… While this marvelous spectacle—this feat of breastidigitation, if you prefer—was transpiring on the opposite end of the virtual hobbit hole-of-an-edifice proposed by the post office interior, the vantage point from which I was caught in the hopeless cycle of avert-avert-GAWK (!!!), avert-avert-GAWK (!!!), there were other, even MORE prurient performances taking place at the opposing pole of the confining enclosure just NEXT to me.
While many in the congregated throng were probably content, in all deference to the Law of Ratios, to mentally project themselves into the daydream role as situational surrogate to one or BOTH of the breastfeeding infants—present narrative company unconsciously very much included—there were OTHERS (e.g. the Silent Bob doppelganger standing just to my right) who, evidently, considered such an episode no sort of occasion in which to err on the side of diplomacy.
INSTANTLY—and with no due discretion as to the immodest objective OF such an action—the trenchcoat-clad mongoloid hurriedly crammed both hands into their respective trenchcoat pockets, and began a frenzied attempt at over-the-clothing masturbation (?).
Needless to say, I was a bit conflicted as to which socially-retarded exhibition to train my horrified gaze upon.
With “Debbie Does Parcel Certified-Registered” happening to my left, and a fabric-rubbing aural blitzkrieg accompanied by ridiculously over-apparent/under-the-breath exhortations of “Yeah… GET her…”—that’s a QUOTE, mind you—going on to my RIGHT, I was eventually driven down the attention deficit-imbued path of greater concentrative valour, and settled on the tits. After all, I’d worked in a care home for retarded persons, attended a liberal arts college, AND was a male human in its mid-20’s… I was PLENTY familiar with scenes of whacking off.
On the OTHER… “hand” (*Swoon!* Yet another triumph of South Park humour at its finest/most retarded, yeah?)… it’s not every day one is granted the good fortune to witness a live scene of the mammarian caliber (36 EE, if I—OR, failing MY guesstimation accuracy, that of the measurements I’m CONSTANTLY taking and RE-taking off the double-life-sized monument capturing the blessed event for all posterity that I’ve erected as an en honorarium SHRINE in my living room—am not mistaken) in such a public venue. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure I made the right choice. It WOULD be MUCH harder to jerk off thinking about the guy in the overcoat… ____________________ ____________________
On the neXXXt THRILLING installment of “Tales from the Hippie Mecca of the Known World”: I recount, in graphic detail, the annals of my inadvertent introduction to the amazing world of bukkake at the local Arcata Kinko’s. Se(m)e(n) ya then!!!
It just occurred to me as I was sitting here in my lushly-upholstered Cashier’s Office swiveling chair with one armrest missing, sliding uneasily back and forth in front of my Army Surplus-circa-1948 desk—the uneasy slide-in-question due the permanently-skewed rightward declination of the aforementioned lushly-upholstered swiveling chair’s SEAT—that for all my pomp and high-falutin’ self-carriage concerning the inanity of the world exterior my direct influence, I’ve relayed almost NOTHING about the microcosm-of-f**ked-upedness that is the present locale I DO personally associate with: Arcata! It’s about time, I’d say. And as I really don’t feel like working at this moment ANYWAY, I would wager the opinion that timing and a general goldbricking demeanor have synched up fairly nicely on this occasion.
Regardless! Here’s a story that, essentially, covers all the socioanthropological bases one could ever hope or WANT to absorb concerning the coven of deviancy that is Arcata, CA. And keep in mind during the subsequent read: The sort of activity summarily described herein is the COMMON modus operandi of your average Arcatan. For instance, the following: ____________________ ____________________
[Note: At SOME point, I may actually take the time to combine all the weirdly-precious moments I’ve experienced here—simply by virtue of standing in various lines, shopping for groceries, or attempting to drive around the perpetually twacked-out-of-his-mind-on-LSD guy who smashes eggs after “losing” shouting matches to them in the middle of a normatively-busy downtown intersection—into a compendium of sorts for possible later publication, but, until THEN... This’ll have to do, I guess. Enjoy!] ____________________
When Pearl and I first moved to Arcata—as I’m sure is the unremarkable case in a move ANYWHERE involving ANYONE—we found our first few months basically preoccupied by the usual bureaucratic nonsense: changing mailing addresses, finding new banking systems, signing sundry documents concerning living arrangements, endless DMV whathaveyou, etc. Pretty boring stuff. Of these tasks, getting our bearings concerning the topography and setup of the business district was deemed a priority.
During one of my first solitary forays into Arcata as a new resident, I perchance’d into the local post office. Silently bemusing to myself at the local inhabitants’ seemingly-synchronized “ensembles” [Post-Script: Mentally pronounce this word “on-SOMS,” if you REALLY want to experience a flavor of the “Panhandler Chic”-infused atmosphere which overwhelmingly pervaded the event I describe (*Teacup pinky UP*)] appearing as though they’d been communally pilfered from the same wardrobe filled with stained overalls, 70’s-era curtains-turned-over-the-pants skirts, and dreadlock perming solution, I happened to noticed a young, incredibly-attractive woman bearing a similar flair for high fashion, obliviously cutting to the head of the inordinately-long-and-slow-moving line, two braying children in tow.
Perhaps because of her physical moxie, the sympathetic aura generated in those environmentally-peripheral her due the annoying infants, the psychotropically-pacified disposition of the town’s general citizenry, or maybe even due a COMBINATION of all three, no one interjected in the LEAST at her social bravura. The post office personnel seemed to experience a similar strain of empathy, as one from their ranks IMMEDIATELY closed in to assist her at an area of the desk otherwise—under more organized, CIVIL conditions—serving no practical purpose.
Call it my trend toward negativity concerning social issues, or my genetically-Iowegian predisposition toward an appreciation of Midwestern leisure activities like road rage, postal machine gun rampages, or WHATEVER, but I felt a stirring within my bosom—which was, mind you, nowhere NEAR as RIDICULOUSLY-ample as the aforementioned young mother’s (picture Anna Nicole Smith just subsequent her second-or-so celebratory breast augmentation after having reached her third uneventful trimester of pregnancy, and you’re probably pretty close to the aesthetic mark/areola)—a feeling of having played unwitting victim to figurative golden showers of lack in etiquette. I ALMOST felt like pulling a New Jersey-esque “back’a’da line” on the unfortunate woman and her brood at that point.
Then… well… “Certain events,” shall we say, unfolded, interrupting my burgeoning sense of righteous indignation.
The wailing kids (one, apparently just recently-born; the other—conservatively estimating by its vocalization ability and acquired degree of motility—being probably 3 years old or so) became even LOUDER and, seemingly, impossibly MORE obnoxious. The young woman, for the first time during the entire debacle showing some semblance of decorum, apologized to the postal attendant and the newly-acknowledged line constituency for the ruckus, citing a lack of breakfast for the two infants. Then, performing an act nothing short of what COULD be construed as modern-day domestic acrobatics, the woman—holding the baby in one arm—slipped one OshKosh B’Gosh strap off her shoulder and under her arm, simultaneously lifting her (most likely; recall eludes me, given the circumstances) tie-dyed t-shirt to disclose a unfeasibly-perky BEHEMOTH of a mammary gland, the rosy epicenter of which she not-so-gracefully smashed against the mouth of the warbling baby, quelling its screaming in lieu of voracious suckling. ____________________ ____________________
Now, I’m no Puritan. I would consider myself reasonably conscious concerning social progressions of acceptability and personal modesty and all that ever-evolving jazz. In fact, while I MAY often find things ridiculously amusing/retarded, unless something encroaches upon my OWN ability to be just AS—if not MORESO—ridiculously amusing/retarded, I generally don’t CARE what other people do at ALL. So, while mildly piqued at the exposed breast (mentally ONLY, I’m sure; gentlemen don’t get extracurricularly aroused), I wasn’t aghast or mortified whatsoever. Arcata had NOTHING on me! And after all, it wasn’t as if the two were putting on a mother-and-child burlesque show, or the hippie Madonna was squirting the patient public with her sugary treasure. She was just doing her civic, culturally-feminist, free-to-be-you-and-me duty…
Then the unspeakable happened. ____________________ To be continued...
I realize there has already been a pretty sizable confluence of critical thought on the Internet surrounding the following video (which was granted wide public scrutiny sometime around the middle of October of 2006), but I would feel remiss were I not to include it, regardless—even in such BELATED a fashion—on my LiveJournal. Hopefully, there are at least a FEW of you out there who haven’t seen this thing yet; a possibility which MAY go a ways in counteracting my Johnny-Come-Lately status in the dissemination of this GLORIOUS bellwether of social retardation. Seriously, this video gives even the legendary Tony Meier—for those of you who knew the man BEFORE the A&E biopic was released internationally, that is—a run for his “SR” money.
You really MUST believe me when I say that I’m not exaggerating whatsoever concerning the following critique: This… is… AWESOMELY-retarded! I’ve never seen anything quite like it, really.
Now, NORMALLY, the Cunninglinguyst reader would be treated to some sort of accompanying snark concerning the unheralded stupidity of any graphics/video material referenced on this site. However, in THIS instance, the material BEING referenced seems to MORE than speak for itself quite effectively on such a score. Anything I might say about this video would only serve to “ruin the surprise,” and maybe dampen any expectancy for what this video will doubtless arouse in its audience-caught-unawares. After all, with something THIS tremendous, I don’t want to “Crying Game” the whole affair (à la the late, great film critic [and late, NOT-so-great brain tumor survivor], Gene Siskel).
However, I’ve come to the realization that just showing a video with no introductory statement would ALSO be a bit silly. So, as a compromise, I’ll just include some background information on the “star” of the video, Aleksey Vayner, taken directly from the Internet (the link to his Wikipedia listing—for the more “industrious” Cunninglinguyst readers out there—located here), and will say only that the video-in-question was intended—SERIOUSLY—to function as part of Vayner’s “resume” that he sent to a Swiss financial conglomerate for prospectus as a new hire upon his matriculation from college.
Without further spoiling the revelatory nature of the video, here are some anecdotal snippets of information once purveyed BY Mr. Vayner regarding HIMSELF to others at Yale (the university he attended before his present infamy forced a resignation premature his graduation)—and LONG before, mind you, he’d ever unwittingly relegated himself to a notorious and indivisible association with the following clip. He had previously claimed that:
1) He is one of FOUR people in the state of Connecticut qualified to handle nuclear waste. 2) He was employed by both the Mafia AND the CIA during his CHILDHOOD. 3) He gave tennis lessons to Harrison Ford, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and Jerry Seinfeld. He further claims to have won two games in a tennis match against Pete Sampras. 4) He is a specialist in "Chinese orthopedic massage". 5) The Dalai Lama wrote his college recommendation. 6) He has killed two dozen men in Tibetan gladiatorial contests. 7) He was "an action star, an espionage expert, AND a professional athlete. He would be on the CIA firing range one day and at a martial-arts competition that took place in a secret system of tunnels underneath Woodstock, New York the NEXT."
Isn’t that AWESOME?! As you may have noticed, my usual grasp of synonymization has been rendered noticeably stymied in the face of such extraordinarily-retarded fare. I feel, to a slightly divergent degree, like Michael Hutchence, former INXS vocalist-turned-tragic erotic asphyxiation statistic, as I’m, APPARENTLY, in love with what kills me (…well, VERBIAGE-wise, anyway)! And in contribution to that end, I squeal in my best faux-Australian accent:
“Bring on the harness, the anal beads, and the KY lubricant! This video is TRULY…
…
…AWESOMELY-retarded! (Do right! Good on ya! Energizer! Oi!)”
Resolution I) I resolve to get reacquainted with the cherished rites and practices of the conservative Christian upbringing I’ve strayed from for so terribly long.
“Why?” you may ask. Well, I’ve been feeling incredibly DEPRESSED lately, and have been sort of internally nurturing the attitude that even MODERATE amounts of exercise, SUBTLE variations in my diet, or abstinence from stressful situations is not NEARLY as practical, given my personal level of laziness, as, say… “Letting a magical figure take care of all my problems FOR me, in exchange for agreeing to dislike some particular stuff.” It’s just got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? I’ve ALREADY attained virtual SAVANT status in the “disliking stuff” category, anyway, so I figure I might as well go just that theosophical INCH more, and enjoy 6,000 virgins upon my earthly demise as a reward. Logical.
PLUS there’s that whole “anything good that happens in my life is due my religious piousness; anything BAD that transpires owes a debt to my over-tolerance of homos” tenet that I, long ago, senselessly abandoned—which I LOVE! *Scoff* I mean, SHOOT… I can CERTAINLY start bagging on THEM more, if it means that I receive a get-out-of-jail-free card for all the sitcom viewership, junk food, and slapping my woman around that I take such day-to-day delight in. Let’s give it a shot, shall we?
[Leaning out of the Cashier’s Office window to address an elderly woman watching television in the service waiting area] “FAGS!!!” [Cheerfully returning to my computer] Yup! There’s ONE Double Six Dollar Burger w/ Cheese Combo and the large CrissCut Fries from Carl’s Jr. that I won’t be losing any sleep over anytime soon! Say good-bye, cholesterol! I am N-N-N-NOT a fan of queers! [High-fiving myself]
Anyway! Under the yoke of such an ambitious undertaking, my first concerted foray back into dogmatic worship will be to commence with a rigorous prayer schedule. So, as a gesture of “good faith”—[wink, wink]—on my part, I thought I’d share the manuscript I’ve worked out for my first prayer “wish list” with all of you—it’s a PRELIMINARY draft, mind you, so, admittedly, it needs some touching up... But I think you’ll get the gist, nonetheless. ‘Kay! Here it is! ____________________ Dear Lord,
Please force the following persons to commit suicide: ____________________ 1) “Star Trek: The Next Generation”’s Wil Wheaton. Given Your fabled omniscience, Lord, I would suppose this is a rather self-explanatory request. On the OTHER hand: Why pass up an opportunity to give the creator of ALL That Is Known "the business" every now and again? No reason! To wit: How the BAISE (Visit this nifty little decoder for the CLIFFHANGER translation!) could You allow a person staking claim to such a paltry "accomplishment" as this guy's ride its coattails for SO... LONG?!?! I mean [YOU], man! Seriously...
...AND while I'm at it: Parfois vous me faites souhait que je n'ai pas tenu tel dédain pour sodomiser dieux, ou, ainsi aidez-moi, je vous donnerais le traitement d'"Deliverance", mais bon! Curious??? ____________________ ____________________ 2) Gallagher-impostor Ron Gallagher, younger brother to ex-comic GENIUS (!!!) GALLAGHER Gallagher (…You might as well throw in the "legitimate" Gallagher's demise, TOO, as long as You’re going to the trouble…). ____________________ ____________________ 3) Perennial suicide request favorite Corey Feldman (If for nothing ELSE, in having taken the “lead ‘role’” in the straight-to-video release of “Puppet Master vs. Demonic Toys”, thereby completely ILLEGITIMATIZING an otherwise-salvageable franchise [referring to “P.M.”, that is; NOT the LAUGHABLE “D.T.” series *Snort*]!). ____________________ ____________________ 4) Name-trademarking-embattled hard-core porn starlet Mary Carey AND somehow-even-SKANKIER soft-core R&B porn has-been MARIAH Carey.
(PS: If You could somehow manage a scenario wherein they run head-on into each other’s sharpened-and-sequin-encrusted dildos in some sort of pay-per-view Slut Joust™ or something similar, that would be super-duper! What am I SAYING? You’re GOD! The guy who CREATED sluts! You can do ANYTHING!) ____________________ ____________________ ____________________ 5) Professional... CANADIAN Mike Myers, of “Shrek” über-infamy. I presume there is no joking around or explanation necessary on this one; right, God? Just KILL him. ____________________ ____________________ 6) That BITCH, Nicole Brown Simpson!
[Update: Sources close to the authoring party behind the Cunninglinguyst LiveJournal have, since the original penning of this entry, informed me that God has already surmounted this task—and in the GRANDEST of fashions—through the aide of “earthbound emissaries,” hence nullifying this request. Included in the actualization of this ethereal hit, apparently, was an end zone dance over the corpse; something I was PLANNING on including with this request in future revisions of this prayer ANYWAY. Blessed be our all-knowing God.] ____________________ ____________________
This is sort of the point where I’ve bottlenecked in the ideas department for the time being. I’m sure I’ll come up with more figures I think would benefit greatly from angelic assassination—probably sometime within the next 15 minutes or so, in fact—but I’ll just leave it at this for posterity’s sake. Call it an “historical document,” I guess… ____________________ Resolution II) I SECONDARILY resolve to... Well... Sort of... AssassinateGeorgeWalkerBush43rd"President"ofTheUnitedStatesofAmericayaddayaddayaddait'sNOTveryinterestingtowriteaboutHO-HUM! ____________________ ____________________
Anywho! I hope everyone ELSE'S resolutions are coming along just as swimmingly as are MINE--sans, hopefully, the necessity for an underground, FBI-proof bunker in which to PLAN said monkeyshines--and, should anyone have any obvious addendums to MY wish list which I may have overlooked, feel free to buzz me. Until then: Here’s hoping you don’t make my list in ’08!
So! What with the over-rife current events atmosphere of late that’s been damn near BURSTIN’ with must-read reports the caliber of A) Gerald Ford being hung, B) Saddam Hussein’s body being displayed at the Apollo Theater as dual mourning session/tribute (in honor of all his many contributions to black popular music), and C) James Brown being raped by members of the Duke University lacrosse team, I haven’t had the time to think twice about or report on my recent, outSTANDingly-pathetic “accomplishment,” as such: On Friday, December 29th, in the Year of Our Old Lord, 2006, whom do you think should grace the Cashier’s Office window of Nader Automotive Group, LLC, but—drum roll, please…
NANCY LENGYEL!
That’s right! THE Nancy Lengyel! For the benefit of those of the Cunninglinguyst reading constituency perhaps playing dumb while reading this entry, Nancy is the aunt of one THEO Lengyel. And I think you ALL know who THAT is… Keeee-RECT! He was the alto saxophonist for The World’s Greatest Defunct Band, Mr. Bungle (…before they unanimously agreed to boot him from the roster for creative differences/stagnating instrumental prowess/etc., that is)!!! Here's the band, during happier days:
Regardless! Noticing my customer's seemingly-rarefied last name, and remembering that the town in which I work, Eureka, CA, was the pre-immigration port-of-berth for Bungle, I—in as unintrusive a manner as possible—inquired as to whether she might, in fact, be related to the saxophone player-in-question. She happily replied in the affirmative, at which point she entertained a friendly conversation about Theo’s current circumstances [Note: He’s a computer tech in San Francisco. That’s SO rock ‘n’ ROLL! I wonder how he controls his smack habit in such Bacchanalean environs...], and other affable nonsense. At one point, as explanation as to his ostensible DEMOTION in occupation, she told me: “He was just tired of being a rock star, I think.”
Moron. A) He was FIRED from the group; B) Mr. Bungle was about as FAR from anything resembling rock “stardom” while he was actually a MEMBER of the band as can probably be CONCEIVED of. Being that he was only around until just AFTER the recording of their second and best album, “Disco Volante” (a record which, post-script, serves ALSO as THE greatest recording sporting a Mike Patton appearance that EXISTS, hands down (!) [just for the explanatory benefit of the uncircumcised contingent of the present readers that may or may not be deluded in that regard at this juncture]), and they didn’t actually begin TOURING on an international level until after the release of their third and FINAL album, one would assume such trivia would sort of nullify any semblance of “rock star” status from the equation.
Anyway, Ms. Lengyel asked for—and, weirdly enough, WROTE DOWN—my name for salutatory inclusion in her next conversation with Theo. So I'm basically set for life! Theo is SO going to have just TONS of my babies! Point being: The fact that I so enthusiastically took PART in such an escapade only makes me long for the loving embrace of a lobotomy even MORESO than usual. And yet! Such a profession of my lack of worth poses yet ANOTHER opportunity to display some otherwise-gratuitous Mr. Bungle footage on my LiveJournal! Hip-hip-HOORAY for being a wretched excuse of DNA mismanagement!
Although I’ve PREVIOUSLY exhibited Bungle’s “Quote, Unquote (Travolta)” video on this site, the following is the only LIVE footage I’ve ever seen of the song’s performance, and, being that I still consider it my “existential theme song,” as it were… Screw it! I'm including it! Don’t watch, if you mustn’t. However, SHOULD you happen to voyeur the clip’s golden, ammonia-scented harvest, notice if you will: When one takes the wig Mr. Bungle's bassist, Trevor Dunn, is wearing while playing the song live, and combines it with the Darth Vader mask from the archival photo above—and YES, Mr. Bungle did the whole “masks thing” almost a DECADE before those Iowegian ASSHEADS, Slipknot—one essentially yields my “costume” (in its ENTIRETY) from the first opportunity I had to spend any significant amount of time in a jail cell. Ah, memories...
Ponder, I do: How I’ve lived this long and NOT been at the receiving end of the old "lacrosse team treatment," I couldn’t tell you… Anywho! Delight at the following:
The following graphic displays the G-L-O-R-I-O-U-S results of an Associated Press public opinion poll taken recently, the findings of which were released just this morning: ____________________ ____________________
Notice, if you will, that the ASSHEAD-in-Chief beat out Satan himself (!) for the top seat in the poll... and by a LANDSLIDE, no less!
There's GOTTA be a forthcoming country song about this in the works SOMEWHERE, I would think. I'll wait a couple of days. If I don't hear anything by THAT time, I'm going to pen one MYSELF. As preparation, the next time I'm visualizing my girlfriend naked, I'll just PRETEND she's my sister. That ought to get me in the right frame of mind to get all "Clint Black" on the bitch. And by "the bitch," I make reference to the aforementioned SONGWRITING CHORE; not the aforementioned girlfriend-cum-sister/lover (who is only OCCASIONALLY a colossal gap)...
Anyway, concerning the preceding poll results: U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
Okay, everybody! Ready for some Cunninglinguyst-style positivi-TAY?! Raise the ROOF! Here goes! ____________________ I) First up: My FAVORITE Wonder Showzen cartoon of ALL TIME! This was the first W.S. cartoon I ever saw that left me with the hollow feeling that I'd missed the bus, self-actualization-wise; that perhaps my particular... "talents" had been misappropriated up until this point in my life! Had I only KNOWN there was a future in producing this type of thing, I may not have stuck with the just-SLIGHTLY less-glamorous lifestyle of the office peon , lo' these many years! Jeepers! THEN what would my blog have been called? Imagine it! "The Guy Who's Successful, Contented, And Prosperous In Doing What He LOVES, AND Is IN Love With EVERY Aspect Of His Life, ALL While Leading A Fulfilled--Rather Than A Drearily-Tiresome--Existence Chronicles"?! What a bore THAT would be, huh?! Whee!
____________________ II) Next, a quickie cartoon just to get you more fully-acclimated to the general aesthetic and motivational ambiance of the Wonder Showzen experience! Enjoy!
[UPDATE, 5/8/07: This clip has since been removed from YouTube. Watch Wonder Showzen instead. Apologies... Here is a cartoon from "TV Funhouse"--a close second in the "All-Time Bestest TV Shows Ever, Fuckers!!!" category--instead.]
____________________ III) Here is my SECOND favorite--in a GOOD way (!!!)--Wonder Showzen cartoon of ALL TIME! I wonder, whenever I watch it, if it's one of my favorites due the fact that I just find it funny, or if it's because of my identification with the catoon's protagonist! The "message" coursing through this clip of "Be a man, or become a lesbian" is EXACTLY what I've been telling my partner Pearl for the past... well, going on four years now, methinks! Except as far back as I can remember, I've always worded it a BIT differently!
Something more along the lines of "I'M a man; I want you to BE a lesbian (...infrontoftherunningcamcorder,ifatallpossible)!" Either way, I love this cartoon, and I LOVES me the prospect of someday brow-beating my girlfriend with the suggestion enough times to, someday, capture her in the act of packing herself a box lunch on celluloid! Goals... are... POSITIVE!
[UPDATE, 5/8/07: This clip has since been removed from YouTube. Watch Wonder Showzen instead. Apologies... Here is a cartoon from "TV Funhouse"--a close second in the "All-Time Bestest TV Shows Ever, Fuckers!!!" category--instead.]
____________________ IV) As we are smack-dab in the MIDST of Kwanzaa season: The following Wonder Showzen cartoon is but a small TOKEN of my esteem for all my dusky-skinned brethren and sistren plucky enough to find out ABOUT and take advantage OF the Internet for their own self-satisfying, personal gain, the inherent greed behind which benefits no one but THEMSELVES (and who are reading right now alongside--or, realistically, just BEHIND [given demographical test score averages from the past decade or so]--the lighter-hued readers ALSO taking a well-deserved jaunt about this site as free-time recreation! [In a sing-songy voice: **PRO-filing!**])! A toast! The following video is, admittedly, no celebratory "libation"! But it DOES leave a tinny aftertaste in the mouth, all the same!
So! To "y'all": [Raising my 40-oz. snifter of cartoon clip high in salutation] A Salam Alaikum, my brothas and sistas! Att-i-ca! Att-i-ca! Att-i-ca! HOORAY!!!
[UPDATE, 5/8/07: This clip has since been removed from YouTube. Watch Wonder Showzen instead. Apologies... Here is a cartoon from "TV Funhouse"--a close second in the "All-Time Bestest TV Shows Ever, Fuckers!!!" category--instead.]
____________________ V) Here's one that shows the positive ends that can be achieved when people work as a TEAM! Incidentally, in a few years' time, if you're feeling the urge to view the contents of this entry clip again, you needn't search for it on an archived version of this long-since-demised web page--it'll be all over EVERY street corner, mumbling to itself about supplanting Saddam's regime between asking for spare change and practicing its wonderful, WONDERFUL "veteran vérité" brand of cardboard-and-magic-marker artistry! Huzzah! Art: Po-si-TIVE!
[UPDATE, 5/8/07: This clip has since been removed from YouTube. Watch Wonder Showzen instead. Apologies... Here is a cartoon from "TV Funhouse"--a close second in the "All-Time Bestest TV Shows Ever, Fuckers!!!" category--instead.]
____________________ VI) Here's one for all the FEMINISTS in the Cunninglinguyst audience! Yay! You're all so very positively CONFUSED! But in a POSITIVE way, I mean! ;)
____________________ VII) And finally, one more shortie (No offense, women readers who took an ethnically-based shine to the "He-Bro" clip!)--THIS time concerned with the paradigm most readers of this online diary will most likely be raising their children in (IF they survive the melanoma long enough to actually break one off, AND their Mercury-induced flipper-baby makes it past the by-then-MANDATORY year-long incubator tenure)! Jeezum POST! I KNEW I wouldn't make it all the way through this entry without typing something snarky...! Ah, well! I guess I can always blame television programming for my bankrupt sense of optimism!
Or CAN I...? [Smiling slyly into the monitor/accompanying "wah, wah, WAAAAAAAHHHH!!!" muted trumpet sound effect inserted here for comedic effect!]
____________________ KKK) Seeya next time, back on the old gloom-'n'-doom patrol, kids! Hope you enjoyed me being FOR something for a change, fer gosh sakes! And, WOW! It just occurred to me! Jinkies! If I were a Neverneverland inhabitant who'd been freshly sprinkled with pixie dust, I'd be pavement flocking by now! But POSITIVE pavement flocking, at LEAST! Toodles, gang! Fleenge!
Every once in a GREAT while, I like to take the time to actually APPRECIATE something. I know… I know… It just sounds so... GAY—in a completely ASEXUAL sort of way, that is… ([In a sing-songy voice]: **Re-a-pro-pri-AAA-tion!**)—doesn't it?
Nevertheless! I’ve been writing with such frequency on topics I find ridiculous, or repugnant, or… some OTHER adjective that begins with the letter “R” (Memory fails me at the moment; me so stupidest! Dernth!)… What I’m SAYING is that I need a break! A chance to recuse myself of the constant stream of critical jibber-jabber I populate this online diary with; an opportunity to get back to some wholesome, UPLIFTING material that will more roundly balance my online chi—something DIAMETRIC to the cycle of negation and negativity to which I often find myself captive through the maintenance of this site. Intellectual ice cubes for my metaphoric morale-nipples, as it were.
I was perusing the—gugh—MySpace page of an old college friend whom I’ve been attempting of late to entice into serving as illustrator for my prospective maiden Adult Children’s publication (“Fæbles of the Ödd, Vol. I: The Prodigal Pariah”! Get YOURS today! …Or whenever I get off my corpulent arse and get around to actually PUBLISHING it…), when I noticed a little blurb in his—gugh—“Interests” section, under the—gugh—“Television” SUB-section, which listed his favorite TV show as “The Sopranos.” Also included was the following acclamation; and I quote: “[B]y far the best show to ever be on television.”
The MySpacer-in-question’s ATROCIOUS grammar aside (In case he’s reading this: Illustrate for me? [Cutesy eyelash flutter] Friends? [Coy grin/shrug]), I really MUST take objective issue with such an otherwise-SUBjective declaration. There is a MUCH superior show to The Sopranos. And the proof of my knowing better than absolutely EVERYONE (!) else...? I give you… ____________________ Wonder Showzen ____________________ ____________________
Like most specimens found in the scant roster of “great television programming” throughout history—save PERHAPS in the case of “Northern Exposure” (which, later in its nine-or-so-season run, went on to, essentially, commit the ULTIMATE act of fanbase SACRILEGE; pulling a Led Zeppelin/Alice In Chains by replacing a nucleic cast member and then attempting to persist under such counterfeit pretenses; OBVIOUSLY only to milk the doofus teleholic teat dry; *sigh*)—“Twin Peaks,” “Carnivàle,” the ORIGINAL “The Office” series, as was aired on the BBC [Tangent: Americans can make ANYTHING suck! Just ask Sam Raimi and HIS cabal, up to their EYEBALLS in the process of “westernizing” the USED-to-be classic catalogue of Asian horror films—to ovary-numbingly AWFUL effect, mind you (Please GOD! Don’t let them discover the “Tartan Asia Extreme” series… PLEASE!)!!! End Tangent!]—“Wonder Showzen” was cancelled after only a two-season tenure. The terminating network’s rationale: Wonder Showzen was branded, essentially, “too strange” for general consumption on a prolonged basis.
On ONE hand, I’m remorseful. I’ll miss the show (even though the only fashion in which I ever got to VIEW said program was through the untimely format of DVD). On the OTHER hand: Wonder Showzen, arguably, went out at the TOP of its game; the zenith of its powers; the pinnacle of its creative capacity; NOT to linger obscenely, cocooned in its formative laurels like a Christmas-wrapped decomposing CORPSE, just sucking up whatever extraneous commercial capital there was to SUCK after blowing its proverbial load MANY seasons previous (e.g. “The Simpsons,” “M*A*S*H*,” Charlie Sheen’s apparent BLOCKBUSTER “Two And A Half Men,” etc. Which reminds me: When IS the next “final season” of “The Sopranos” set to commence, anyway? Retarded television viewers…). ____________________ ____________________
So I guess you could say I’ve got a James Dean-like perspective—i.e. “Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse” (and yes, I realize he’s not the ORIGINAL source of that quote)—of the show’s demise going on (King of The Segue, I am!). But, as this entry was proposed, per ORIGINAL intent, not as a CRITIQUING exercise, but as a CELEBRATION (!)… I’ll just show some clips and get out of this blog’s hair for now. (ManohmanohMAN! I’m really quite ADDICTED to being a prick, aren’t I? M’yeh… [Shrug!])
During my personal viewership of Wonder Showzen, I’ve found I harbor a PARTICULAR affinity for the CARTOON portions of the defunct show, though the live-action segments starring puppets and children interacting a la “Sesame Street” were JUST as potent (a few snippets of which MAY have weaseled their way into the animated clips I’ve chosen to endorse). Also, I couldn’t really pick “a favorite” Wonder Showzen cartoon, per se, so I just procured a BUNCH for your viewing (dis)pleasURE. If you don’t like it: TOUGH! This is America, and you’ll god-damned well swear your oath of office on the Anglo-centrist BIBLE, just like every OTHER incumbent Senator of this great, white nation! You can CRAM your Qur’an, Abdul! You dig? That’s just how the U.S. of A. ROLLS! DEAL with it!!!
And now, the cartoon portion of our program, uninterrupted by jingoistic blather… :) ____________________ To be continued…
The second video, “I Want to Live,” takes the "postulating from alternate perspectives" motif one step FURTHER; THIS time being an anti-abortion ballad from the POV of an unborn… something-or-other.
The reason for my reticence in defining the source of the fantasy narrative is that the video portrays a young woman JUST finding about her pregnancy—and OBVIOUSLY not in the physically-alterative stages yet (unless she pukes… ALOT). However, various views—mostly still-frame captures and 3D computer representations, mind you—from the inside of her dramatized womb show a baby that is the byproduct of an almost FULL gestation cycle.
While I was watching this, the thought occurred to me: “Maybe this is how these ‘pro-life’ morons really THINK—that it takes a couple of WEEKS to reach the fetal stage of the pregnancy cycle, and then it’s just 8 ½ more months of just hanging around and backstroking in anticipation of being born and talking to ANGELS” and all that kind of Pollyanna-esque bollocks. I don’t know… What I DO know? This video is HILARIOUS! Take a gander!
Some thoughts/concerns/questions, now that you’ve viewed:
1) Ladies: Would you tell your boyfriend about your unexpected pregnancy DURING school? You’re kind of just ASKING for a pounded locker and an umpire-like "the runner is SAFE!" gesture as your response if you DO, I would think. Agreement? Dissent? Let’s get some past high school-aged aborters on the lines with this one.
2) Why does the entire premise of this video seem to be directed at familial togetherness (i.e. the chorus of “Mama, I wanna leeeeve!”; images of nostalgia-inducing future events [baby’s first birthday, feedings, playing outside]; etc.), if the “solution” to abortion that it seems to be über-advocating FOR is giving the resultant kid up for ADOPTION?
“GET ATTACHED TO IT! YOU SHOULD GET ATTACHED!! IT'S A PERSON YOU'LL LOVE! SO MUCH TO GET ATTACHED to! SO YOU SHOULD GET ATTACHED TO IT now! GET ATTACHED!!! And now... give it away on a whim...”
Brilliant! Shouldn’t the chorus go a little more like THIS: “Selfish BITCH who capriciously gave me away and has preemptively subjected me to life-long identity issues and irreparable psychological trauma, I wanna leeeeve!”?
3) I must admit I’m confused. There SEEM to be conflicting images scattered with abandon--"willy-nilly," if you prefer--THROUGHOUT this video, with not much forethought as to thematic consistency, lyrical coordination, or anything of the sort. Is the distorted surgery imagery supposed to be an abortion—which is NOTHING like that, I assure you—taking place? Or is it a birth? Is that the RELATIVES gawking through the maternity ward windows? Or is it the over-sentineling adoptive parents, frothing at the mouth over a spankin'-new adoption FRESH from the uterine crock pot?
Nevertheless! The answers to these questions aren't NEARLY as important as the QUITE-apparent affirmatives concerning the overall subject broached by this last epic trilogy of LiveJournal entries; affirmatives the like of which are INSTANTLY conjured through its reading, and apparent for ALL to see with little-to-no effort. Affirmatives such as... Oh, I don't know... "MySpace: You... SUCK."
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cunninglinguyst's journal
