Trailer Trash: Wanted

It’s the Matrix meets the Matrix, with Angelina Jolie as Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman as Morgan Freeman, and that twerpy Scottish kid from Atonement as Luke/Neo/Jesus. Oh and you’ll never guess what his super-power is…

Why is Hollywood obsessed with assassins right now? Is it because we’re bogged down in a war we can’t possibly win, and we wished we had just assassinated a few people instead of destroying a country and trying in vain to rebuild it for the next 5 years? Just a theory.

So the superpower in this trailer is curving a bullet. From a gun. Kind of like putting spin on a bowling ball. What a useless super power! How many situations could there possibly be where that would come in handy? Maybe if something was in between you and your target… but couldn’t you just walk a few feet to the right?

Even though the trailer looks like a cut and dry Matrix rip-off, I smelled something über-nerdy about it, what with the totally lame engraved bullets, so I looked it up on Wikipedia. Here’s a shocker: this crap is based on a comic book. And check out this line:

“[McAvoy’s character] follows the death orders issued by the Fates, weavers who read individuals' destinies in fabrics produced by mystical looms.”

Fates? Weavers? Mystical looms? It’s as if some comic book dork read a Greek tragedy and thought, “While I’m ripping off the Matrix, I’ll rip-off this weird shit that I don’t even understand because there are no pictures.”

There once was a time where Angelina Jolie was hot. We called that time the 90’s. Now, all she does are crazy action films. When I imagine having sex with her, the fantasy ends with her killing and eating me. Not hot. Scary. Her sixteen adopted children must be terrified of her.

Remember that five hour spy movie with Matt Damon? Every time Jolie was on screen the movie became totally unrealistic, because she was wasn’t tearing someone apart with her bare hands or anything. It just goes to show the extent to which Hollywood controls our minds, because it’s not like she looks buff or manly, it’s just that movies have brainwashed us into thinking she’s the ultimate killing machine.

I understand this, and yet, I am still afraid.

Stay out of California

The last thing Hollywood needs is a bunch of immigrants coming in and taking entertainment jobs away from native Californians. Damn foreigners always taking our jobs! We were here first! Manifest Destiny was over 100 years ago and your ancestors missed their chance.

I don’t want to sound state-ist or anything, but GO BACK TO IOWA YOU FILTHY SANDBACKS (in reference to crossing the deserts of Nevada, Utah, Arizona and New Mexico to get to California).

Now, I’m fine with some corn-ers here and there to work in the fields like picking espressos from Starbucks for assistant directors (‘Only Starbucks God Dammit. I swear to god if you get me that Coffee Bean diarrhea water your ass is fired. And don’t think I won’t know you little shit’) or being a grossly underpaid on-set maid. But lately, I’ve seen too many foreigners infringing on actual jobs of status in Hollywood. Look who won at the Oscars this year for cryin’ our loud: all outlanders.

I demand the Academy take away the Coen brothers’ Oscar and then immediately melt it down for scrap. No one wants an Oscar tainted by the dirty, snow covered hands of a Minnesotan, let alone two of them. And don’t even get me started on that Illinois harlot Diablo Cody.

But thanks to the courageous efforts of the Republicans, there is legislation and policy being proposed to keep you legal aliens out of the Golden State. There may be some exceptions on a case to case basis but count yourself permanently banned from California if you:

Have never seen the ocean.

Have ever worn a baseball cap into a non-sports bar.

Have ever shoveled snow.

Wear cross-trainers or running shoes when not exercising.

When asked where you would go on a ‘Dream Vacation,’ the most creative and exotic place you can think of is Hawaii.

Wore cargo shorts after 2006.

Do not have a Governor that was a former movie star.

And most importantly: please disregard this article if you are an attractive woman. This does not apply to you. In fact, invite your hot friends to come with you.

A Plea to the God of Summer Blockbusters

Something bitchin’ this way comes...

I am not a religious man by any means. I openly curse nature, I’ve thrown up in several sacred texts, and I’ve driven my own mother to tears by telling her God doesn’t exit. There is one higher power I do believe in however: Summer Blockbusters.

I deeply cherish the fact that millions of dollars go into making a car flip over Bruce Willis, or putting a recovering coke addict into a flying metal suit. Sure, sunshine may be the way you plebs herald in the new summer, but to those who know better, we see it as the time when movies get bigger, louder, and Bruckheimer-ier. Aw shit yes.

I beseech thee then, O Mighty One, He Who Makes Cool Shit Happen in Movies; God of Summer Blockbusters, hear my plea, and if you see it in your divine Way, grant me and my fellow movie-goers the following:

1. At least one scene in a movie where two opponents somehow have bombs in their stomachs, and the detonators to each other’s stomach-bomb are implanted in the palms of the opposite guy, so that when they both upper-cut each other, the dudes simultaneously explode. This can take place in a flaming dove sanctuary for dramatic effect.

2. A movie about a person who somehow has a mohawk made of chainsaws. There should be a scene where he is in a warehouse full of zombie ravers, and he whips his head around to techno music in order to chop up the raving undead. The zombie ravers are extra unpredictable because of all the MDMA coursing through their recently turned systems. The person’s name should be a play on having a chainsaw mohawk, like “Hawk-Saw,” or “Saw-Hawk.” The movie can be called “Kut-Fuckers!”

3. An ominous sci-fi where there’s a futuristic arena game sanctioned by a sinister government that pits warriors who get fired out of cannons against one another. The goal is to be fired back and forth out of massive cannons and battle mid-air with an assortment of weapons at the warriors’ disposal. There can be a scene where one dude headbutts his way through another guy’s chest. At the championships, there will be an ever-changing, 3-D laser grid that cuts people up, as well as hover-gladiators. This one will be titled “Death Grid: Rise of the Hover-Gladiator”

Blow in her Face

Not too long ago, while putzing around online, I found this clever advertisement from the 60's.

At first, I didn’t think much of it, other than to validate that men have always been men and women are put to best use when they’re treated like whores. I guess a part of me wanted to be angry about it, or in the very least deeply offended, but then I realized it was true.

On an innocuous Sunday morning after a wild night on the town I awoke in my friend’s bed. The night before, our friend Stacy had shown up with some guy that looked like a reject from an Abercrombie catalogue from 1996. Only it was twelve years later, and he had no modeling/acting career and a beer gut, he was just some idiot with a popped collar. I hated him immediately. Stacy on the other hand was smitten. She kept saying that she was going to date him and that she really liked him. At brunch, I wanted to stab Stacy.

In the middle of breakfast I readjusted my sunglasses and ordered another Bloody Mary when Stacy started talking about what went on with her and Chet from the night before. Tragically, it turned out Chet lived in the valley and said he was too drunk to drive and ended crashing at her place. Stacy’s ploy to make him her boyfriend started by getting him to think she wasn’t a whore. The best way to do this, in her opinion, was to deny him sex and instead offer a handjob.

Sadly, the whore inside Stacy could not be suppressed and she said, “But I forgot how tiring handjobs were so I got bored and told him to finish it himself and then he came on my face. I am in love.” At first, I wanted to tell Stacy she was a whore lifer, but then some old bitch at a table nearby called Stacy a slut, and she was, but she was my slut. So I stood up and announced, “IF YOU BLOW IN HER FACE SHE’LL FOLLOW YOU ANYWHERE. I KNOW THIS BECAUSE I READ AN OLD CIGARETTE AD. NOW YOU KNOW THIS TOO, SO FUCK OFF.”

Robot Hero

First they took our jobs. Now they are taking our leisure time.

Is a hero someone with exceptional courage? Or just a normal man who puts his life at risk for the safety of others?

Defining a hero is difficult, but for many Americans, a hero is someone who plays cover songs with great accuracy. A Guitar Hero.

In a way, Guitar Hero gave us the chance to become heroes in our living room, without braving any dangers besides carpal tunnel syndrome or looking like a douche.

Sure, that Playstation could keep throwing little dots at us, but we knew that with hard work and a little luck, we could transcend our normal selves and start playing on medium.

Now that all might be taken away.

Students at Texas A&M have created a robot that can read the video signals coming from Guitar Hero, and press the correct buttons. It is called the “SlashBot”, and it gets around 95% accuracy on expert.

Thank god emo kids haven’t figured out a way to design their own “SlashBot.”

A similar, more retarded robot called the Guitar Heronoid, gets about 50% accuracy on medium, but looks far more menacing.

Haven’t these engineers seen “War Games?” When computers start playing games for fun, they don’t know when to stop. And the computer in that movie was like an Apple IIe. Imagine the destruction a properly trained PS3 would wreak.

But worst of all, one man has started using these sinister machines against his own kind.

A father, dismayed at his son’s ability to repeatedly beat the crap out of him in Guitar Hero, modified his “guitar” to play the notes for him in real time. The result was the AutoGuitarHero.

It’s damn good at Guitar Hero, but is finishing “Cliffs of Dover” on expert worth teaching your child that cheating is ok?

These infernal machines have already torn one family apart. So please, help stop these video game playing robots. I fear it already too late.

Recession Forces U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security to Moonlight as Nosferatu Impersonator

Recently, I was forced into visiting the tragedy that is Universal Studios by some out-of-town friends. What would have typically been a terrible waste of my time became a life enhancing experience.

While these friends relished in what they considered legitimate Hollywood experiences I took a ton of painkillers with the intention of enjoying myself. While vegging out I noticed Max Schreck’s doppelganger out of the corner of my eye. Could it be, the sunken in eyes, the pekid skin, the bald head? Upon further inspection I realized it wasn’t just your regular, run of the mill, Nosferatu impersonator, but Michael Chertoff, Secretary of Homeland Security for the good old U.S. of A.

“Don’t I know you?” I asked him my breasts gushed with excitement.

“Uh, maybe. I do the 6 p.m. meet and greet. Want me to autograph something for you?”

I presented him with the only thing handy, a magic marker and my breasts, and on them with his creepily long fingers he penned the name Nosferatu.

“Wait a second,” I found myself saying. “Aren’t you also Michael Chertoff, Secretary of Homeland Security?”

He looked at me curiously and began gushing, “You actually know who I am!”

It turned out Chertoff had hit hard times just like everyone else and picked up the gig at Universal to help make ends meet. When my friends showed back up they wanted to know why I was hanging out with, “that vampire dude,” and why I allowed him to sign my tits.

Both questions I didn’t have answers for. Before I left he handed me his government issued business card, but on the back in creepy serial killer handwriting he’d written:

Michael Chertoff

Nosferatu Impersonator

Available: Nights & Weekends for Personal Appearances.

I guess next time I need to hire someone to scare the shit out of everyone I know I am going to give Mike a call cause it turns out he’s in the market for a new gig and some fast cash.

The Bad, the Good, and the Totally Awesome

Working in entertainment probably requires way more bitch work for slave wages than most other industries, but then there are the moments that make it all worthwhile. They usually involve blow, blowjobs, festivals, and semi-famous people.

The Bad

Get sent to go pick up a lighting package for a music video on my first day of my first internship. Not able to fit said equipment in the trunk of my ’94 Nissan Sentra. Roll down the 101 with one hand out the window holding on to this mysterious gear that I’ve shoddily tied to the roof of my ride, praying that wind doesn’t pick up.

They tell me they’ll bump me up to a PA and pay me for my efforts. They don’t pay. My first day at my second internship I spend assembling drawers from IKEA.

The Good

Find myself at Sundance with no real agenda. I party near (not necessarily with) Mary Kate Olsen, making eye contact several times. End up at a club where Paris Hilton pushes past me. Decide I’m probably in the right place. Next thing I know, I’m hanging out with two full blown cougars from Calgary. Pretty sure one of them mentions a husband. Things are going good when we are cuddling against eachother in the snow after the club closes. Things go south when an Escalade full of black guys they somehow know pulls up and picks them up. They invite me along, but I pussy out of a possible gangbang.

The Totally Awesome

Get to be flown out to Austin for SxSW to shoot videos with the Comedians of Comedy, Les Savy Fav, and Andrew WK. Get Andew WK to say “Your love of pussy is no excuse for leaving an upper decker.” Texan blonde sees me sitting next to Brian Posehn and Michael Showalter. Apparently thinks I’m somehow important. End up getting a fantastic blow job in my shared room at the La Quinta Inn. My Mexican co-intern watches for about half of it and then goes to IHOP. Spend rest of trip getting shitfaced for free because I know a band.

The Gettysburg Address: Diablo Cody Version

Izzabe Lizzincoln was one dope home skillet.

174 America's Next Top Model cycles ago, thanx 2 our rents' rents, America Offline left the beaver DIY-style, a n00b WOW kingdom w/ a Libertarian baby daddy, all OCD over hot fellow man love.

Now we're caught up in this North Coast-South Coast beef, seeing if our peeps can gel w/ ur peeps enuff 2 form Hands Across America, 'til death do us pizzart. As we chill at the scene of all this white-on-white crime, I pour one out 4 our homies who were down from jump street but pulled a JFK so our Grand Old Posse can keep on keepin' on. Word to our founding mothers.

But we can't get all "Jesus Walks" over this turf. Its cherry's been popped, and we can't stitch that vajayjay back up. The OG's, online and off, who had their caps peeled up in this mug have made it a Virgin Mary silhouette on our tortilla of life. Don't get it twisted. This viral audio will soon be Audi, but 2moro, next gen hard drives will back up the struggle for the Futurama. Here and Now That's What I Call Music, it's ABFT that we do the damn thing that got our BFF's pwn'd.

We gotzta get crackheaded aboot this fux0r'd shizznit. In this flame war, it's live free or diehard with a vengeance, so let's Voltron up and Save Private Ryan so our brohams will not have bin fragged in vain. We roll thick under the Notorious G.O.D., and when we push more starz 'n barz out that baby hole, everything will be off the heeswax. After all, all our base are belong to us -- uv the peeps, bi the peeps, 4 the peeps, 'til def do us part. OMGWTFBBQ.

Homesick

Having recently moved I am forced to replace my favorite restaurants with ones in my new town.

I think I will have the most difficulty replacing Ted’s Hot Dogs.

I started going there as a kid and over the years came to appreciate it for more than just hot dogs. Ted’s is the kind of place where you walk in, get in line, see your food on the grill, pay and go grab a seat. No one serves you there. So I found Ted’s to be an ideal place to send people who were selling rifles and shotguns through classified ads.

The call involved the owner answering a few questions and I would express interest in buying their weapon. I went on to explain that I was the manager of Ted’s and the best thing would be for the seller to bring the gun to my work. I told them that I worked the grill behind the counter and that my restaurant was always busy. So the best thing to do was bring in the gun, hold it up so I could see it and then just go sit down. “That way”, I instructed to the gun owner, “I’ll know you’re here and I’ll just take a break.” I always agreed to throw in a free lunch to ensure that the people would hold up the gun upon entering the place.

While I was never there to witness any gun sellers I was often charmed by the image of terrified Ted’s diners as a man with a shotgun walked into their friendly hot dog stand, ordered nothing and then took a seat in a booth near them. Now who wants onion rings?

There's No Such Thing as Sexy Shitting

Nothing is quite as satisfying as listening to a gaggle of women the morning after a night of heavy drinking.

Upon waking up, after checking out one another, someone will get up and go to the bathroom. Once she emerges, this woman will look at her friends and brag about taking the best, most awesome shit of her life, and her friends will be jealous. If there is a man present this will never happen because women somehow think they’ve convinced men that they do not shit, ever.

In a way this is a good thing because I am sure men never want to hear about the fact that their girlfriend took a massive shit in the shape of an S that she secretly dubbed, “Super Shit”. So I understand that there is a bit of a gender understanding when it comes to taking a shit, but let’s not pretend overall that women never shit, ever.

Too bad some women cannot handle the fact that they do take shits and people know it. Once, I was at a party where this girl went into the bathroom for over twenty minutes. At some point, people started getting upset at having to wait so long to use the facilities. Finally, my sister walked by and said, “Relax people, she’s just taking a shit. Just relax and give her some respect. She’s making a poopie.”

Well, the second my sister said that, the bathroom door flung open and a tiny woman emerged and wanted to know who said she was taking a shit. This girl was enraged beyond belief and acted like she was ready to fight. Eventually, she gave up because my sister asked her if she was in the bathroom for twenty minutes shaving her face. All night long she kept saying, “How dare that girl say I was shitting. How dare she.” Right, how dare she, because everyone knows women do not shit. Duh.

There’s no polite way to get this out of my mouth

Oh, that's a surprise. Living in L.A., land of meticulous physical upkeep, botox and bikinis, I didn't quite expect such a... 70s decor here underneath your panties. Well, no use thinking about it, I'll just dive in and...

Uh-oh. Is that…? Oh crap, it is. Right on the side of my tongue, I can feel it, like a little piece of string. What do I do now? I'm already on my way out here … I guess I could spit it out, quietly… oh, Christ, that'll never work. She'll hear, and what kind of message would it send? I guess I could reach up and grab it, but she'll see and be embarrassed and who knows what will happen after that. Argh. Let's face it, there's just no polite way to get this pube out of my mouth.

C'mon dude, think. You can do this. Should I head back into the jungle and just hope things work out on their own? Assume that all the movement will somehow resolve this issue in a discreet manner? No, the moment has clearly passed, going back would seem like overkill.

Oh no – at the navel now. What about direct honesty? What if I just laid it out there. "Hang on a second, one of your pubes is caught in my mouth and I would like to get it out in a timely manner." Nice, Romeo, that'll do it. Good work.

Passing the boobs… How about just clearing my throat? Would that do it? A short, polite half-cough? But what about phlegm? And what if I swallow accidentally?

Oh crap, she's going to kiss me… That's it, I'm just going to have to use a finger… Or is this a test of our budding relationship? Am I supposed to be comfortable with this at this stage? Will she be offended that I don't want it in there? Son of a bitch what if… Oh, wait. There it goes.

Street Cynic: New York

As soon I purchased my ticket for my first trip to New York my immediate thought was “How am I single handedly going to make fun of the biggest city in America?”

I decided I would rely on all New Yorkers’ innate inferiority complex they have with California. So I bought a tape recorder and was ready for some "investigative journalism."

I walked around for a while carefully considering each candidate when I saw the perfect target by a fountain near the MOMA on 53rd. A man of Italian decent (no doubt) dressed in normal attire except for the fact that he had all sorts of shit (crosses, skulls, roses) bedazzled and embroidered on his clothing and was wearing the biggest cross necklace I’d ever seen.

I slowly managed to get the courage and walk up to him and ask him if he would answer a few questions. I went through the whole rigmarole of posing as a reporter working for an LA ‘culture magazine.’ The nearby fountain was loud so I asked him to hold the recorder.

That was mistake #1...

I started off easy by asking him if he’s ever been to LA and he hadn’t. But I could tell this fine young gentleman had lots of intelligent opinions based on empirical evidence so I asked if he’s interested in going. He said no and cited his reason as Joe Torre ‘being a west coast bitch now’ and how annoyed he is with the green movement. I decided to press on the latter.

Mistake #2...

I noted how few Priuses I saw roaming around. This lead to a series of vicious attacks on Prius owners, mainly questioning their sexuality. I almost cracked when he said, “They need the good gas mileage because they’re probably driving all over blowing dicks.”

Mistake #3...

“Do you have a favorite television show?” I asked with childlike glee in anticipation for his answer. The Sopranos. Of Course it is.

“I’m pretty sure James Gandolfini ‘drives a Prius’ if you get my drift,” gesturing a rib nudge with my elbow. After I explained further that I meant he was gay, he was in disbelief.

Final Mistake...

“Yeah, pretty much all popular actors are gay, but they keep it a secret so they don’t scare the Midwest. In fact the whole place is run by ‘The Gays.’ Have you ever heard of the Gay Mafia? Those guys are in charge and only hire gay actors for the biggest roles. It’s sort of like how Scientology works.”

I could see the epiphany he was having in his facial expression. And now I was laughing so hard on the inside that I may as well have been on the outside. He finally realized what was going on, started cursing in only a way that a New Yorker could understand, and to my dismay turned towards the water fountain and slam-dunked my recorder.

He was going to “beat the fuck out of me” but said he was too busy. No chance for a picture unless I wanted my camera to suffer the same fate. I high-tailed it out of there just in case his schedule of loitering the a park bench 20 feet away loosened up. When I returned an hour later for my photo-op, the guido was gone and so was the recorder.

Hollywood Home and Garden: Entertaining for Different Eating Disorders

Entertaining can be fun, but what do you do when your anorexic friend wants to visit from the East Coast, or your new bulimic neighbor is coming to dinner?

A guest with food issues can complicate menu planning, not to mention the fact that many people with eating disorders also suffer from depression. No need to feel anemic about your guest’s arrival, turn that eating disorder into an order for festivity! Amanda Egge shares tips for the consummate Hollywood homemaker who finds herself hosting food-challenged company.

The Anorexic House Guest

Before your anorexic guest arrives, spend a few hours clipping out pictures of heroin addicts and starving African children, then tape the pictures up on the walls in your guesthouse. You’ll be glad to finally put those precision craft scissors to use and your pro-ana visitant will be externally grateful for the thinspiration!

The Over-Eating Guest of Honor

When throwing a shindig for an over-eater, make it a fun and kitschy ‘All You Can Eat’ themed party. Have the invitations printed on bags of potato chips and encourage your guests to wear pants with an elastic waistband. Set up a salad bar complete with bacon bits and baby corn, hold a hot dog eating contest (winner gets a gift certificate to Hometown Buffet,) and for desert give each guest his or her own box of Ho Hos. Everyone will have so much fun stuffing their faces your guest of honor will completely forget that he can’t see his own dick over his stomach!

The Bulimic Dinner Guest

For a fabulous dinner party, buy purge bags direct from American Airlines. Decorate them with Swarovski crystals and use them as place settings, writing each guest’s name and “in case you eat too much!” on the bag. Not only will your bulimic guest thank you for making her feel so welcome, but these dazzling and edgy place settings make a great conversation piece!

The Vegan Cocktail Party Guest

For a PETA friendly happy hour, try a ‘Vegan Wine and No Cheese Party’. Have photo plates, coasters and mugs made with images of cattle infected with mad cow disease, caged baby pigs and chicken living in a crowded pen full of their own excrement, then use your provocative new dinnerware to serve organic veggies, humus and vegan wine. Nothing makes a vegan feel better about himself than not ingesting animal products while looking at pictures of livestock about to be slaughtered, and your meat-eating guest’s arteries will thank your for the night of repose!

I'm Here for the 2:00 Botox

Dermatologists like 'em wrinkly.

I saw a dermatologist last week for a, um, "thing," and as I sat on the examination table explaining my symptoms to him, I couldn't help but notice a vague sense of disappointment. Never having received this reaction from a doctor who wasn't staring at my penis, I wasn't sure what to make of it until I saw another patient -- a squat, fifty-something woman dabbing her cheeks with cotton swabs and promising to come back next week -- walk by the examination room. That's when I realized that I was an LA dermatologist's worst nightmare: a need-based patient.

Unlike the haus frau stopping for a touch-up between the eyes (Why not between the toes, like other junkies?), I wouldn't be a recurring source of income. I had no need for brow paralysis, and the only crow's feet I ever had came from a Korean take-out.

As I spoke, the doctor sighed and had a faraway look in his eyes -- no doubt wondering if he should add nipples to the figurehead on his yacht. He barely glanced at my "lump" before scrawling down a $15 prescription and shoving me out the door. He claimed he was giving me antibiotics, but I could swear that the illegible scribble on the little square paper read "anti-poverty pills".

I should've suspected as much when I saw the 40-inch plasma TV in the waiting room running soft-focus infomercials for Botox and a skin tightening procedure that seemed to involve electric cattle prods. "Will I be able to make facial expressions?" a woman on screen asked with the subtle intimacy of a douche commercial. It was clear that this 30-year-old actress had never needed Botox a day in her life, but as I learned that day, it's not about needing it; you have to want it.