Indiana Jones and the Hip-Replacement Surgery

The joke's gone on long enough. Oh wait...you're serious? Really?

That elaborate fake trailer for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull was a good gag -- haha, you got me -- but this movie isn't really coming out, is it? I mean, Harrison Ford has the gait of an arthritic chimp, and he's swinging around on a whip, beating down Russkies? Really?

Look, Spielberg, Ford, et al., just because it takes you 20 years to decide that now's the time that your careers needs a sure-fire hit doesn't mean that we have to suffer for it by pretending that a 70-year-old can do anything other than eat pudding and soil himself.

Watching Harrison Ford now as Indiana Jones is like playing hide-and-seek with an Alzheimer's patient.

It's not enough that every other movie nowadays is a remake; now we're recycling action heroes as well. Stallone just did Rocky Balboa and Rambo, Schwarzenegger teetered through Terminator 3; even Seagal and Van Damme are still flailing around on DVD. Why not trot out Lorenzo Lamas or Dolph Lundgren while you're at it? Where's I Come in Peace 2?

The problem is that the next generation of action stars never stepped up to replace these '80s cronies. And the few that did never fully dedicated themselves to the genre; they were too busy trying to be "legitimate." Stallone and Schwarzenegger knew how to settle; they knew their limitations (Cop Land notwithstanding) -- but not these punk kids today. So, what we're left with is ridiculous relics hobbling around, trying to relive their heyday because Vin Diesel is off working with Sidney Lumet.

America needs a hero who instills confidence, someone who can impale a Commie with a pair of salad tongs, someone who won't have to ask his grandson how to work the GPS in his Oldsmobile in order to stop a presidential assassination.

In short, you sicken me, old people.

What A Hollywood Assistant Job Listing REALLY Means

Expert analysis from an actual assistant!

Just moved to Hollywood to make it big in the entertainment industry? Don’t want to be another one of those sad stories about a small town kid trying to find their way in glamorous Los Angeles only to end up banging strangers with ridiculous names like Billy The Fist on HD video in the San Fernando Valley? Well I’ve got news for you: You’re still gonna get fucked. Luckily for you, we’re here to make it all a little easier. Think of us as your Industry lube. The Liquid Silk for the surprising rear entry you’re about to receive from Hollywood.

As we all know, the lowest rung, and your first stop on the ladder to fortune and fame is being a Hollywood assistant. Below is an ACTUAL job posting courtesy of our good friends at entertainmentcareers.net:

“Well connected Producer at a successful motion picture production company seeks a seasoned Executive/Personal Assistant for a multi-faceted position. Responsibilities include business and personal/household: phone coverage, scheduling of appointments/travel, correspondence, dictation, and script coverage. Applicant must have experience as an assistant, as well as a pleasant personality. Must have a can-do attitude. Salary commensurate with experience.”

Here is what this really means:

“Ron Howard’s super-creepy looking little brother is in need of an assistant at the fake production company that was handed to him out of sheer pity. Responsibilities include practically doing Clint’s job for him, taking in his laundry (ignore the mysterious blood stains), walking his dog and constantly refilling his numerous Anxiety/Depression/Adult Onset ADD/Methadone drug prescriptions.

On top of this, you will be dialing his telephone for him, scheduling appointments for his Brazilian Bikini Wax, booking travel for he and his family to exotic places you couldn’t possibly afford to go (and expensing the trips to the company), responding to emails and attempting to make him look intelligent by decoding the incoherent babble that spews forth from his messy word-hole while dictating. You will also be reading scripts for him, then writing him the “Cliff’s Notes” because he doesn’t really know how to read.

Applicant must have experience as a secretary, because that’s all you really will be. Must accept that this is a soul crushing and thankless job and understand that if Clint wants a bald eagle egg omelet at 3am on a Sunday morning, Clint gets a bald eagle egg omelet at 3am on a Sunday morning. The word “no” is not an option. For all the work you will be doing, you will be paid so little that you will actually be living at the poverty line.”

Enticed? Good! Apply, interview, nail it, then call your mommy and let her know that 4 years of film school finally paid off...you’re going to be a professional bitch.

Coolio: How the Mighty have Fallen

About a year ago, Coolio sent me a demo and a press kit.

Hilarity ensued.

What I actually got was a burned CD with his hit song "Gangsta's Paradise" on it and a photocopy of a handwritten press release which I have taken the liberty of typing to you VERBATIM:

Big Ballas Productions Present: COOLIO/IN CONCERT. COOLIO!!!ONE OF HIP HOP'S BIGGEST STARS IS IN CONCERT AT YOUR CASINO,BRINGING YOU HIS (GANGSTA'S PARADISE)(FANTASTIC VOYAGE) AND MUCH MORE,,coolio WILL LIGHT UP THE STAGE AND ROCK THE HOUSE ALL NIGHT AS HE HIMSELF CAN DO ALL SO WELL, coolio IS WELL KNOW ALL OVER THE WORLD! AS A RAPP STAR HE AS BEEN IN THE GAME OVER TWO DECADES, YOU CAN SEE MOST OF HIS MUSIC CLIPS ON "YOUTUBE.COM, AND ON coolio.com HIS NEWEST VIDEO ON LINE,,,,SEE YA SOON IN A CASINO NEAR YOU!!!!!!

Upon receipt of this remarkably structured document, I couldn't resist attempting to contact a company whose name sort of just sounds like they produce large testicles in a factory and not washed-up rappers for my super sweet 16. I half expected the voice of a big hairy gay bear receptionist to answer breathily, "Hello, Big Balls Productions where Big Balls come in pairs...this is Robert speaking, how may I direct your call?"

But I should have known better.

After years of working in the muddiest waters of the music industry, I should have known that Big Ballas Productions company number is a straight line to the author of that press release, complete with a super professional ring back tone. Nothing screams "I'm calling a serious player in the music world" more than having to sit through a full minute of "Big Booty Hoes."

I never got through to Big Balls…I mean Ballas, (SERIOUSLY I can't suppress my urge to type BIG BALLS. I'm just that kind of girl), but I'm willing to give out their email address to anyone who wants to book Coolio. I promise you their email involves the words "Jizz" and "Master" and "Nigga."

I can't promise that the Coolio routine isn't a cover-up for a gay porn scam, cause that's what it sounds like.

I Think It's Time We Saw Raven-Symoné's Vagina

It will save her career.

We all know that Disney is the biggest pimp in the entertainment industry, but while the gossip rags feature Disney media wenches Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Miley Cyrus, Hillary Duff and Vanessa Hudgens, one Mauschwitz mainstay remains a paparazzi repellent: Raven-Symoné. What do these other gals have that she doesn't? I'll tell you what: vaginas. Or, at least, the promise of one.

Raven-Symoné, for all her talent, exudes the sex appeal of a tube sock.

If she wants to make Access Hollywood, she seriously needs to up the trollop factor. If you're listening, R-S, I'm here for you. Time is short; you're 22 and aging fast. We must act quickly to turn you into the skank I know you can be. I see you've already gained some weight; that's good. It'll keep 'em speculating as to whether or not you're pregnant. In the meantime, here are some other tips to get your slut on:

• Let's say some compromising pictures of you "happen" to find their way onto the Internet. Would that be the worst thing in the world? You don't even have to be naked; maybe just bottomless and lathered in duck sauce.

• If a rumor happens to spread that you were in a three-way with Zack and Cody, so be it.

• OK, so you have "morals" or whatever. I get it. The beauty of scandal is that you don't actually have to do anything bad to create the illusion that you did. Say, you get a kidney infection or something. If you leak just enough information to get the rags intrigued and then vehemently refuse to comment, maybe, just maybe, people will assume your kidney ruptured from a vigorous anal pounding. I'm just throwing it out there.

I hope MySpace is wrong about me.

Because there's nothing worse than being told you're a pathetic loser by a social networking site. Is there?

Myspace takes the information I put into my profile, decides what kind of person I am, then presents me with ads that should appeal to a Caucasian male of “about average” build who likes Nerf Herder and Dr. Mario.

However, based on the ads I actually see, there is either a glitch with their formula, or I don’t know myself at all.

For example, I put down that I’m looking for “friends” and “networking”, but MySpace thinks I really need a date. Every other ad I see is for Match.com. It’s a fake video of a girl on a webcam. She’s out of my league, and all she does is stare at me silently. So, like one of my actual dates.

I know through experience that staring at someone and not saying anything, is “creepy,” but for some reason when you ad a webcam and a semi-attractive girl, MySpace thinks I’ll jump to fish out my Discover card.

MySpace’s text-only ads are even more confusing. What about me says I’d sign up for “Goth Date?” Sure, I’m depressed, but I can’t afford makeup.

And why are they trying to sell me a book where I can learn to overcome my “fear of death.” Am I in danger?

Perhaps most disturbing, Myspace has looked at my profile, and decided it would be a good idea to present me with a small ad for a “Teenage Relationship Podcast?” I’m not that old, but I’m old enough that if I had a relationship with a teen, I’d need a book on learning to overcome my fear of jail. A relationship with a high school student is out of the question. Plus, I’m not that into podcasts.

And I don’t remember writing this down in my profile, but I guess I’m a person who just loves ringtones. Man, do they want me to get some ringtones. There are ads for ringtones from every band I like, but I also often see an ad for “David Sedaris Ringtones.” I’m not convinced these exist. And even if they do, I don’t want to learn about my incoming calls from a lispy author telling stories about his dysfunctional family. What if I’m out with a girl?

I just can’t take that chance. Especially since I’ll be out with girls a lot now. I’ve signed up for HerpDate. I don’t know what the difference is between that and the other dating services, but the girl in the ad was pretty hot.

Rejected Ben and Jerry’s Flavors

How they turned down Berry Manilow is beyond me.

Ben and Jerry’s has announced its new flavors. What aging hippie will be immortalized this year? Why, John Lennon, with the new flavor, “Imagine Whirled Peace.” This, from the Ben and Jerry’s website:

“Through his art and lyrics he imagined a world without war and asked us all to 'Give Peace a Chance'. We hope this whirly mixture of toffee cookies and fudge peace signs enlightens your bellies and souls and makes you ask what you can do to promote peace in your lives.”

If toffee cookies and fudge don’t stop this war in Iraq, nothing will!

Luckily, Mad Atoms has obtained a list of ice cream flavors that didn't make the cut this year:

Heath Bar Ledger

Pears Hilton

Caramel Gibson

Berry Manilow

Coffee Anan

Jennifer Cantalopez

Sherbette Midler

Banana Nichole Smith

Notorious F.I.G.

Mint Eastwood

Heidi Klum’s Super Dark Chocolate Fudge

S’morrisey

My name is Lindsay and I'm a chocoholic

Rollin' Camry

A princess's guide to low-income housing.

You got a little debit card happy this month at Les Deux. What’s another round, for everyone… in the whole bar? You bought new headshots to go with your new hair color. You did that quickie Vegas marriage thing and the Elvis chapel was more expensive than you planned. So was your divorce lawyer. Shit costs mad money, yo.

You’re broke.

You’ve got some options.

Cut back on skinny latte consumption, or cut back elsewhere. You decide to move out, and move into your Toyota for a while. Shit, those skinny lattes are tasty. Besides, living in your car will build character.

Jewel wrote a hit song in her car. Bobby Brown did cocaine in his car. Eddie Murphy fucked a ...you get the idea.

Here are some tips to succeeding on the streets.

Drive east of Fairfax. There’s more parking, and less parking regulations. You can sleep overnight, and no one will notice. Grab a sink shower at your local McD’s, pull on your Dior, and head back to the Westside promised land. No one will ever know your secret.

Get a hip windshield blocker. Not only does it keep you protected from the sun, but also from car hoppers. If you park somewhere too long, and you leave yourself vulnerable you might find someone else (Corey Haim) trying to live in your car with you.

Remember your situation is only temporary. We’re headed for a recession. Save your bread, and know that one day soon rent has to get cheap, because ain’t nobody gonna be rich no more.

“Brilliant” Scripts - Ghost Edition

Over the years, as an assistant and a development exec, I must have read at least 10,000 scripts. Most were terrible Matrix rip-offs, but it's gems like these that get me out of bed in the morning.

Don't even think about stealing these ideas, they're WGA registered.

I’ll Ghost-Slap the Hell Out of You

Genre: Supernatural Thriller

Logline: When a man dies, a being from the “other side” offers to bring him back to life if he takes the being with him. Once the being is revived, he goes on a murder spree.

Analysis: This script was mediocre until the finale. The hero defibrillates himself into a heart attack, which puts him back into the ghostly “other side.” Once there, he and the bad guy, also in ghost form, battle. I guess once you’re in the ghost side, everything there is ghosty as well, because they fight their way through a ghost-house, breaking ghost chairs over each other’s heads and strangling each other with ghost-phone cords. And then the ghost-protagonist throws ghost-cologne in the ghost-bad guy’s ghost-eyes. I was waiting for someone to get ghost-kicked in the ghost-balls and then have his head stuck in the ghost-toilet for a ghost-swirly.

The Worst Ghost of All Time

Genre: Supernatural thriller

Logline: A young man tries to figure out why a ghostly avenger wants him dead.

Analysis: The general idea is okay, if a bit unoriginal. Where this script truly went off the rails is that the ghost is hell-bent on murdering the protagonist. But apparently, he has to do it in really mundane ways. He starts out by loosening the screws on a bookshelf above the protagonist’s bed. When the protagonist bangs his girlfriend, they slam the headboard into the wall and the bookshelf comes crashing down, nearly crushing them. When that attempt fails, the ghost shoots at the protagonist. With a rifle. That he buys in a gun store.

Skid Row Feng Shui

I propose to make Skid Row a better place, through the ancient Oriental art of spatial arrangement, Feng Shui.

Feng Shui led me to invent a separate hamper system, strictly for socks I have masturbated into. The stiff-ankled sock with the chip crumbs in it is a bitter sweet reminder of when I ignorantly beat off while eating a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Any masturbator worth his weight in semen will tell you that the best way to lubricate is with your own spit. It's cheap, good for the environment, and sometimes tastes like Kool Aid.

What those same masturbators won't tell you is that if you don't rinse your mouth out after eating a food with abrasive content, you're going to shred up your prick like an erosive gravel deteriorating a rock formation. But I digress.

The first thing the citizens of Skid Row can do to ensure maximum Qi, is face their boxes, tents, or laying papers to the East. Those with begging receptacles should be sure to rotate them one quarter of a revolution, four times a day.

Further more, I…I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. I'm a fraud. This, all this, is just a charade. I don't know the first thing about Feng Shui, or Skid Row for that matter. Hell, I've never even been downtown, and I certainly couldn't point it out for you on a map. I rarely even leave the house. I'm only just now realizing, that for me, Skid Row exists as a metaphor for my self-esteem: a run down hovel in Me-Town that could certainly use some tidying up.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put Neosporin on my tattered genitals.

Semi-Useful Advice My Parents Gave Me

I love my parents. They’ve always been there with a shoulder to cry on when I need it and a check when I get laid off and can’t make my rent. The one quibble I’ve got is that they give me a lot of advice.

And almost all of it is blatantly obvious or completely useless.

Advice (from my father): When you’re wiping your ass, fold the toilet paper over. You get two to three more wipes per sheet that way.

My take on it: Is toilet paper really that expensive? I’d rather not get shit on my hands. That’s why I use toilet paper in the first place.

Advice (from my mother, when I called her to say that my girlfriend and I were “on a break”): I hope you’re back up on Match.com or J-Date and not sitting around your apartment waiting for her to call.

My take on it: I appreciate my mom telling me I should get back out there. But Jesus Christ, we broke up a day ago. Maybe I’d like to take a little time to process all that instead of being balls-deep in strange, Jewy pussy, Mom. Did you consider that?

Advice (from my father, when I was working on a big budget movie as a Production Assistant): You should cast me in your movie. I’ll pay for my plane ticket out there. I just want a line or two.

My take on it: Yeah, they generally let me have free reign in casting, as long as I copy all the sides on time. If we want a bald, fat guy, we can get one that’s a professional actor.

Advice (from my father): You should write a movie about how I have to deal with my elderly great-aunt, who has Alzheimer’s. It would be hilarious.

My take on it: If by “hilarious,” he means both boring and depressing, then he’s right.

Advice (from both my parents, when I was working on the Universal lot during my first Hollywood job): Why don’t you go over to Amblin, introduce yourself to Steven Spielberg, and see if he needs any movies written?

My take on it: Sadly, that’s not the way Hollywood works. Maybe I should have tried it though. I couldn’t be less successful as a writer

Barack Obama has Made me Kind of Racist

I never had a problem with Mexicans until the elections made me realize how much they really don't want a black president. Who knew?

Barack Obama has won Utah, Alaska, Idaho, North Dakota and Wyoming, which combined have fewer black residents than my living room. And yet, along the Mexican border -- Texas, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Oklahoma (wait, let me check my atlas...close enough) -- he's gone down in defeat. Now, I find myself rooting for the border patrol.

This animosity has really caught me off guard. I always thought of myself as "brown-friendly." I watched Selena. I buy the occasional off-ramp orange or stop-light bouquet, and if I owned a house, I'm sure I'd swing by the Home Depot parking lot every now and then to get a tree stump removed. But to think that all this time, I, as a black man, have been viewed with such contempt? It's almost enough to make me boycott Jose Luis Sin Censura. Almost.

That whole fence thing isn't sounding so bad now. Can we make it electrified? If the Minutemen allowed coloreds, I'd seriously consider enlisting. Somebody's got to stop this flow before our chances of a black president become slimmer than...well, they were before Barack Obama. At the rate things are going, the only possibility of a black president after this year will be Chelsea Clinton with a deep tan.

I guess it doesn't have to be a race thing, though. Who knows, maybe Mexicans just love the Clintons. After all, I'm sure Bill has fathered a few along the way.

Things I Learned From Facebook

One of the things we all wonder about is how other people see us. Thankfully, Facebook is stepping in to fill that knowledge gap. Because if Facebook stands for anything, it’s self-awareness.

The Compare People Application on Facebook is a service that asks you to answer questions about your friends such as, “Who would I rather take shopping?” and “Who is cooler?” Sadly, there is no “Would rather see die in a horrible car crash,” or, “Least likely to recognize on the street.”

I have two #1 rankings: more athletic, and better hair. The athletic thing comes from the fact that I play racquetball, and most of my friends are lazy degenerates. As for better hair- it’s true, I have great hair. I also have an inordinate number of bald friends.

As we move down the list, things start to get a little less complimentary. I rank #75 in the Best Listener category. Which apparently proves that you don’t need to be a good listener to be a good friend- I rank a strong #3 in that category.

Only 2 out of 10 thought I was more fashionable, ranking me 103rd, practically last, leaving me well behind my friend who repeatedly gets mistaken for a homeless person. It gets worse. I’m #26th on Sexier, getting only 46% of the vote . Only 3 out of 7 think I’m more attractive (#49), 3 out of 8 would rather sleep with me (#50), and only 3 out of 10 would rather date me (#71).

Yes, I’m a cliché, the guy that ends up being the hot girl’s friend. She doesn’t want to hook up with me because she wouldn’t want to ruin that. Whereas before, I had been able to pass this off as a coincidence, now I’m faced with the grim reality of cold statistics.

Back when I had only 100 friends, my rankings were much higher. I was #1 in Smartest, Funniest, even Better Catch. I began to see myself in a new light. I was quicker to interject a quip at dinner. At the gym, I found myself making giving atrociously hot girls head-nods, as if I recognized them from our frequent Hyde run-ins. Even my friends took notice. I became an authority on items in the news. They started talking about setting me up with single girls they knew.

But with more Facebook friends came a bigger sample size, and thus, a more accurate poll.

On the other hand, my Zombie Army is 44 strong, making me a Zombie warlord.

Not-So-Happy Hour

The "farewell drink" with the British star that almost got me fired from my PA job...

It was my first Hollywood job. And like most everyone else in Hollywood, I got it through nepotism. My cousin wrote a movie and “asked” the producers if they’d hire me on as a PA. Visions danced in my head of hobnobbing with the stars, making valuable contributions to the production and a network of contacts that would have me established as a screenwriter in no time.

The reality was a little different. Most of my job consisted of driving our cast around. For some reason there were several actors on our production that either didn’t know how to or didn’t feel like driving. And it was far cheaper to have me do it than a highly paid Teamster. Besides, they were all busy napping in their trucks.

One of the guys I drove a lot was a mid-level British celebrity. I guess this guy didn’t know a lot of people in LA because he kept asking me to score him weed. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be driving him around. He also kept inviting me to do things with him. I didn’t know if he was lonely, gay, or both.

His last day of work, I drove him back to his hotel. He asked me in to have a farewell drink. I told him I had to get back to the office. “Come on, mate. It’s me final day. One drink.” I gave in. He tried to get me up to his room, but I wasn’t going to fall for that again. We walked into the Wyndham bar, sat down, and toasted the movie. He said he’d miss LA, but rambled on about getting back to London, eating curry, and not brushing his teeth again. I finished off my drink and got up to go.

“No, mate. Have another. I’m back to ol’ Blighty tomorrow.”

“I really can’t. They’re going to get mad at me.”

“No they won’t,” he muttered. “You’re with talent.”

Using the word “talent” to describe this guy was a bit like calling a stripper a “dancer.” It was technically correct, but not really accurate. But I couldn’t argue with his logic. So I had another drink. And another.

And another.

We’d gotten there at noon and it was now four o’clock. My cell phone kept going off, but I ignored it. Finally, I remembered that I was supposed to be working, so I got the hell out of there.

Back at the production office, everyone was furious at me. My boss and her boss, the Unit Production Manager, wondered where the hell I had been. Drunk and confused, I stammered something about the hotel valet-parking my car despite me telling them to keep it out front. Soon, this spiraled into an elaborate tale of refusing to pay for the valet charge on principle and getting into a heated argument that involved the valet, the hotel manager, and the police. I got myself so worked up, I was almost started to believe it happened.

“What was the valet charge?” the UPM asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. Then I realized that wasn’t a good answer. “I told them I didn’t even want to hear it. I wasn’t paying. And I didn’t!”

For some reason they believed me. Or maybe they just didn’t have anybody else to go down to Costco to pick up 30 cases of Snapple for Iggy Pop.

Interview with the Black Guy

You've seen him in every horror movie since 1984: the black guy who hangs out with a group of white people he has nothing in common with, whose only purpose is to die first.

He's been sliced into pieces in Resident Evil, de-armed in Predator, and he had his head punched off in Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan.

Now, for the first time, he speaks candidly.

As he walks up to greet me, clad in a retro letterman jacket and Chuck Taylors, he seems cautious, constantly looking over his shoulder with the bug-eyed nervousness of an inmate guarding his food. When I extend my hand to shake, he leaps backwards and shouts, "Oh lawdy!" with his arms arched over his strangely outdated Jheri curl.

You've appeared in 684 horror movies in the past 25 years, and every time, you die. What keeps you going?

Well, Mark, I gotta say it's my love for the genre. And crack. Mostly the crack.

Off all your deaths, which was your favorite way to die?

Being fellated to death! (Laughs.) No, really, I never get to have sex. (Sighs. Rubs himself for several seconds with a faraway look in his eyes, then snaps out of it.) Oh, my favorite death? Probably in Satanic Skank Spank when I had my arms chopped off, then I was dumped in a vat of plaster of Paris, and my body was posed to look like the Venus de Milo. It was painful, but I appreciated the artistry.

You've been playing a high school jock for three decades now. Do you worry about your believability now that you're, what, 46?

Forty-nine, actually, but I can play 35. I usually pretend to be latently retarded in my movies so people will assume I've been left back a few times. But yeah, I think there could be some credibility issues. That's why I've been trying to move behind the camera to direct. I've been meeting with a producer to get this project off the ground that I wrote called Dead Crackers -- although there ain't no Saltines in it, if y'know what I'm sayin'? (Gives me dap.)

Do you have any aspirations of actually living until the end of a film?

Sure, and I'd also like to shit rainbow sherbet! Look, it's not like I wanna die; I don't wanna follow these stupid white kids when they say, "Let's go party in the old abandoned prison!" But I always end up shouting, "Outta sight!" Outta sight? Who even says that anymore?!?

*At this point, a scaffolding falls on B.G., making his head explode instantly. He doesn't plan on letting his death prevent him from signing copies of Librarian Bloodbath Massacre III at the Virgin Megastore next Tuesday.