MadAtoms (beta)

Getting the Most Out of Your Summer Internship

2008-06-25T10:07:00.000-07:00

Or how to steal office supplies...

Over the next few weeks, thousands of naïve college kids will descend upon the city to work as unpaid bitches for giant corporate behemoths in the hope that they will one day be able to find a job despite having useless liberal arts degrees. While experience and contacts are valuable, there are so many other things to take advantage of during your three-month vacation to the real world.

Going Places You Don't Belong

Your boss will be invited to clubs, parties and premieres. You won't. You will, however, probably be opening his mail. Just sayin'.

Also, if your office is on the lot, take every opportunity to steal a golf cart and sneak onto all the various movie/tv shows that are shooting. If your office is on the Universal lot, sneak through the service entrance next to the Jurassic Park ride so you can do T2:3D on your lunch break for free. To get past security without being hassled, always make sure to be talking on your cell phone. No matter how sketchy you may appear, no one fucks with the guy on the phone.

Pretending Your Boss' Stuff is Yours

At some point your boss is probably going to ask you to take his Porsche to the shop. In all likelihood, you will never own a Porsche or any car even remotely that awesome. Drive it fast. Drive it really fucking fast. Try to pick up chicks. You won't succeed, but you will feel really good about yourself in the three seconds before the girl gets a good look at you and realizes you're a nerdy twenty-year-old wearing a hand-me-down suit.

Dating Other Interns

Normally, the rule of thumb for inter-office dating is don't shit where you eat. But since you won't be around for that long, have at it while you can. Just know that if you're going after a female intern who is even slightly attractive, she'll already be getting hit on by every other guy in the building and even the dudes in the mail room make more money than you.

Stealing Office Supplies

Generally, if it requires a hand-cart to get to your car, you probably shouldn't take it. Pretty much anything else is fair game.

I'd Rather Be a Poor Assistant Than Elbow Deep in Mangled Pussy.

2008-06-24T13:20:00.001-07:00

My mom still wants me to become a doctor.

After the family next door recently moved away to a brand new McMansion, she couldn't help but reiterate what a great profession the medical field is. Our former neighbor happens to be a gynecologist who specializes in going back and fixing botched vagina surgeries. It's unsettling enough to think about what your average ObGyn experiences on a daily basis, but I honestly don't think I could do what this guy does and remain heterosexual. As much as I love money, I'll take being an underpaid bitch over touching random women's messed up insides any day of the week.

That's the thing my mom doesn't understand, though. Throughout my youth, she'd tell me about how great it would be to work as a doctor. I'd be a pillar of the community, live in a huge house, drive a fancy car, date women way hotter than me...the works. Don't get me wrong, it sounds awesome and all...but it also means I'd first have to spend ten years of the best years of my existence busting my ass in school and in residency. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in education down the tubes. Thirty-six hour hospital internship marathons. Studying endlessly for tests and poking at cadavers. I have to say I'd honestly rather be fetching coffee and answering phones for a relatively light 60 hour workweek.

But back to my mom's phone conversation....

After explaining to her that a high six figure income still wasn't enticing enough to make me want to follow my former neighbor into the field of putting back together mishandled ladyparts, she simply replied, “Hey, I'd do it if I could!” And since this was by far the most frank sexual discussion I'd ever had with her, I hung up the phone and threw up in my mouth.

Hollywood Home and Garden: Drug Parties

2008-06-24T13:03:00.000-07:00

Drinking Patron Silver and snorting coke out of hundred dollar bills every night can get depressing, especially when your friends start hinting that you might have a problem. When that happens, a serious drug party is called for.

Everyone knows that the best way to look and feel normal is by making everyone else around you super fucked up. For that not so every day fête that doesn’t just condone the use of illegal substances, but actually forces it on guests, try these Hollywood Home and Garden party ideas that are sure to launch some mini-habits, not to mention major-fun.

Hitler’s Pot Party

April 20th is Hitler’s Birthday; it’s also a big day for potheads. In celebration of both, host a ‘Heil Hitler Hash Bash’. Buy Hitler mustaches and hand them out to guests as they arrive. Once all of your Hitlers are present, have everyone sit in a circle and pass around a bong with a Star of David on it. Tell the Hitlers they must smoke the Jew weed until it is completely gone. Once all your Hitlers are sufficiently stoned, watch Schindler’s List and serve munchies. Ten days later commit suicide!

Martin Luther King’s Crack Mixer

Martin Luther King had a dream, then came crack cocaine. Invite your single friends to celebrate the glass ceilings that hold all of us back by sucking on the glass dick. To set the mood, make an iPod playlist of Negro spirituals, then buy each guest one of those fake roses in four-inch glass tubes they sell at gas stations; the glass tube can be used as a crack pipe (just add a piece of Brillo pad for a filter,) and the rose adds a touch of romance. Love and crack smoke will be in the air at this singles party that gives a whole new meaning to speed dating!

Santa’s Black Tar Bloc Party

Avoid noise ordinance laws and annoying neighbors who call the cops by hosting a ‘Surprise Neighborhood H-mas Party’. Dress up like Santa Clause and go door-to-door unannounced. When your neighbors answer the door, say “ho ho ho” and stab them with a needle full of heroin. Once your neighbors are all on the nod, invite over 200 of your rowdiest friends, turn-up your sound system full blast and party uninterrupted (or at least until the H wears off and your neighbors knock on your door dope sick and cranky.)

America’s Meth Makeover Party

What better way to celebrate America’s independence than by freeing yourself of unwanted hair at a ‘Crystal Meth Eyebrow Plucking and Face Picking Party’? Buy each guest his or her own mirror and a pair of tweezers. Decorate by covering all the windows of your house in tin foil. Serve red and blue Kool-Aid in plastic cups along with bumps of methamphetamine. Once all your guests are good and tweaking, let the plucking and picking begin! (For added DYI fun, have each of your guests bring a box of Sudafed and make your own meth!)

Hipters + France = Natural Disaster

2008-06-20T13:42:00.000-07:00

While working with a bunch French nationals, I've learned many things. But most shocking of all is how badly French hipsters put their American counterparts to shame.

Witness the Tektonik movement. It's taking over France faster than Hitler and the Bubonic Plague combined. These guys are straight but try to appear as gay as possible. Their uniform consists of old school Nikes [Apparently, they're Reeboks] with the tongues out, tight jeans and goofy sweaters. They abstain from drugs and alcohol. Mullethawks are their haircut of choice. And, most notably, they dance in a way that is indescribably hilarious.

Sit back, relax and get ready to live. This shit is bananas...

Google Dumps

2008-06-20T11:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve got a history of using technology for the basest of purposes.

At age 12, I can remember carrying a small tape recorder to document my own farts, as well as the farts of those around me. Call it degenerate multi-tasking, but I get a certain satisfaction imagining the many advancements technology has afforded mankind, and then using those same advancements to more efficiently dick around. That’s how technology aids civilization. It saves us time and energy, so that we can dedicate more of our lives to beating off and playing Xbox.

From watching a pirated copy of Step Up 2: The Streets on my iPod, to locating my pot dealer with a GPS system, I am one of many members of the tech age who has besmirched the honor of innovation. The latest practice I’ve found in debasing technology is using my laptop on the toilet. It warms my bare thighs, and I can easily watch Youtube footage of volcanoes erupting while undergoing a little “eruption” of my own. Thanks to Gchat, I’ve conversed with nearly all my friends on the shitter. I have produced emoticons and dumps at the same rate. For my salt, an appliance is only as good as the crap taken while using it.

Since the introduction of household portability, inventors must now face the fact that at some point or another, their contribution to the modern world will be used by a body that is concurrently producing dumps. In a brilliant dove-tail of interests, I’ve used Google Maps’ User-Created Maps feature, to catalogue the various places around this fair city that I have taken dumps. I have aptly titled the map “Places in Los Angeles that I have Crapped.” Take a look:

Now That’s What I Call Music to Die To!

2008-06-18T15:56:00.000-07:00

Death Row inmates get one last listen.

In an effort to make capitol punishment more “humane,” federal penitentiaries have adopted a progressive addition to the “last meal” and “last words” tradition. Leading up to one’s final living moments, a death row inmate may now arrange a “last playlist” using a special prison issue iPod, and the NOW That’s What I Call Music song catalogue.

Based on the most popular prisoner playlists, compilation music giant NOW!, brings you the next hit mix: “Now That’s What I Call Execution Music!” made up of the most popular songs played by death row inmates at various stages of execution, from a prisoner’s alone time all the way into one’s last living moments. Now you can get jiggy with the same hot tracks as the soon to be executed! Check it out:

NOW That’s What I Call Songs To Listen To Alone in Your Cell, Contemplating Death:

1-“Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” Green Day

2-“Closing Time” Semisonic

3-“Graduation (Friends Forever)” Vitamin C

4-“Family Matters Theme Song”

5-“Freshman” The Verve Pipe

NOW That’s What I Call Tunes To Jam To, While Being Led Down a Dank, Lonely Hallway

1-“Fuck the Police” N.W.A.

2-“Cop Killer” Ice T

3-“Sounds of Halloween, volume 5”

4-“Livin’ Thing” Electric Light Orchestra

5-“I Can’t Dance” Genesis

NOW That’s What I Call Music to Die To!:

(Top ten songs listened to during execution)

1-“Tubthumping” Chumbawumba

2-“I Will Survive,” by Gloria Gaynor

3-“I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight,” Cutting Crew

4-“I Will Survive,” Cake cover

5-“I Wanna Be Sedated” Ramones

6-“Waterfalls” TLC

7-“Where in the World Is Carmen San Diego?” Rockapella

8-“Alive” Pearl Jam

9-“Auld Lang Syne” Robert Burns

10-“Umbrella” Rihanna

Coming soon: Ads beamed right into your mind.

2008-06-17T10:18:00.000-07:00

Giant monsters. Super villains. Hipsters. Everything bad happens to New York first. So, it should be no surprise that New York is the birthplace of a disturbing new form of advertising.

Imagine a beam of sound that is beamed directly into your skull. This beam can make you hear voices. Voices no one around you can hear.

It’s called hypersonic sound technology. Sound waves are shot out at a pitch undetectable to the human ear. These audio advertisements travel along harmlessly until they find something to smash into like your face. The waves then slow down to a pitch that you can hear. Since the thing slowing the waves down is your head, that’s where the voices sound like there are coming from.

It’s a powerful new technology, with a host of potentially useful applications. So of course it was first used to push a crappy basic-cable show.

The show was “Paranormal State”, and people walking by a billboard for the PS (that’s what the fans call it) in Manhattan would hear a voice saying “Who’s there? Who’s there?”

It is weird enough hearing ghostly voices, but did they have to push a show on the “Arts & Entertainment” network?

A&E shows don’t qualify as art, and barely, barely qualify as entertainment. I don’t even think A&E is serious about the ampersand anymore.

Anyway, I know that unlike their distinct seasons and their pizza, New York City won’t keep this advertising ray to themselves.

Soon there will be no way to tell if the hobo screaming about voices in his brain is a paranoid schizophrenic, or simply responding enthusiastically to an ad for “Chris Angel Mindfreak.”

In fact, I don’t see how non-hobos hit with this ray are supposed to know that they are not schizophrenic themselves. How does a normal person react when a voice inside their head commands them to watch A&E?

It’s an unnatural thought, somewhere on par with hearing your Chihuahua demand the hammer-murder of your parents.

Our only hope is that Los Angeles bans this invasive technology before it becomes commonplace. But in a city where the idea of an attractive public space is one dominated with building-sized posters for failed movies, I don’t think there’s much room for optimism.

Sexxx Shoppe Sabrina

2008-06-17T10:06:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, father.

Dear Dad,

I know you have a countless amount of money, like Scrooge McDuck, and even if you don’t exactly have a vault filled with magical golden coins waiting for someone to swim through them, I know you have enough to give me what I want. Dad, you know I am not exactly good with direction. I am not dedicated and a terrible employee. You know this firsthand from when I worked for you right out of college. Dad, how many countless amounts of time did I show up late, wearing the same thing I was wearing the night before, smelling of sex and booze? More than either one of us could count, and you, unlike me, remember most of those mornings.

Dad, I know my true calling and with the help of whore logic I know there’s still a possibility for me to become all that I can be. Before you have a stroke, I do not want to be in the sex industry, at least not exactly. My body might say SLUT, WHORE, BIMBO with its giant tits and swiveling hips, but my mind says ENTREPRENEUR. Dad, what if I took my super licentious body and whored it up in order to run a soon to be world famous sexxx shoppe. Dad, think about it, people are always going to pay for dildos because you cannot make them at home.

There could even be a gimmick to put us on the map. You have four daughters, and although legally one of them is too young to work in such an environment, three of them could dress up in latex, and spend the day spanking one another and selling perverts anal beads. Dad, before you say anything, you wouldn’t be a pimp. No way, you’d be chief investor and mogul of a sex industry empire.

Please give me what I want. I am spoiled and not suited for a desk job, and my only other alternative is to pull an Anna Nicole Smith and marry someone 97-years-old and pray they die while I am on top.

Love,

Your Daughter

Judging A Book By Its Cover: The Secret by Rhonda Byrne

2008-06-16T13:36:00.000-07:00

I’d drink their kool-aid.

When someone asks me what they need to do if they’re considering a move to LA, I say two things: get a Westside Rentals membership and join a good, strong cult.

I recommend The Secret mainly because it has a cover that looks like a treasure map. It shows that the book is one step above a metal detector. It will show you a path that will lead you to treasure. Spiritually, emotionally, monetarily.

Perhaps more importantly, the treasure map cover tells me the The Secret is also about pirates. L. Ron Hubbard may have been clever enough to include some aliens in his cult. And The Artists Workshop has, well, artists, I guess. But if I’m moving into a commune, I’d rather brush my teeth next to a pirate rather than some incense burning, patchouli wearing, Venice beach Artist or baby Suri.

Also, the title and author’s name is written in a way that makes it look like it glows. Just like Jesus, or E.T. I don’t know. I’m just saying that if someone glows, then I’m more inclined to listen to His or Her worldviews.

And let’s not overlook the fact that there is a big, fake wax seal on the cover. This strongly suggests that The Secret contains the answer to, um, well, something very, very important.

My only suggestion? Maybe include a ring with each book purchase, sort of like the CTR (“Choose the Right”) rings the Mormons wear. Or one of those rubber bracelets like the Lance Armstrong followers sport. I became obsessed with having both of those when they came out, and I suppose it is similar to how I wanted a retainer when I was ten. I’m not saying it’s essential, but it does sweeten the pot.

Wii Pole Dancing

2008-06-16T10:02:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately it isn’t Princess Peach, Chun-Li, or Dixie Kong riding that pole. It’s you.

There’s a company called Peekaboo that is famous for bringing pole dancing “fun” into homes across America with their “Peekaboo Pole Dancing Kit” and the Carmen Electra endorsed “Electra Pole.” Now, they are shopping around for someone to help them develop a pole dancing game for the Wii.

Think it’s a stupid idea that will never get picked up? Well, Peekaboo already has a game out. It’s a cross between Dance Dance Revolution, Twister, and dry humping they call the “Bedroom Boogie Game”

I hope that thing is dishwasher safe.

The good people at Peekaboo claim that they want to want to “do for Pole dancing what Guitar Hero did for Rock and Roll.” That begs the question: What exactly did Guitar Hero do for Rock and Roll?

Guitar Hero makes people feel like they are part of a rock band. For a fleeting moment, you feel what it’s like to be a rock star- only without the money, hepatitis or meth cravings.

However, the only people who are stars on the stripper pole, are, well, strippers. Is there a demand for a video game that makes you feel like a single mother with daddy issues and broken dreams?

Someone at Peekaboo PR is reading this and saying “Pole Dancing isn’t about Stripping! It’s about fun aerobic exercise!”

Really?

The “pole” part of pole dancing is short for “stripper pole.” It’s not that pole the firemen use because they are too lazy for stairs.

And how exactly is the game supposed to work? Are they including a pole? Are you supposed to hold the Wiimote and the pole same time? Do we strap the wiimote on? What kind of precedent are we setting with a strap-on Wiimote?

Peekaboo also claims the game is for “men and women.” How could I explain to a woman that I got my taut physique from a video game about pole dancing? I’d rather tell her I got buff lifting my collection of Bratz dolls or playing Wii Cheerleading.

I hope no developers take Peekaboo up on their offer. People who want the aerobic benefits of pole dancing should have to get it the old fashioned way: while exposing their tits to strangers.

Sean Young's Bloody Yarn

2008-06-13T17:55:00.001-07:00

A few years ago I was waiting to go up at the Hollywood Improv when the host came on stage and announced “we have a special treat, Sean Young is in the audience and she’s going to do stand-up for the first time.”

Sean Young is an actress semi-famous for making an ass out of herself. Most recently at the DGA awards for heckling Julian Schnabel, but also for dressing up in a homemade Catwoman suit and storming the Warner Brothers lot in an attempt to win the role in Batman Returns.

Sean took the stage and lit a cigarette “I really just wanted to come up here so that I could smoke,” she said. The audience laughed. With one simple line and a dash of D-list celebrity magic, she had won them over.

Then Sean went on to talk about how when she gave birth to her first child she was really into mother earth, so she kept the placenta and buried it in her back yard. Needless to say, this anecdote did not go over so well. As much as the audience liked her for killing them with second hand smoke, they didn’t want to know the intimate details of her hippie childbirth.

Unfortunately, it only got worse, as Sean described how her dog dug up the placenta and ate it, at which point the audience collectively threw up in its mouth.

At this point one would have hoped that Sean would graciously exit with a “thank you for enduring my bloody yarn, and good night,” but she didn’t. The room was tense in the way that only a celebrity publicly humiliating herself can make it, and the red light in the back of the room that is used to tell comedians that their time is up was flashing like crazy. But Sean is not a comedian, so she didn’t understand the light system and barreled on.

Digging herself deeper into a whole, she recounted the birth of her second child and how once again she kept the placenta and buried it in the back yard, and once again her dog dug it up and ate it.

Then, in a moment of ultimate mercy, the host of the show approached the stage and lured Sean Young off with a glass of wine; at which point I turned to my friend Jason and said “that’s funny, that’s exactly how we get my grandfather to take a shower after he’s pissed himself.”

I can’t say I did any better that night then Sean. She pretty much killed the room. But at least I kept my dignity and left my placenta where it belongs, in the freezer next to the icy pops.

The Seven Wonders of a Hollywood Studio Apartment

2008-06-12T11:03:00.000-07:00

There’s a studio apartment for rent in my historic Hollywood apartment building. If you’re dying to live in the heart of Hollywood, where dreams are killed and midwestern tourists walk by stores selling bongs and stripper shoes, this is the place for you.

Here are seven things you should know before you sign the lease.

1. The Price

$925 a month buys you your very own studio apartment in the middle of movieland complete with a homeless guy for a doorman. Can’t afford $925? Get a roommate or, if you’re Mexican, a wife and three kids. In Los Angeles a studio apartment can house two besties from Peoria or an entire family from Guadalajara!

2. The Address

Tell your friends back home in Illinois that you live in Hollywood and they will think it is so glamorous. Tell your friends in Echo Park and they’ll tell you to move east.

3. The Neighbors

Whenever you’re feeling down on yourself, take a quick trip over to the Grumman’s Chinese Theater where grown men who couldn’t make it as background extras get dressed up like Spider Man and Jack Sparrow to hustle tourists out of $5 for a photo. There’s nothing like observing someone else’s pathetic life to make you feel better about not booking that SAG experimental from Backstage West.

4. The Parking

There is none. Nor is there pubic transportation. And don’t even think about walking more than two or three blocks unless you want to be mistaken for a homeless person or a tranny. You’re screwed with a car or without one. Get used to never leaving your apartment or get a second job just to pay your parking tickets.

5. The Odor

There’s nothing better than coming home after a long day of PA work to an apartment that smells like someone else’s dinner. Well, except maybe inviting your date up for some post-car-make out, pre-sex “tea” only to find that your apartment smells like a fish market in Chinatown. To combat, keep a stash of incense and take your revenge by making loud gratuitous noises during sex.

6. The Sounds

If there isn’t a mariachi band playing in the restaurant downstairs, there’s a ghetto bird in the sky or your loud obese neighbor yelling at his girlfriend. Invest in some earplugs or a prescription for Ambien.

7. The Other Odor

Since the shower is 30 feet from the kitchen, and the kitchen shares a vent with the apartment below, you can look forward to smelling your neighbors breakfast while you try to wash off last night’s sexual encounter with Jack Sparrow. This means that when your neighbor decides to cook broccoli at 10am, so will your shower and you will never really feel clean. Welcome to Hollywood!

Peer Pressure Does Not Wane in Adulthood

2008-06-11T18:29:00.000-07:00

I always assumed the peer pressure to have the coolest toys on the block was a phenomenon confined to the ages between 4 and 16.

But I'm finding now more than ever that not having a next generation gaming console is excluding me from real-life social events. Quite often I'll hear two of my friends recounting a Halo game they had last night, or how they can't believe they beat those German teenagers 5 to 2 in Super Smash Brothers Melee. Not only can I not participate in their digital games... I don't even know what the fuck they're talking about.

And I don't make a lot of money, so buying one of these fancy "fun machines" isn't really an option for me. Plus I feel like I shouldn't have to miss out on in-person social interaction because my gaming system doesn't output to an HD TV. But the negative effects of my last-gen gaming situation are really starting to build up.

Last week a friend of mine lugged all of his Rock Band instruments over to my apartment and we had a very awkward moment when I told him I don't have an XBox 360. It honestly kind of ruined the night. His tone with me implied he was not only disappointed in the situation, but disappointed in me as a person. I am a GROWN ADULT and not having wireless controllers has stopped people from coming over to my place to hang out.

I want to say this is happening because I have nerdy friends, but the sad part is that deep down I honestly feel uncool. I've never really gotten into playing video games, but to be honest with you I've seriously been considering buying a PS3 with my $600 Government Rebate check.

No, no, you know what? Forget those guys. I'm going to play Crash Bandicoot on PS1, masturbate, and fall asleep in a puddle of my own tears.

I Hate Baby Boomers

2008-06-11T14:37:00.000-07:00

I think that's because they are the prototype for the contemporary hipster. But there's more to it than that.

You can spot them a mile off. Just as people with Down Syndrome all look alike, so, too, do Boomers – middle age bellies, sour fashion and wrinkles so deep you can wedge several half dollars in them.

I became aware of how annoying Boomers are when Dennis Hopper started appearing in commercials urging retirees to park their cash at Ameriprise Financial. This from the ambassador of a generation that still considers itself brilliant because they flirt with Marxism and think Al Gore is a fucking genius. Far out, Mr. Easy Rider.

I can't wait until Vincent Gallo starts appearing in commercials for tax shelters.

But Boomers are an unhinged lot; they are dangerous because they still consider themselves cool, relevant – or worse – both. This 40+ years after telling dad to fuck off as they brooded on the living room couch reading Ginsburg.

Their heads are a mess. Cognitively, they're at that place where senility and too much acid converge. This greatly hampers their ability to contribute to society in meaningful ways (so do the hot flashes). A Boomer's attempt at creativity proves that they are to be avoided, as evidenced Isabella Rossellini's "Green Porno."

Despair not: there is a solution to the problem. Of Timothy Leary's famous dictum, "Turn on, tune in, drop out," Boomers ought to heed the latter. Hopefully they'll listen.

Hollywood After-hours

2008-06-10T18:19:00.000-07:00

Impractical advice on what to do for fun in L.A. after last call…

One-thirty is a sad time for the party animals located in the beauteous L.A. area. It’s last call, and as a woman you can chance a good old fashioned gang bang at an after party or look for something a little more interesting to do. Too bad almost none of the typical late-night plans I end up getting into go along with anything considered regular late night activities because the proverbial game of chance I play is unparalleled.

After a night of extraordinary amounts of alcohol consumption myself, my sister and our other female friend decided to stop at Benito’s Tacos on Highland and Santa Monica before heading to, whichever useless after party we’d decided to attend. Besides being the location for Benito’s this corner is also the local hangout for really disgusting prostitutes.

One of these lovelies pranced in front of my car strutting her stuff. Before my very eyes shone the most striking thing I had ever seen, this black beauty was 300 pounds and wearing cut off shorts that had been fashioned in a way that wedged between her ass cheeks like a thong. I was amazed, I was delighted and I definitely needed a picture. In my daze I realized that I needed to capture this Hallmark moment on film so that I could brag about it FOREVER. Too bad Angela Asscheeks was not having any of it and the second she saw a camera she stormed towards my car like a rhino.

For reasons that were unclear, she had a never-ending supply of bottles, which she angrily hurled towards my car. Awesomely, she managed to get three bottles through the sunroof of my car while my sister drove in circles around the parking lot while we screamed and laughed at her. In the midst of the chaos, I happened to get a half-assed photo of her makeshift assless chaps; my sister ended up with a concussion and my friend in the backseat doesn’t remember it ever happening. I guess if you’re ever in the mood for a little late night mischief, go ahead and hassle your local hookers, cause what the hell else is there to do?

The Title

2008-06-10T11:28:00.000-07:00

Pretty much everyone who has a job tries to make it sound better than it really is by taking liberties with their title.

Here are some typical title enhancements:

-- Postal Worker – “Federal Official”

-- Receptionist – “Office Manager”

-- Secretary – “Personal Assistant”

-- Gas pumper – “Petrol Exporter”

It’s much worse in Hollywood. No longer need one’s title have anything whatsoever to do with one’s actual vocation. A good example of this is the waitress who claims to be an actress, a singer and a dancer. But somehow our server enumerating her various little talents strikes us as kind of cute, charming, and reassuringly pathetic. It’s less benign when egos are on the line and deception is involved.

You’re at a party yukking it up with a twenty-something who’s wearing a blazer over a T-shirt with elaborate designs, and it’s pretty tricky to figure out whether he’s a producer or a local sceney douche bag. He says he’s a producer. What he doesn’t say is that he’s actually a bartender at the Dresden who intends on one day possibly being a producer, should the stars align just right. You proceed to waste the next couple weeks sending him your script or head shot, or whatever, until you bump into him on a Wednesday night and he introduces you to the only power brokers he knows – Marty and Elaine, who both perform nightly.

This is less annoying than the fact that Angelenos think projecting success is a necessary first step to becoming successful. They don’t take many steps to become successful past the initial projection.

Here’s how conversations would go if we were half-way honest with each other:

Guy: So, what do you do?

Other Guy: I burn copies of reels all day, sometimes pick up lunch, and get reamed by anyone in the office having a bad day. What about you?

Guy: I post internet videos that are kind of funny.

Unfortunately, this is how it actually goes:

Guy: So, what do you do?

Other Guy: I’m a post-production supervisor and media consultant. You?

Guy: I’m a producer.

Near-Death in Venice

2008-06-09T15:35:00.000-07:00

That's Venice Beach, California, for our international readers.

As I pulled out of my parking spot on a residential street in Venice and began picking up speed, a woman came out of nowhere and side-checked my vehicle with her purse. I was convinced I must have committed involuntary manslaughter and I felt it was important to make sure the woman was alive, so I stopped abruptly. That’s when this leather-jacketed, 40yr old, entirely unattractive broad hopped into my car and told me to, “Move it!”

I stayed put.

Now that could’ve been because I was in shock, but it’s also possible that I’m naturally calm and rational under duress.

Suddenly, a broad-shouldered beefcake appeared running towards us at TOP SPEED from around the corner. “GO! GO bitch!” she screamed at me but I didn’t move. Again, that could’ve been because I was frozen senseless with fear and horror but it’s also possible I was unaccommodating because the cunt-whore beside me was calling me names.

Her boyfriend quickly climbed atop my vehicle and once he got into a spread-eagle position demanded me to, “GET THAT SLUT OUT OF YOUR CAR.” But just as quickly he folded, took a slight crawl towards the passenger side and pressed his mouth against my windshield. He kissed it and in a sweeter appeal said, “Baby they’re going to kill me if I don’t give them that money.” This didn’t work either so climbed off my hood, screamed primally, ripped his shirt from his body, then tore his shirt into smaller shreds WITH HIS TEETH.

This was the moment when I finally pressed the gas.

In some sort of divine providence there were two female cops who’d pulled over a teenage driver around the corner, so I gave them my statement and ole Leather-Jacket finally got out of my car.

There is a moral to the story and that is: Always Lock Your Car Doors. That way when a wayward girlfriend tries to climb into your vehicle, she can’t get in. No need to get caught in the middle when domestic disturbance takes to the streets.

Baracksploitation

2008-06-09T09:10:00.000-07:00

Barack Obama could be the next Ronald Reagan.

With his 18- to-49 demographic appeal, chiseled good looks, and roster of Hollywood supporters, it's a no-brainer that Barack Obama could pull a "reverse Schwarzenegger" and go into acting if this whole politics thing doesn't work out. Unbeknownst to many, he already has a few offers on the table.

Barack in the USSR: A political thriller set in the early '80s at the height of the Cold War, starring Obama as a US spy on a mission to pants Leonid Brezhnev in Red Square, symbolically revealing to the world the instability and anatomical inadequateness of Communism.

Roebama vs. Wade: A hard-hitting courtroom drama in which Obama plays a lawyer who defends a woman's right to choose because he's simultaneously sleeping with the female defense attorney, who's now pregnant and needs an abortion, stat!

Obama Baby Mama: A romantic comedy in which Obama plays a lifelong bachelor whose life is turned upside down when a woman claiming to carry his love child shows up on his doorstep. They go through wacky hijinks involving Lamaze classes, female hormone imbalances, and delivering the baby on a cherry picker. When the woman eventually reveals that Obama's not really the father, he rebuffs her, but his heart is won over when she shows up one night outside his window, the bastard child in her arms holding a tiny iPod boombox over its soft skull, playing George Michael's "Father Figure".

Barackatoa: A disaster film in which Obama and his family vacation on a volcanic Indonesian island. When the volcano threatens to erupt with an intensity that would cause a new ice age, Obama gathers a ragtag team of scientists, mechanics, and petty criminals to venture inside the mountain and blow it up. Tearjerker moment: Obama says goodbye to his wife using Oreos and a downtempo rendition of the theme song to The Jeffersons.

O'Nama: A searing war epic that finds Obama as a battle-hardened Marine on the front lines of the Viet Nam conflict trying to balance his desire to withdraw the troops from an unwinnable war with his duty to kick as much ass as humanly possible. For the most part, the ass-kicking wins.

Turok Obama: A sci-fi epic blockbuster in which Obama goes back in time to stop dinosaurs from evolving into Republicans.

Oh! Bomb! Aahh!: An action adventure in which Obama is a S.W.A.T. team member who must defuse a bomb on a bus wired to explode if it goes over 50 miles per hour or stops completely. Luckily, it's a gas-electric hybrid that combines great gas mileage with the mediocre performance required to maintain a low speed. To be shot simultaneously with Oh! Bomb! Aahh! 2: Bomb Appétit.

The Record Store Clerk is Dead! Long Live the Record Store Clerk!

2008-06-05T15:56:00.000-07:00

Record stores are dying, and with them the record store clerk. Who else will make us feel like complete morons?

When the record store finally goes the way of the dinosaur, a pop culture cliché will go with it: the record store clerk, immortalized in the film High Fidelity. He is ugly. He is patronizing. And even though he earns only 8 bucks an hour, he makes us regret every decision we’ve ever made.

When the record store dies, who will fill this vital role in our society? Some possibilities:

Sushi Chefs

Sushi Chefs have hundreds of unwritten rules of behavior when you sit at the sushi bar- what to order, what to put wasabi on, what to put soy sauce on, how to drink saké. Ask for a fork and they laugh at you. Answer your phone and they look at you like you're a child molester.

And don't even think about substituting. "Can I get cucumber instead of guacamole?" If that look they’re giving you is familiar, it’s the same one you got when you bought an R.E.M. album at Amoeba.

iPod Genius Bar "geniuses"

First, they’ll keep you waiting for a half hour. Then they’ll ask you a hundred questions. Finally, they fix the problem. Instead of being gracious about it, they treat the problem as a personal deficiency of yours, like when you didn’t know that Nick Drake was in the folk section. The asshole at the counter just had to point out that you were only buying it cause you heard Pink Moon in that Volkswagon commercial.

(Note: the Mac geniuses, on the other hand, are quite helpful. They’re more like doctors, who keep you waiting but then save your life.)

That Long-Haired Asshole at Cinefile

I don’t know if that guy still works there, or if he’s the owner. Maybe he got a haircut, I haven’t been there since I moved to Hollywood. What an asshole that guy is. I mean, you’d think I’d get a little respect for renting films by Werner Herzog and Hal Ashby. But no. I’m just some dilettante who doesn’t know his Ozu from his Ozon. I thought the French guy’s name was Ozu, ok? It’s an easy mistake to make.

[Editor's Note: I once wanted to pick up a quick shot there for a no budget viral video thing. The dickhead manager at Cinefile actually wanted us to give him $100. Instead we went to Blockbuster, strode through the front with a camera, stole the shot, and walked out.]

Nickariah: You Too Can Have a Train Wreck Marriage of Convenience

2008-06-05T15:47:00.000-07:00

Everyone loves a train wreck.

So, Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon are the latest celebrity sham marriage pairing a legit star (with issues) with a hanger-on seeking fame and fortune. Whitney and Bobby. Britney and Kevin. Tomkat. Kim Kardashian and everyone. If it weren't obvious from her perpetual doe eyes and grade school obsession with butterflies, Mariah needs Nick to fulfill her desire to feel young; while she fulfills his desire to have the paparazzi know who the hell he is.

I don't fault them, though. In fact, I think a lot more stars could benefit from such an arrangement:

Ian Ziering and Ellen Page: He needs people to know he's still alive. She needs people to think she's straight.

Haley Joel Osment and Jennifer Aniston: He needs her to revitalize his career. She needs him to not sleep with Angelina Jolie.

Haylie Duff and Owen Wilson: He needs her to prevent him from slitting his wrists. She needs him to make her nose look normal.

Pamela Anderson and George Clooney: She needs him to feel classy. He needs her to annul the marriage.

Tara Reid and Shia Labeouf: She needs him to clean up her image. He needs her to score him some blow.

Dustin Diamond and Natalie Portman: He needs her to comfort him at night when he wakes up in a cold sweat from the recurring nightmare of being sodomized by A.C. Slater. She needs him to make her feel less Jewish.

Bobby Brown and Eddie Murphy: Bobby needs Eddie's money for child support. Eddie just likes dicks.

Aaron Carter and Barbara Walters: He needs her for legitimacy. She needs marrow to stay alive.

Miley Cyrus and Billy Ray Cyrus: Self-explanatory. Already in the works.

Judging a Book by Its Cover: Stori Telling by Tori Spelling

2008-06-05T11:23:00.000-07:00

She isn’t fake. That’s just her hair and boobs.

First, do you get the joke? Stori Telling?

See, she changed the ‘Y’ in ‘STORY’ to an ‘I’, so that ‘STORY’ becomes ‘STORI’, just like her name. Get it? It sounds the same but now its got added meaning. I believe ‘wordplay’ is the technical name for it.

But wait, there’s more.

Tori bravely confesses that her boobs are fake. Fake! I was stunned. Still am. But get this: that’s just what we learn from the cover. You can only imagine how many other body parts she’ll admit are fake in the actual book.

Plus, she has enough good-judgment and common sense to show a little cleavage. Tori knows that nothing screams integrity quite like duct-taping your boobs together. Take note fellow lady writers: the best way to earn a reader’s trust and respect is to slap a photo of yourself on the cover with your rack pushed up to your chin.

And, she’s like, humble. She points out that the jewelry she wore to a red carpet event were loaners. See, she’s not mega rich. She’s just rich. Want to know why? It’s called “disinheritance”. Fascinating, huh? Well, I bet you can read all about this injustice in her memoir too.

The train doesn’t stop there. She also smartly scribbles these truths all over the cover with a giant pink marker. This alone tells me that her stories about summer camp in Malibu and her really fast metabolism are told with enormous depth and weight.

So if you’re having a craving for realiti (ha-ha), give Stori Telling a read. Tori is so fake, she’s real.

Your Half-Baked Tattoo Idea Will Not Fly With Your Grandkids

2008-06-04T16:55:00.000-07:00

One day, you'll have to explain to your grandkids why you got the Tasmanian Devil inked on your calf.

Everyone with a tattoo has their bullshit reasons behind it; You always want to live by a religious philosophy you briefly learned about in your eastern cultures class, you want to honor that guy you spent a fateful spring break with, you want everyone to know you're hard to touch, hence the barbed wire on your bicep.

While none of us want to admit it, most of the mental preparation done before getting a tattoo is figuring out what you're going to say when people ask you what your ink symbolizes. You want to be deep. You want to be profound. You spend months crafting the beautiful soliloquy that will give insight to your masterful epidermal tapestry.

But most of us are dumb and only profound in the way that a Zach Braff movie is profound. Every tattoo explanation I've ever heard (including my own) comes off as a cover story for the real reason we get tattoos: they are awesome. You can philosophize all you want, but deep down we know that the reason we brave ridicule from our friends, lectures from our parents, and potential inker's remorse is so we can look cool in a tank top.

But few people will admit this is the case. Most stand proudly by their tattoos and their vague, cryptic, undertones. The trickiest part of this whole equation is that we're all getting older, and that one day we're going to have grandkids asking about the muddy purple spots on our forearms and lower backs.

Just take a second and imagine your own grandmother, just finishing setting the table for a delicious Thanksgiving feast, saying that she got Death tattooed on her shoulder blade because she always wants to remember that the Reaper's on her back, man. Now imagine your grandfather, sporting Bermuda shorts and an oxygen tank, saying he got this piece done on his chest because Fall Out Boy is "fucking awesome."

Hilarious right? Gaze into your future, American youth.

My iPhone Makes Me Cum

2008-06-04T09:45:00.000-07:00

Yes, I love my iPhone. No, I don’t care that it doesn’t have ‘cut and paste’ or that I can’t “voice dial”. Okay, sure, cut and paste would be nice, but my iPhone does things that no other cutting and pasting smartphone can. My iPhone makes me cum.

Okay, so technically it has only made me cum once. But the fact of the matter is that my iPhone was responsible for bringing me to orgasm. How many people can say that about their lame ass BlackBerry? I don’t care if you have BBM and a tactile keyboard. I’ve got a sex toy in my pocket that plays 2000 of my favorite songs, oh and I can also use it to call my mom.

See my iPhone has iBrate, the 3rd party iPhone application that unleashes the vibrational power of the iPhone and turns into a sleek $399 pocket rocket with data roaming (or $599 if you were an early sucker, I mean adapter, like myself.).

Yes, you have to “hack” your iPhone in order to add iBrate, and yes, Apple says this will void your warranty, but that just makes it all the more dangerous and exciting. The iPhone isn’t just a pocket rocket; it’s a lawless h4x0r love machine!

For almost six months I had iBrate on my iPhone, but I never used it except to show my friends “look what my iPhone can do!” Then, one night, stranded out of state without a Rabbit or a date, I consummated my relationship with my iPhone.

Like many first times with a lover, it was a bit awkward and it took a little longer than normal. The iPhone isn’t really the best shape for a vibrator and its actual vibes aren’t very powerful. But in a jam, it worked and eventually I got off.

So stop hating the iPhone. You’re just mad because your fingers are too fat for the keyboard. Oh, and my iPhone has been places your fat BBMing fingers will never go. Vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv. Ohhhhh yeaaaaaahhhhhh.

Trailer Trash: Mama Mia!

2008-06-03T18:32:00.000-07:00

Movies with an exclamation point in the title are always good except for Moulin Rouge! Oklahoma! Oliver! And Win a Date with Tad Hamilton!

This trailer came on in the theater when I was seeing that George Clooney football movie, and thirty seconds in I was seized with an urge to light myself on fire in order to dull the pain. But I was on a date and thought it might send the wrong message.

Meryl Streep's daughter (the kind-of-hot daughter from Big Love) is getting married. The bride-to-be doesn't know who her father is because Streep was fucking three guys at once: the second to last James Bond, the neurotic British guy that's not Hugh Grant, and the gay professor from Good Will Hunting. For some reason, they’re all British, except for maybe the Good Will Hunting guy, who I guess is European or something (who am I, Rand McNally?) In order to figure out who the real father is, the three gents are invited to the wedding in order to participate in a horrible train wreck of homosexuality.

Not only is Mama Mia a musical, but it’s a musical based on the music of ABBA, making this the gayest movie since El Paso Wrecking Corp. I thought we had all gotten together and decided that disco music was a big mistake and should be stricken from the public consciousness, like Minimalism and Abu Ghraib.

From the looks of the trailer, Mama Mia! appears to be 70% dancing, 20% wise cracks about what a slut Meryl Streep’s character used to be, and 10% of these two ancient British women gasping or doing something else British. Oh, and I guess there’s bound to be a lot of singing too, but they don’t show that in this trailer probably because they want people to actually go see this thing. Smart guys, these trailer people.

(Oh wait, there’s a new trailer of them singing here. I can’t watch the whole thing, it’s too painful).

I know that I'm not exactly the target audience here, but c'mon, couldn't the filmmakers have thrown my demographic (straight males- there are quite a few of us!) a bone here? Besides the daughter from Big Love? Couldn’t second-to-last James Bond get into a karate fight with the groom, or shoot someone in the head? Something? Anything?

The Most Generous Guy in Town

2008-06-03T16:05:00.000-07:00

Or what would Jesus do if he made way too much money producing bad TV...

So I was invited to dinner at the Palm with a guy who may or may not produce this pilot I wrote which may or may not ever get made. We were to “meet” with this huge TV producer whose name I won’t reveal on the off chance I ever get anything approximating a career. He brought his son, or as I will now refer to him “the luckiest-graced-by-birth-no-talent-son-of-a-bitch on the planet or ‘TLGBBNTSOAB’” for short.

Huge TV Producer held court, “The thing is, and it doesn’t make any sense to buy a Gulfstream (for the uninitiated, The Gulfstream 450 carries 8 passengers and 3 crew and has a maximum range of 4,350 nm. A 2009 will cost you about 44 million). See, unless you plan to fly at least 350 hours a year you’re better off renting. Then it’s only like $5700.00 an hour plus whatever added expenses. That’s why I ended up selling mine.”

The conversation moved onto politics of course. I’ve always suspected that Hollywood was full of closet Republicans. Guys who publicly support the Democrat du joir but once inside the voting booth, it’s all about whichever Republican will protect their cash. Though Huge TV Producer drives a Lexus Hybrid and was flawless in his blowhard rendition of the entire lexicon of liberal talking points, something was off. “It’s time for Hillary to admit that she lost the nomination two months ago. Don’t get me wrong; I gave her money-” TLGBBNTSOAB chimed in, “I thought you gave Obama money…” “Yeah, him too…”

The check arrived: $627.00. That’s $73.00 more than an Indonesian factory worker earns in a year. As we headed out, a homeless man stood just outside the door. He spoke directly to us, “please can I get a little change? I haven’t eaten in a while.” I gave him all the change in my pocket. Walking away, I turned to see Huge TV Producer as he strolled right by Mr. Homeless, big smile on his face…just the nicest guy in the world.

How to Really Tell if I'm Human

2008-06-03T10:06:00.001-07:00

The uncrackable CAPTCHAs.

So, depending on how close you have your supple finger to the clammy, trembling pulse of the internet nerd community, you may have heard that a couple of months back a group of enterprising young anti-societals finally cracked Gmail's CAPTCHA system. CAPTCHAs are those squiggly little sets of letters and numbers that usually appear whenever you’re doing something like registering an e-mail account or so much as considering logging onto Myspace. They’re supposed to help websites tell the tax-paying, air-breathing human beings from the bloodless, hulking towers of metal and circuits that spew ads for “Ulltra no-risK Roy@l N1gerian C0k pi11s” 24 hours a day without rest or surrender.

The idea is that the nightmare machines shouldn’t be able to read the letters and numbers (because of all the squiggles) while the humans should. But here’s the problem: letters and numbers are a computer’s whole thing. Expecting them not to figure these things out someday is like tying Lindsay Lohan up in a room alone with an oil drum full of blow and expecting her not to eventually gnaw through the ropes.

We don’t win by trying to beat the computers on their own turf. We win by playing the right game: by engaging them on subjects that no computer has any idea about, but any live human being knows almost instinctually. Here’s what I mean:

Click the items that a person might "hit":

Click only on Michael Jackson's self-image:

Click the items that would pump up the average bro:
Click only the "cool" animals:

William Morris Will Pass

2008-06-02T16:39:00.000-07:00

But not more than twice.

Not too long ago my girlfriend and I met one of her old high school friends, Dick Hamb, at a Starbucks in Santa Monica. They both had a smattering of mutual friends back in the day, so now that he’s an assistant agent (this is comparable to a penile extension, minus the aesthetic benefits) at William Morris, it seemed like a good idea to hand my director’s reel off to him.

Yesterday’s good ideas are today’s smegma infections.

Let’s bump back about six years in time. I was a soon-to-be college graduate, and my first attempt at depth and profundity, a one act stiflingly titled, “Waiting to be Exiled”, had just run at the American Collegiate Theater Festival – better known as, The One Week Drinking Binge at a Hotel in Bellingham, Washington for Theater Shits. A recognized playwright saw my play and we struck up a friendship. Over the next few weeks I rewrote the crap out of that pile of crap in the hopes of fame and riches not known to playwrights since David Mamet first wrote the word "Fuck."

The play, along with other stuff, wound up in the hands of a penile extension at William Morris, Max Roman. He promptly read and/or discarded what was my life’s work and proceeded to never get back to me with so much as a verbal shrug.

Fast-forward to present day. Dick calls me up to say that my stuff is good and blah, blah, blah. He says that I haven’t quite figured out what kind of a director I am yet, and that this is exactly where I should be in my career right now. He says that “making it” in this industry is like running a marathon, which I guess is supposed to be both inspiring and admonishing. I restrain myself from suggesting to this 23 year-old assistant to a piece of shit that he ought to run a few laps before waxing philosophic on my ass about marathons.

As for William Morris: Reject me once, shame on me. Reject me twice, um, uh…you’ll never reject me again.

This Woman's Take on Sex and the City

2008-06-02T10:11:00.000-07:00

There are a ton of things I do not understand about popular culture and Sex and the City is one of them.

For all I can tell, it’s about a horse-faced hag that has problems with men, but her consolation prize is she has some pretty chic, if not bizarre, outfits to prance around in NYC regardless of the fact no writer can afford $3000 Marc Jacobs cocktail dresses. I do not care about this stupid show (and now movie, I'm sure a comic book or Saturday morning cartoon is on its way) because I’m not its intended demographic. It is marketed to boring housewives who are trying to live through other women over thirty-five who’re not stuck with the social-life-suicide known as marriage.

I want to try and like the show, but it’s hard when the biggest advocate has been my 60-year-old married aunt who says things like, “This is the best show of my life.” Uh, sorry, but I know for sure there have been better shows in the last sixty-years. And I bet not many of them were centered around a woman so repulsive that there’s a website dedicated to how she looks like a horse. Which brings me to the first reason this show ever became a hit. Sarah Jessica Parker is hideous in a way that makes it easy for women to think to themselves, "I am just as, if not more, attractive than this chick."

Although Sex and the City didn’t invent the “Cougar,” it has made it socially acceptable. Way to go mom, make sure you bring condoms to the bar with you. Fucking gross. I am not sure when the memo stopped being passed around, but the oldest you can get away with being a slut and not turn into an automatic tragedy is thirty-two tops. Thanks to Sex and the City, recently divorced soccer moms everywhere now feel it is their God given right to invade bars with their sagging tits and faces so tight and expressionless, you might as well be banging a mannequin.

I guess you could make the argument that I’m being hypocritical considering I’ve been known to partake in shameless after-hour activities akin to the likes of these characters. All I’ve got to say is that I am sure your mom, as well as mine, are also going to watch this film and having one night stands with strangers is the last thing I ever want to have in common with them. This is one movie I (and hopefully my mother) will never see.

Hollywood's Decision Makers

2008-05-30T18:30:00.001-07:00

Slightly older than Miley Cyrus, probably a fan of her music – that’s who decides whether your movie gets made.

So I’m at this event for new film school graduates where, on the eve of their commencement, they get to pitch films to Important Studios and Hollywood Agencies, hoping against all odds to sell an idea. These are eager, ambitious people, bursting with fervor to gain traction on the movie they just spent two years and $90,000 writing, their voices trembling with energy, skin radiating the message, “Please…”

These people have been led to believe that this is a room filled with decision-makers, power players, a launchpad for dreams, gateway to the business they dreamt they would join, and rightfully so. They are good writers. The program well-regarded, the faculty top-notch.

But imagine the surprise of the 28-year-old artistic type who sat down in front of two Agency Representatives about midway through the session, ready to pitch his dark drama about a psychic teenager, only to find himself utterly ignored. Across the table from him were two of Hollywood’s front line of true decision makers - drunk 21-year-old D-girls. And this pair were having one of those important insider conversations that precluded the writer from getting a word in edgewise – which of the agents in the room they were going to try to fuck later.

When one girl finally decided to listen to the poor guy, she began to yawn, openly, unabashedly, twirling her hair while the dude pitched his heart out. Yes, these are the people who forge the output of Hollywood – drunk sorority survivors who know only too well the real currency in Los Angeles: Pussy.

Could this business suck any more?

Crazed Employee Attacks Workplace with Water Weapons

2008-05-30T12:09:00.001-07:00

A fun alternative to that classic chestnut, the office-wide killing spree.

So that sweet bitch Summer is on her way, and you’re stuck pulling pea-dick at the same soul-murdering joe-job, quietly orchestrating a workplace massacre with the precision of an alienated MIT student? Painting up the office in brain is a tempting fantasy, and your boss’s chest cavity could use a few more decorative bullet holes, but before you go all Columbiney on little ol’ Lawrence from accounting, consider a more fun-in-the-sun oriented outburst. On Taco Tuesday, hang on to that internalized anger, but instead of M-16s and hand grenades, why not rampage through the office with an array of squirt guns and water balloons? One of three outcomes will occur:

Fired

Citing your conduct as unprofessional, your superiors will likely terminate your employment. But imagine the look on your coworker’s face when you storm into the office all trenchcoated out, muggin’ a Danzig glare that says “I am the Angel of Death, come to reap…” Your manager’s life will flash before his fat eyes, and he might even piss himself, up to the point when you matter of factly produce a yellow and purple Super Soaker. Sure you’ll be out of a job, but at least you’ll get a cool Digg headline: “Crazed Employee Attacks Workplace with Water Weapons.”

Crazy Leave

If your job is progressive enough like Google (i.e. “fun” colored walls and a company Smoothie bar), you may find yourself on the hooked up end of a sweet, paid-ass vacation. Use your new found loony-flow to settle up a righteous custom Xbox, all under décor Aztec mural style (Master Chief cradling a Tenochtitlan virgin upon a stormy mountain top). When you return, everyone will treat you with more respect, nervous to upset you into maybe using real weapons.

Water Fight

The best of all scenarios, you might be surprised to find that other employees share your anti-repressive beliefs, and the drench attack turns into an office wide water fight. This surprise jolt of liberation will in turn get everyone’s freak flag flying original Woodstock high, and escalate the crew into a classic job-orgy. Once things mellow down, and the last of the naked human resource department cease to snap and twang the flesh ditty, some Js will get floated around the make shift sex camp, your bellies and thighs fat with pleasure, like shiny rich hogs. You’ll all grow closer as a company, and productivity will shoot up 30 percent. Plus no one is dead!

Drug Laws Apparently Do Not Exist at Reggae Shows

2008-05-30T10:14:00.000-07:00

Feeling "irie" in public is apparently OK as long as you're accompanied by a group of Jamaicans.

I had the honor of seeing reggae legends Toots and the Maytals play at The Roxy recently. Now, I've been to plenty of outdoor reggae concerts, so I know the score. I'm hip. I'm down. I know what happens when a bunch of reggae fans are outside and looking to have a good time: A certain narcotic tends to get consumed. It's expected and that's alright with me.

But this show was at The Roxy, which is an indoor rock club that holds about 300 hundred people. You might think not even the most brazen of blazers would dare roll up a woolie in a public place the size of your parents' living room. But low and behold, the green fog was so thick that I got a contact high from the inordinate amount of marijuanas being smoked in there.

This was especially confusing because for being such a tiny club, the Roxy was crawling with security; a brigade of 350 pound dudes with chips on their shoulders and balls for brains. They weren't really the kind of guys whose authority you challenge. Plus you can't even smoke cigarettes indoors in LA, so its not like you can pretend the smoke coming out of your face isn't a controlled substance.

But there we were. Dancing, drinking, and inhaling the sweet aroma of the devil's herb like we were in a college dorm room on April 20th at 4:20pm. At first, everyone was making eye contact with everyone else, almost to ask, "which one of us is a nark?" But it turned out it was none of us, and we all spent the evening like I imagine this country spent the 60's. We were high, the band was high, The Roxy sold an unbelievable amount of cheese pretzels.

So I guess as far as the law in concerned, reggae concerts are like international waters where no court can convict you of a crime. Next time I'm at a reggae show I'm going to try something really illegal just to see what happens... like starting a cockfight.

Battle of the Illegals

2008-05-29T19:22:00.001-07:00

There’s more than one group of lawbreakers menacing LA.

Back in 2002, the city of Los Angeles banned any new billboards from going up. Like the laws against public urination or gang murder, the law has been largely ignored. According to LA Weekly, since the ban, over 4000 illegal billboards have gone up in Los Angeles.

On the other hand, with the current rate of growth, the LA area is set to be home to 1.3 million Illegal Immigrants by 2010. Mathematically, I think that works out to no Mexicans actually in Mexico.

Two groups of lawbreakers. One LA. Which one is doing the most damage to our fair city? Well, here’s the breakdown on how each group helps, or harms Los Angeles.

A pretty one may marry me for citizenship?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Probably not, but maybe

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Make me sad by reminding me that I flunked Spanish in high school?

Immigrants: Yes

Billboards: Yes. Many billboards are in Spanish.

Winner: Tie

Place for ugly graffiti?

Billboards: Yes

Immigrants: No

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Might team up with a friend to remind me when Indiana Jones comes out?

Billboards: Yes.

Immigrants: Even if they did, I don’t speak their illegal immigrant language.

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Take the job of one of my friends or another hardworking American?

Immigrants: Possibly

Billboards: Possibly. I have a friend who is a sign holder.

Winner: Tie

Cook me a delicious meal at one of LA’s fine restaurants.

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes.

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Hold a rally that holds up traffic?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Make me wait longer at an overcrowded emergency room?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Move leaves from one part of the yard to another part of the yard using a device that blows air?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Yard owners

Make the Home Depot parking lot look like a crowed, popular, happening place?

Immigrants: Yes

Billboards: No

Winner: Illegal Immigrants

Make a Republican upset

Billboards: doubt it.

Immigrants: Yes.

Winner: Illegal Immigrants

Results:

Immigrants:8 points.

Billboards: 4 points.

Yard Owners: 1 point.

It looks like illegal billboards are harming our city far more than the illegal immigrants. It’s time to round them up and send them back to where they came from.

Your Testicles Make Me Feel So Much Better

2008-05-29T15:55:00.000-07:00

Seeking solace in a dancing beefcake's leather crotch...

Conventional wisdom says that, if you’re feeling unattractive and alone, go to a gay bar for an upbeat atmosphere, good music and the potential to feel wanted again in the advances of a doughy Filipino in a sleeveless fishnet shirt.

This is total bullshit. If you’re straight, no matter how many up-and-downs you get from a dude in tight Wranglers, it just ain’t helping your ego.

So I wasn’t looking for affirmation when I walked into The Abbey in West Hollywood last week, a gay institution set in a former place of worship. What I found, however, was something even more gratifying: a weird and genuine appreciation for Los Angeles.

Because here is a place so demonstratively, outwardly gay that it could only lie at the throbbing heart of this city, and it put to shame the other gay bars I’ve been patronized in my youth. These have sometimes been gaudy places, trying too hard, or terribly underwhelming. I’ve been to gay bars in England, where the most homoerotic gesture you can make is to loan someone your scarf, and been less than impressed.

But my first image on stepping into The Abbey was thus: A heavily-muscled Latin man wearing only a headband, wristbands and underwear that wouldn’t fit my 8-year-old nephew, hanging upside down from a rafter over the bar. And then he did a split.

Later, taking a seat, I found my view of a mostly-nude, dancing Asian man in six-inch platform boots obscured by a bodybuilder in a cowboy hat who stood directly in front of me and waved his junk – vacuum packed into a pair of Spiderman Underoos – just inches from my face… right before someone stuck their hand in there, rooted around a few seconds, and deposited a dollar.

I don’t often like L.A. It’s big, it’s dirty, it lacks a certain character. But I will say this – it isn’t afraid to put its bulging, sweaty testicles directly in your face and let you know who it is. And that makes me feel better.

Hillary Clinton Might be a Redneck

2008-05-29T09:51:00.000-07:00

...Or not.

For much of the past year, despite the bickering between the two major Democratic candidates for president, there's been little to differentiate the two -- aside from the fact that one of them has a penis and the other one is black. Zing! But I digress. Now, thanks to the backlash from Obama's "clinging to guns and religion" comment, Hillary has stumbled upon a goldmine of voters: the poor and the stupid.

It's a noble enough gesture -- after all, I've heard they're people too -- but by giving speeches from the beds of pickup trucks and throwing back brewskies in hillbilly dive bars, she's implying that somehow she's one of them. Apparently, you might be a redneck if you got your undergrad from Wellesley and went to Yale Law School, married a Rhodes Scholar, and wrote two New York Times #1 best-sellers.

Bill, with his "Aw shucks" Southern charm, could pull it off versus Bush Sr., but Hillary, for all her effort, has the down-hominess of a cucumber sandwich. Still, judging by her nearly 3-to-1 margin of victory in the Toothless Belt of West Virginia and Kentucky -- where race trumps sex every time -- her shtick seems to be working.

She needs to take care, though. Having lived in southwestern Virginia in a town where the first day of deer season was a legit day off from school, I know the type of electorate that Hillary is courting, and she may want to think twice before she continues down this path. Otherwise, if she's elected, she'll be deluged by lobbyists from the gun rack and banjo industries. Her leading corporate donors will be Skoal, Slim Jim, and Wild Turkey, and we'll have the Ku Klux Klan marching band performing Hank Williams, Jr. covers at her inaugural ball.

Sure, it's all cute and folksy right now, but you give these people an inch, and they'll take a mile. If only there was a way to segregate them in some sort of "separate but equal" framework...

Truth is, every politician is an elitist. Even Dubya went to Yale and owned the Texas Rangers. If we really wanted a man of the people, Jesse Ventura would be president, with Randy "Machoman" Savage as the Secretary of Whoopass.

How Long Until Miley Cyrus Goes Batshit Crazy?

2008-05-28T17:48:00.000-07:00

At 15, Cyrus may be “going through some changes.” Will those changes include a complete mental break? Or is that further down the road?

Here’s a trivia question. What is Hannah Montana’s real name? If you said Miley Cyrus, you’re wrong. Her birth name is “Destiny Hope Cyrus.” Let’s just say her parents had some expectations of her.

Cyrus is up against a lot when it comes to sanity. Her dad is the famous hick who wrote Achy-Breaky Heart. She herself is a child star loved by “tweens” around the world. And to those who aren’t already familiar, Destiny Hope Cyrus goes by Miley Cyrus, who plays Miley Stewart on tv who plays Hannah Montana on stage within that TV show. I believe the correct diagnosis here is identity crisis.

Even before the infamous Vanity Fair photographs, certain pictures had surfaced that were, uh, suggestive. Let’s face it, our Miley is growing up. She’s the age where she no longer wants to be that cute little hick, she wants to be smoking hot. Disney must be shitting themselves.

The fact is, Miley Cyrus could be an even bigger star if she successfully makes the transition from Disney “tween” star to sex kitten pop idol. Of course, she’ll have to remain innocent for another two and a half years. And it’s the success of that transition that makes so many young starlets lose their proverbial marbles.

Britney Spears, like Cyrus, has eccentric redneck parents, and an early career with Disney. She was 17 when her controversial photo appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone. It was another five years before that her insanity peeked it’s head when she got married to Jason Alexander, and eight years before it achieved full maturity when she shaved her head during a break from rehab.

It would appear that Cyrus is running two years behind Spears, on track to go totally out of her tree by 2016, at the age of 23. If Disney tries too hard to keep Miley’s sexuality under wraps, she could rebel and go mad as a hatter in a couple of years. Her only hope is to go the Hillary Duff route: stay innocent and virginal, and therefore pass-up Madonna-size success. Of course, the jury’s still out on Duff- she’s only 20.

My prediction is that Cyrus will go Mad as a Hatter somewhere in between her 21st and 22nd birthdays. I welcome all other predictions.

Libation Logic: A Guide for the Ladies

2008-05-28T12:16:00.000-07:00

Before you get drunk know what you’re getting into…

I’ve been drunk plenty of times. In fact, some people might think that my giant tits are the proverbial camel’s humps that house mountains of liquor and allow me to drink day and night with ease, but they’d be wrong. Drinking like a girl isn’t a bad thing if you have any idea what you’re doing...

Beer – If the situation is unfamiliar and you want to loosen up a bit stick with beer. Luckily, all the beers in the world won’t make anyone better looking or more desirable. The added bonus is that it will take you longer to get drunk so you can call your friends to pick you up when the creep at the bar stops taking a hint.

Gin – You’ll start the night out as a princess but end up acting like the sad, sorry sack of shit you hate the second you start drinking gin. Your clothes will probably come off, but whoever is dealing with you will have to validate your every perceived physical imperfection.

Vodka – Vodka drinkers are a sordid sort and probably drink it all day long at work just to make it through the day. That water bottle people see you carrying is VODKA. You can drink steadily all night long and wake up in time for work. You also sleep with an ice pick hidden in places no one could begin to imagine so anyone that tries to mess with you will be sorry.

Tequila – aka Mexican Demon Juice. Introduce this into the mix when you don’t care what the outcome is, as long as you accept the fact that you’ll end up naked. The problem is where you’ll be naked is a veritable mystery, but the surprise over whom you’ll wake up next to is something you come to accept overtime.

Whiskey – Ever want to know what it’d be like to be Cobra Commander with nice tits? Anytime you start throwing back shots of whiskey like you’re John Wayne you risk finding it out. You will go home with the first idiot that dares you and then hate fuck him in a way that was previously considered impossible.

Jagermeister – Serious Jager drinkers are champions beyond human comprehension. You can drink any man under the table and easily turn men into boys that run out of the bar while puking into their own hands. If you’re not a drinking champion, chances are that you’ll morph from a sultry nymph into a fountain that vomits crude oil.

Celebrity Retardation

2008-05-28T10:33:00.000-07:00

Stardom is the lead poisoning in the water fountain of show business.

Having lived in LA for five years now, I've had my share of opportunities to peek "behind the curtain," which has taught me the Golden Rule of Show Biz: success is inversely proportional to one's ability to function as a human being. No, I'm not talking about writers or grips; I mean people with discernible talent. I mean actors and singers. I mean "stars".

They always talk about stars having a certain "it" factor, and "it," as it turns out, is complete and utter social retardation. Stars can't function in the real world. They can't hold a 9 to 5 office job for two days without defecating on someone's keyboard or snorting the Sweet 'n Low packets in the break room. They lack the basic ability to communicate, manage time or recollect even the smallest promise.

They don't know simple rules of everyday living, like, "Don't put aluminum foil in the microwave" and "Don't bathe with your TiVo." That's why they all need personal assistants. They HAVE to be in show business because otherwise, they'd die violently with a household appliance.

And the more famous stars get, the more retarded they get. They become so used to asking people to do stuff for them that they forget how to do the few things they actually know (mostly hygiene-related).

If you want to blow a star's mind, introduce them to the possibility that someone might not be dying to help them. After all, why wouldn't you want to help a major f-ing star?

I'll tell you why: because you can forget about asking for anything in return. They'll either forget what you asked for, or they won't even comprehend it in the first place, only pretending to do so with a dismissive nod and a "Sure, no problem, man."

I would call them idiot savants, but at least savants can remember to leave two tickets at will call.

I'd like "Non-producer," please.

2008-05-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

A call for a new trend in LA dining.

Choosing between "smoking" and "non-smoking" when dining is a practice we no longer deal with here in LA since smoking is now banned in all public gathering places. And you know what? I fully support that. I think its one of the more progressive, health-minded decisions our state has made in the last 20 years.

And in the spirit of being socially progressive, I'm publicly petitioning the city of Los Angeles to provide two new restaurant sections to take the place of "smoking" and "non." I think it's critical for the dining establishments in the greater Los Angeles area to provide "producer" and "non-producer" sections for their patrons.

Since I moved to this city, I don't think I've had a single meal out that didn't involve trying to talk over the loud, cocky, empty ramblings of a producer in an adjacent booth. Whether they're having a business meal or just blowing off some steam after work with a few El Nino Margaritas, their constant biz speak is much more disruptive than a few hipsters puffing on a cigarette while they eat their pancakes.

So I, and the rest of the LA dining community, would greatly appreciate the option of these two new sections: Choosing the designated "non-producer" section would allow you the luxury of eating your meal in peace without being subjected to unwanted glad-handing, Hollywood lingo, empty promises, and hearing the word "project" more than twice per minute. Choosing the "producer" section means you'll hear your fair share of douchey double-speak, however you do have the right to approach any producer eating their meal and, without warning or tact, pitch your "awesome idea" for a new reality show.

Its not just a move towards a more peaceful dining experience, its a move towards social justice. You know what they say: if you can't beat 'em, segregate them into the back corner of a restaurant.

Say Uncle

2008-05-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

One of the best ways to get a foot in the door in Hollywood, I’ve heard, is to have family connections. So I decided to get in contact with my connected family.

Martin Wiley is a half-way successful producer, and he’s also my uncle. Now, I’ve never actually met him, I’ve only ever met George Wiley, his brother, my other uncle. He’s a very friendly man, and the last time I talked to him – about 4 years ago – he took me out to lunch at Canters. We enjoyed our matzoh and discussed his younger brother’s ascent from film student to producer of such great films as Under Seige II and Chill Factor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to Martin – for that matter neither could George’s son. This man has been AWOL from his own family for the better part of a decade or so.

When I moved down here I figured who better to induct me into the halls of Hollywood righteousness than the producer of Mutator (aka Time of the Beast)? I arranged to meet up with him a few times, but whenever the day came he’d be calling me up with weak-ass excuses involving a meeting or a car repair.

I was forced to pull out the big guns. I talked to my aunt, the ex-wife of his older brother, who in turn got in touch with his mother in an attempt to lean on him to cut this bullshit out. I received a cryptic third-hand message that supposedly originated from him, then passed through his mother which was then told to his brother’s ex-wife and emailed to me, the content of which consisted of him urging me to persevere. My exegesis of this proverb entailed my leaving him increasingly terse voicemails, until one day I could no longer persevere. That was about two years ago.

So Martin, if you’re reading this, let me just say I’m highly anticipating the release of The Heaven Project, and I’m a huge Paul Walker fan.

Leave me your new phone number in the comments section.

MAGTA IV

2008-05-27T10:04:00.000-07:00

So, you're ok with me picking up a hooker and beating her senseless in the back of my stolen car…as long as I haven’t had a few cocktails first?

Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) want the Entertainment Software Ratings Board (ESRB) to reclassify Grand Theft Auto IV (GTA IV) from a Mature (M) game to an Adults Only (AO) game. Not surprisingly (NS), this is because of drinking and driving, which these mothers are against. Also not surprisingly, I think MADD should STFU.

GTA IV doesn’t make the player drive drunk during the game. In fact it is discouraged. But if you really want to, you can. And having that option is what’s made MADD so, um, angry.

MADD even asked Rockstar games to consider not distributing the game they spent 100 million dollars developing “if not out of responsibility to society then out of respect for the millions of victims/survivors of drunk driving.”

So out of the millions of victims/ survivors of drunk driving, how many of them were killed or injured because of people drinking… in a video game? I suspect the number is about the same as the number of winning NASCAR drivers killed by blue turtle shells.

And if drinking and driving is a good reason to pull the game, what about everything else in the GTA IV? The game is named after a violent felony. It is essentially a crime simulator. Is MADD against drunk driving, but ok with killing cops with an AK-47?

Besides, for a game that features a lot of driving, doing it drunk is annoying as hell.

If I wanted to cruise around a virtual city with sluggish controls and blurry vision, I’d just play the game after a few Zimas.

Driving like crap in a game isn’t going to make kids walk away with the idea that drunk driving is awesome. If anything, it might teach people that being drunk makes it difficult and dangerous to drive. Mothers should be more worried the aspects of the game that are awesome. For example, lately I’ve had the urge to steal a helicopter.

In a country where drunk driving kills something like 13,000 people every year in real life, maybe MADD can work on that first, before getting their panties in a twist about the make-believe stuff.

Trailer Trash: Wanted

2008-05-23T16:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-23T10:03:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-22T17:31:00.002-07:00

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

2008-05-22T14:50:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-21T12:12:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-21T11:48:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-21T09:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-20T17:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-20T17:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-20T14:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-19T14:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-19T10:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-19T09:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Why I Moved to LA

2008-05-16T09:39:00.000-07:00

Most people come to Los Angeles to act. I didn’t. I came here to get off heroin.

Needless to say, this fact makes for awkward moments in conversation when people ask me why I moved here. I have lived in Los Angeles for seven years and I still don’t quite know how to answer that question.

Sure, I could lie and say that I came here to be an actor. I mean, after I got off heroin that’s what I ended up doing. I became an actor, a writer and a comedian. No one would blame me if I just left the whole heroin part out of the equation. But for some reason I just can’t seem to let the words “I came here to act” come out of my mouth. In fact, I would rather say, “I’m a heroin addict,” than say “I’m an actor.”

I think at some point during my childhood, the seed must have been planted in my head that acting was a fine hobby, but not an acceptable life goal. Although, apparently the seed about not doing heroin was left in its package, because my say no to drugs tree never grew, while my don’t be an actor tree flourished.

Then there is the fact that everyone and their sister, and their sister’s kid, is an actor in this town, so being an actor just doesn’t seem so special. Whereas, how many ex-junkies can you honestly say that you know?

[Ed. note: All the ex-junkies I know are writers for this site.]

I know it’s not really the sort of thing you are supposed to take pride in and it’s a lot to digest for someone you’ve just met. So I have found myself saying things like “I moved here for the weather,” but sunshine just seems so lame in comparison to hard-core heroin abuse.

Lately my reaction has been to get embarrassed and say, “Oh, it’s a long story.” However, this answer only seems to solicit guesses. “Did you move here for a boyfriend?” is a common one. “No…” I say, dangling the ellipsis like a carrot.

I haven’t used heroin in seven years though, so I guess you can say that my LA dream has come true. How many people can really say that?

Not That Good At It

2008-05-15T17:37:00.000-07:00

Even though my crappy office job is so menial that for most of my waking hours I basically exist as an answering machine that occasionally needs to get up and piss, I still manage to somehow be pretty horrible at it.

This hit me during one of the more physically undignified poses that I’m routinely forced to strike during a typical workday. I was squatting like an ape over a large filing cabinet with a clutch of time clock reports, lunch violations, vacation request forms, the patchwork quilt of modern office tedium, when suddenly I became aware that I was having to mentally sing the alphabet song to myself between every shuffle and file.

The file that I was holding began with an “L”. I had to start the song right from the top, at “A”.

Then, at some point in the “F” neighborhood, I got lost. I had to start over. I wish I were making this up.

I spend at least a quarter of the day, every day, on this activity. You’d think that after that kind of grinding repetition I would be able to work that cabinet with the sightless finesse of Stevie Wonder doing a standing #1 in a public bathroom stall. No. They might as well hire a six-year-old to do it the way I do. At least the song would be fresher in his memory.

Slinking back to my desk, I took stock of all the other mundane facets of the job that I exhibit a total lack of aptitude for. I drop messages, I forget supply re-orders. I stick a payroll stub in the copier, the phone rings, and some unlucky fuck doesn’t get his check that week. After 15 minutes of frantic searching five days later, the stub is discovered still in the copier. I once made this Russian delivery guy so late picking up a package from us that his Turkish dispatcher cut off one of his thumbs.

Back before I had this kind of job, when I was steadily failing to get one in interview after interview, I used to piss and moan about how unfair it was that I kept getting passed up for bitches who are so bubbly it’s contributing to global warming. Now I finally get that they’re exactly the candidates you’d want for this type of shit . They spent all of high school training for this job just by remembering friends’ birthdays and talking on the telephone.

My skill-building regimen in high school was basically alternating bouts of video games and manually induced orgasms. I’m not likely to find a market for those skills anywhere, not unless I’m willing to shave my balls and move to Thailand.

I guess for now I’ll just keep showing up, and leave my diploma right where it is: on my bathroom wall just above the toilet.

I Mistook an Actual Blazing Inferno for a Movie Shoot

2008-05-15T11:45:00.000-07:00

As I was getting off the 101 at Vine last week, I saw that the street had been completely blocked off and that there were about 10 fire trucks shooting hoses at a building on the west side of the street. I was enraged.

There are constantly street closures in this part of Hollywood for movie premieres and film shoots, so I naturally assumed this debacle was an inconsiderate production unit shooting an action sequence.

I mean, how can you just shut down one of the biggest intersections in the country during morning rush hour? Does ANYONE give a flying fuck about the non-famous citizens of this town anymore?

I cursed these douches for not properly announcing the street closures and got all pissed off that I was 15 minutes late to work. I even went out of my way to take a picture with my phone so I could complain to all my co-workers about how these studios never take the common man into account when shutting down major commuter traffic. And all this in the name of a more convenient shooting schedule? Fuck these guys.

It wasn't until I flipped on the news an hour later that I realized what I'd seen was not a shoot for the new Will Smith vehicle, but in fact a Hollywood historical monument, the old building that houses the Basque nightclub, burning to the ground.

These Cardboard Boxes Smell Like Failure

2008-05-14T18:45:00.000-07:00

I’m stacking furniture and re-arranging boxes of old scripts and movie posters in a place so depressing I want to forget that I’m nearly 30 and, at one time, had a promising career and a sense of dignity.

Not only am I in the fucking basement of a development company doing manual labor for free, I’m in a mouse-infested storage area literally called, “The Cage,” where the Important Producer keeps his broken Bowflex and old promotional material featuring Tom Cruise with hair extensions.

It’s a fitting example of the profound indignity of trying to weasel your way into a Hollywood career from the bottom, a degrading process that encourages you to wallow in the sleaze under the idiotic hope that somehow, one day, an Important Producer will see your work and say something like, “Man that guy can re-arrange moldy boxes of outdated crew lists, I should hire him to write a major summer blockbuster.”

The retarded logic only becomes more stark when you are in a fetid basement enclosure surrounded by chain-link fence, re-piling crates of someone’s long-lost copies of “Once and Again” scripts and inhaling mouse feces. With every box I stack I get more and more fucking furious at Hollywood in general, and the assholes who told me to do this job specifically. Internships, we have been told, are one way to get a hand into the Teflon vault of Big Entertainment, but what they don’t say is that there’s no way that’s going to happen by doing chores you wouldn’t perform as a favor to your paralytic father.

On top of all that, there’s a distinct, rancid odor coming from all these boxes, and it smells like one specific thing: Failure.

I Would Do Anything for Love…But No Way In Hell Can I Do That

2008-05-14T14:00:00.000-07:00

I met my ex-boyfriend at an audition for this horror short about a haunted movie theater that kills people by (among other ways) boiling them in popcorn butter. He was the writer, and I noticed him immediately because he was poster-boy Caucasian, and that kind of blond perfection just gets me off.

So we started dating and things were going well except for…my ex-boyfriend wasn’t getting what he needed from me sexually. And I struggled with that. This had never been an issue previously and I was doing what I felt I could.

I was fucking him AND sucking his cock. A LOT.

That’s when he offered to make me a porn tape off all his favorite porn moments. I was into it: this was going to be sexy. Being somewhat of an editor, he’d pulled all of his favorite porn clips off various internet sites but was unable to get the appropriate sound. So he set the tape to a song: Meatloaf’s “I Would Do Anything for Love.”

The tape was filled with girls sucking cock, girls getting fucked from behind, girls with boobs bouncing all around. One thing all the clips had in common: each of the girls was Latina. Not a Caucasian in the bunch. The most telling clip was probably the segment where a Latina “babysitter” took a bib and a rattle from a full grown-man, and then had him sit on HER lap while they acrobatically fucked in this oversized high-chair.

Suddenly the pieces began to fall in place. Things like his obsession with the Spanish language. I mean he doesn’t SPEAK Spanish, but he is obsessed with those Rosetta Stone Spanish commercials AND he loves the taco truck next to Von's in Echo Park (who doesn’t?), but I also remember that he’d told me he spent a lot of time with his housekeeper Maria growing up. Fetishes get started early and in a flash I was pretty clear on what I’d have to do to get him off sexually: be reincarnated Latina.

That’d have to wait for another lifetime.

Visitor Info Flash Drive Disappears at San Quentin

2008-05-14T09:03:00.000-07:00

I have no connections in Hollywood. I don't know the chick at the Thai massage parlor who beats off Brett Ratner. I do have connections that can get me into San Quentin with the assurance that I can leave when I want to, which tends to be the right way to see a prison. So I took a field trip to the maximum security penitentiary...

San Quentin is a level 4 prison which really means that your chances of getting shanked are 4 out of 4. I recognized the guard at the main gate as the guy who told Metallica that there's a no hostage policy in their bullshit St. Anger video. I figured if a bitch like Lars can do it, so can I. No one actually tells you about the hostage policy. You have to read a sign to learn that.

I was among a small number of non-prisoners who sat in on an experimental therapy session. Free people seeing other free people in a maximum security prison is weirder than being the only white guy at a Sista Souljah concert.

All were invited to attend unless they were on death row or in the hole. We sat with the prisoners in a large misshapen circle. In fact, we were tightly packed because 60 inmates, 45 of whom were down for murder, showed up. Being seated knee-to-knee with convicted murderers in a prison rec room with no guards and no direct line line-of-sight with the nearest guard tower is a bit disconcerting.

The session ran for 5 hours, and I grew fond of the place. During breaks I chatted with some inmates. In the fountain opposite death row some ducks landed and playfully splashed one another. I almost said, "Now this is the place for me!" The inmates were nicer than my co-workers and twice as polite as the fuck-asses driving on Sunset.

I left eager to return because I didn't leave with a weaponized toothbrush protruding from my neck. I spoke affectionately of the experience not knowing that the personal info I submitted for the security clearance was on a flash drive secreted in an inmate's ass, on its way to the street.

Commercial Directors are a Pain in the Ass

2008-05-13T17:56:00.000-07:00

It’s true, they are.

I spent over two years working in production companies where my chief objective was to help the director reps get these butt-wads work. As an aspiring director myself, this is a lot like wanting to race cars and having to give the drivers enemas instead.

Back in the early to mid-nineties anyone who had a video camera and a possie of idiot skater friends that could do a kick-flip got signed to shoot commercials, music videos (when this was still a viable occupation), and films. Thus began the fortunate careers of Spike Jonze, Mike Mills and every other tool who had any connection whatsoever to the Coppolas.

Unfortunately for me, that time has passed. Aspiring directors with reels that are slicker’n shit must content themselves with the grunt work of the dying commercial industry as we know it.

Most commercial directors who make a living at it have been on the job for the past 10 years; some of them over 20. A general rule applies to these people: the longer they sit in the director’s chair, the more incompetent and entitled they become. They know as much about directing as the security guard at the mall knows about DNA analysis.

One of the directors at a company I worked for had issues, as so many of them do. He was prone to flashing his favorite two guys in production (as well as, on occasion, the entire office) his dick, balls and ass. No one knew from whence he cultivated these proclivities, though prolonged exposure to Greek life in college was the suspected environmental culprit. Anyway, one day he came in and, without further ado, dropped his drawers, deposited a phat load into theses guys’ waste paper basket, pulled up his pants (without wiping!), politely handed them his spoils and went about his day.

It wasn’t until jokes about defecation of character circulated throughout the building that he was deemed a risky liability and let go.

The moral of the story? Don’t put up with directors’ shit unless you want it in your goddamned lap.

The Lorenzo Lamas Stare Down

2008-05-13T14:05:00.000-07:00

The day I became a man.

For those of you who don’t know who Lorenzo Lamas is, he broke into the industry as the cougar spank bank for a soap opera called Falcon’s Crest, which started before I was born and cancelled just in time for me not to acknowledge its existence. His most famous role was Reno Raines on the “crime drama” Renegade which you probably remember watching on the USA network when you stayed home sick from middle school. He’s tried reviving his career as an asshole on Are You Hot? pointing out cellulite with a laser pointer but for the most part he was out of my life. That is, until I saw him at Souplantation in Brentwood.

I was with my girlfriend and one of her friends she met at school in Illinois. I was cramming ranch dressing soaked iceberg lettuce and clam chowder in my mouth like Kim Kardashian on a dick bender (read: the weekend), until a dark figure caught the corner of my eye. There he was: Lorenzo Lamas no more than 50 feet away from me. Clad in all black and standing with his arms crossed, scanning the room for potential threats. I suspect he was watching over his harem of ridiculously hot daughters.

I shrugged it off and continued to scarf like a Jewish refugee on V-E Day until my girlfriend’s friend took notice and started to gush for 15 minutes about how she used to love Renegade. She asked if it would be appropriate to go up and ask him for his autograph. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and blurted out louder than I expected, “Who the fuck cares if it’s appropriate? It’s Lorenzo fucking Lamas.”

Uh Oh.

I knew he must have heard me. I was regretting looking up until I thought to myself, “Hey, listen to your own advice. Who the fuck cares? It’s Lorenzo Lamas.”

He was staring directly into my soul like St. Peter himself.

My first inclination was to look away, but no. Fuck that guy. Even if I never make it big, I’m still better than a soap opera star. So I stared back with the intensity of a coked out Robert Downey Jr. on the set of Less Than Zero. Our eyes were locked into a stare down the likes Souplantation has never and will never see again. It was picturesque, as time seemed to slow to a crawl and a bead of sweat dripped down my cheek like we were two gunslingers dueling at dawn. We were both completely motionless and speechless for what seemed like hours, but was only seconds.

Then all of a sudden, his youngest daughter came out of nowhere and blindsided him with a hug to the leg. He immediately tried to regain his dogging foothold, but the battle was lost and my eyes now silently gleamed with victory. He nodded ever so slightly, acknowledging my fortitude. We both eventually left the epic battleground that is The Souplantation, both having a little bit more respect for each other.

Also, I’m pretty sure I’m entitled to one of his daughters. Hopefully one birthed by Debbie Gibson.

Redundant

2008-05-13T09:14:00.001-07:00

Old People Have a Social Obligation to Not Publicly Discuss Sexual Affairs

2008-05-12T14:58:00.000-07:00

It's just plain gross, Barbara Walters.

After three decades of keeping mum, Barbara Walters has revealed that she had an affair with married U.S. Senator Edward Brooke, whom she remembers as "exciting" and "brilliant." I understand old people are people too, and that one day I'll be old, and that every old person was once my age, blah blah blah. But c'mon, keep this stuff to yourself, old people.

It's an issue of courtesy. No young person can hear an old person talk about sex without having to forcefully fight off visions of such a horrendous act. I personally won't be able to watch a Barbara Walters Special again without envisioning what an 80 year old woman's naked, gyrating ass looks like.

I know she wasn't even old when she was doin' the nasty with that senator dude. But the fact that the IDEA of a sexually active Barbara Walters has crossed my mind is upsetting enough. I mean... what does that even look like? And you know she's a freak dude. Just looking at her I can tell she's all about the dirty talk. You know I'm right.

Oh God, I'm thinking about it now. Alright, c'mon Johnny, focus. Just take your mind off Barbara Walters' nude figure... her liver-spotted prune-like skin, her breasts like deflated party balloons a week after the fact, her face and lips craggy beyond belief, hands like those of Skeletor himself. She probably wears her glasses while she's gettin' down because she's dignified like that. Ugh, I bet she even likes it when you put your...

I just threw up on my keyboard.

Florida to Ban Truck Nutz

2008-05-12T11:18:00.000-07:00

I lived in Florida for a few years before moving here to Los Angeles, and it seems like I escaped just in time. The Florida legislature is cracking down on the most sacred form of self expression: Fake testicles you can hang on your trailer hitch.

They are called Truck Nutz. Well, that’s slightly inaccurate. There are lots of brands, but Truck Nutz somehow got their name to represent an entire industry. They’re like the Kleenex of fake testicles. I don’t know Truck Nutz’ marketing team pulled if off, when Bumper Nuts have the added feature of uneven testicle length, and Bulls Balls feature sturdier construction and can come in a camo pattern.

Whatever the name, the fascists in the Florida Legislature want to ban them, forcing truck owners to drive around in castrated, humiliated trucks. Barely trucks at all. They say they have to do this because Truck Nutz look indecent. You know what’s really indecent? Taking away our right to express yourself. With nuts.

Thankfully, here in the Golden Sate, our politicians know better. We aren’t going to freak out when we spot a plastic scroat or two dangling off the back of a Hummer.

“But what about the Children?” you might ask if you were a whiney bitch, “Shouldn’t we protect them from the sight of dangly rubber genitalia?”

Well I’m no psychologist, but I bet seeing that dangly rubber genitalia is good for kids for some reason. Probably for learning

California is already a leader in Environmental issues. Why not take the lead on genital-related freedom of speech issues? Not only should we embrace the freedom to hang our Truck Nutz where we please, we should make it a point of pride.

Hell, put a pair of Truck Nutz your Prius. Let people know that not only can you drive in the carpool lane, you’re more of a man when you’re doing it.

Put a pair on your Vespa. On your rollerblades.

But why stop there? Why not just get the West Hollywood Fire Department to design their hoses so they look like massive dicks? Now there’s a cause we can all get behind.

[Apparently, the resolution didn't pass because one of the Senators had Truck Nutz himself. Freedom wins again!]

The Mosh Pit

2008-05-09T17:56:00.000-07:00

What's the deal with the shirtless dude?

I recently saw Bad Religion play at the House of Blues.

[Ed. note: Can I pay $40 to see a punk band play in what looks like the line waiting area for the Jungle Cruise at Disneyland?]

The band was fantastic, but as every punk rock fan knows, there is an illogical, violent, spirited, retarded force at every punk rock show that cannot be ignored: The Mosh Pit.

The logic behind the mosh pit is basically such: As a mosher, you show the band how much you like them by running around in a circle and indiscriminately beating the shit out of those around you. The more you run and punch, the more you dig the band. This set up is particularly crazy because the logic doesn't transfer to other scenarios. If you get a particularly good quarter-pounder at McDonalds, you don't show your appreciation for the kitchen staff by running around in that area in front of the register and punching other customers in the face. Or if you see a musical you really like, its usually not appropriate to hop down into the orchestra pit and murder the French horn player. It's unfortunate, but its true.

There is also a "pit code" that says if a fellow mosher falls down, they are immediately picked up. This seems like a very peaceful, utopian idea until you consider that the reason they're on the floor is because they were just shoved down there, and that it will only be a matter of seconds before they are shoved down there again. It's like the circle of life. But instead of "life," it's filled with "savage beat-downs."

The oddest part about the mosh pit is the dude who is immediately shirtless when the band hits the first note. There is one in every pit. Its as if he has planned this move ahead of time to be like a costume change. Even though he is fat and sweaty and spends 2 hours ramming into other dudes, he is the first to call the bowler hat you're wearing "pretty fag-queer."

I do not understand The Mosh Pit, but I do respect it. Where else would it be socially appropriate for an adult male to punch a 13 year old girl in the face?

Instant Legitimacy with Video Cameras!

2008-05-09T10:02:00.000-07:00

Video may have killed the radio star, but it's created a butt-load of new stars to take his place.

Back in the day, life lessons like "Wear clean underwear" or "Never leave bruises" could keep you out of hot water, but in this modern age, a more techno-savvy rule of thumb is needed: "Always bring a video camera." Cameras legitimize even the hinkiest of situations, turning potential embarrassment or incarceration into fame and/or fortune.

Situation #1: So, you like streetwalkers. Who doesn't? John Q. Law, that's who. Getting The Man off your back is as easy as one simple equation:

* Prostitution (Illegal!) + video camera = porn (Legal!).

Filming your sordid Motel 6 fling turns a sex crime into low art.

Situation #2: Is Jodie Foster sending you subliminal messages again? Does she secretly want you to follow her every move, no matter what those restraining orders say? Well...

* Stalking (Illegal!) + video camera = paparazzi (Legal!).

Situation #3: Poor guy. Not even the skanky burnout girls at school will give you the time of day. The solution:

* Girls who would never go about with a dork like you + video camera = girls fighting over a dork like you because they think they're on a dating show.

Situation #4: You've got all the teen angst of the Columbine kids, but you lack the dedication and firepower. Why not get your frustration out on video?

* Social retard - inhibitions + web cam = YouTube superstar.

Make sure your venting and/or pathetic display of coordination is as authentic a train wreck as possible in order to maximize replayability.

Situation #5: You're a pampered rich girl who's known, but not really KNOWN. Find a similarly desperate D-lister of either sex willing to penetrate your nether regions, because...

* Wannabe celebrity + video camera + faux outrage = celebrity sex tape + backend profits.

Situation #6: Face it, ex-star of some show from the '80s, your best days are behind you. Ninety percent of your fan base is ironic. Try this on for size:

* Wilting celebrity status + drunken stupor + cheeseburger + video camera = renewed celebrity status.

Situation #7: You and everyone in your entire upper-crust clique are complete tools. Your families have interbred so many times over the generations that you're probably dating your half-sister. You have no talent, no technical skills and nothing to offer the world other than a trust fund and Brandon Davis's phone number...and a video camera.

* Douchebag high school cliques + video camera = hit MTV show.

Vegan Nazis

2008-05-08T15:56:00.000-07:00

Angelenos pride themselves on their diversity. They lovingly embrace everyone and everything without judgment, so long as they approve of it. Luckily their activism lapses when they run out of Zoloft or as they recover from their fifth nose job.

So I never thought I'd be oppressed when I went out for dinner the other night.

I ate at a vegan restaurant. I knew things were amiss when a huge sign let me know that by eating there my stomach would be purified. My stomach didn't need purification - it needed food because I was fucking hungry. The sign next to it cheerily read: "Einstein was a vegetarian. Think about it!" Well, dip shit, Hitler was a vegetarian.

I ordered a tofurky burger with Ghandi sprouts, Fair Trade flax seeds and a bunch of other "conscious" ingredients that later blew out my colon. So much for purification.

After ordering, I washed my hands. The sink had one of those ridiculous water conservation faucets that require you to push and hold a knob - which utterly defeats the purpose of hand washing. I looked to dry my hands and a note affixed to the mirror informed me that the restaurant put a spiritual moratorium on paper towels so trees can smile.

Wanting to get the hell out of there, I ate quickly but not without overhearing other patrons drone on about how people who use hemp tote bags will inaugurate a new world order.

Once on the street, the delightful scent of sizzling animal flesh danced in my nostrils. I sprinted to the burger joint down the block and sat at a window seat to enjoy a Drippy Double Bacon Cheddar Chuck. The hempsters from the first restaurant walked by; and when one of them noticed me, he ran up to the window. His comrades followed. They shouted at me for being a soulless dick and asked whether I would want someone to throw my cat between two buns and eat it. I said I wouldn't mind at all because my cat is also a soulless dick.

Brett Ratner Wears Skirts

2008-05-08T11:29:00.000-07:00

Which of these celebrity anecdotes are true?

1. No one is allowed to touch Peter North’s hair during porn shoots because if they do, he will instantly lose his erection. The erection goes down at about the same rate that a balloon animal version of his dick would if it was stabbed with a pair of scissors.

2. Before he was Marky Mark Wahlberg, he had already committed at least two hate crimes. This other time, egged on by some fellow white trash dickhead buddy and massive hits of PCP, he bludgeoned a Vietnamese shop owner deep into unconsciousness and left another permanently blinded in one eye. He has not apologized for any of this and currently has no plans to.

3. Alfonso Ribiero (TV’s Carlton Banks) died in 1999, two days before the new millennium, while attempting a head-spin in his hip-hop dance class.

4. Steven Spielberg has so much money. So much, in fact, that when his son Max rode a public Concorde jet for the first time at age 8, he turned up to his mother and asked "Why are all these people getting on our plane?"

5. Brett Ratner showed up to record the audio commentary for X-Men 3 wearing a skirt and looking like he hadn’t slept in some time. He had faint traces of make-up around his lips and eyes. Nobody in the recording stage had the guts to question it, and Ratner himself conducted business groggily, but otherwise normally. Then, during the lunch break, Ratner noticed his reflection in one of the sound-proofed windows, and utterly froze in place for a couple seconds. He excused himself to the bathroom and did not return until the next day, when he was dressed normally.

6. Gary Busey did so much blow in the 80’s, that for the duration of filming on Lethal Weapon, he refused to open doors normally, electing instead to jump kick his way into every room.

ANSWERS:

1. TRUE
There are better pictures of North’s immaculately coiffed hair on the internet, sure, but 100% of those also feature bleached a-holes.

2. TRUE
You can see it glossed over in this article from ABC News.

3. FALSE
This is basically a rumor posted on his IMDb page, except I changed the date to try and help break dancing stay current.

4. TRUE
This was told to me by a trusted source. I have to keep his name hidden, he says, if I want to hear another story involving Michael Mann and yelling.

5. FALSE
I’m just not a big Ratner man.

6. FALSE
But I’ll bet you spent a considerable while pondering that one.

Hillary Clinton: The Psycho Ex-Girlfriend of the Democratic Party

2008-05-07T09:56:00.000-07:00

Despite all the math counting her out, Hillary Clinton fervently remains in the race to become the Democratic nominee for president in 2008. She has become the Democratic Party's psycho ex-girlfriend, and she's not going away without a restraining order.

It's 2:31 AM. The Democratic Party is sleeping peacefully when it hears its phone buzz on the night stand. It rolls over and sees "Hillary" on the caller ID. It pauses briefly, considering pushing "END" and not dealing with this shit tonight. The thought is appealing but the Democratic Party knows that if it doesn't take this call, another one is only minutes away.

DEMS: ...Hello?

Hillary: Hey baby.

DEMS: C'mon Hillary. Enough with this.

Hillary: Don't you get it? You NEED me.

DEMS: No, I don't. It was fun while it lasted but I'm with Barack now. I made my choice, it's done.

Hillary: You can't really mean that. How can you say that after all the good times we had?

DEMS: To be honest, I started hanging out with you because Bill's pretty awesome.

Hillary: But I'm just like Bill!

DEMS: No, you're not. Bill is charismatic, inspiring, and gets me really good weed.

Hillary: Fuck you. You're elitist!

DEMS: I'm going back to sleep.

Hillary: No, no, wait. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Listen... there's still got to be a chance. Remember when people told George W it was all over. When the numbers were against him?

DEMS: Yeah but...

Hillary: Remember?! And remember how everyone said America didn't really want to be with George W? But they stuck it out anyway?

DEMS: Yeah and they're really fucked up now, Hillary.

Hillary: But WE'LL make it work. Forget Barack, baby. Just take me back and we can forget this ever happened.

DEMS: Look, I think you're a really good Senator... let's just keep it that way, OK?

Hillary: ...I'll see you at the convention.

DEMS: No! Hillary I told you...

CLICK

DEMS: Dammit. Crazy bitch.

The Most Motivating Moment of my Life

2008-05-06T17:01:00.000-07:00

Trying to make it in Hollywood takes daily motivation. I'm lucky though because I had a life-altering conversation when I was a teenager that scared me straight into a continual, perpetual state of motivation.

I got a job being the Easter Bunny at the Mission Viejo mall for a couple of months when I was 15. It was one of the more inhumane jobs a person could be exposed to, but I was making $5.75 an hour at my ice cream store job at the time, so getting paid $8 an hour to dress up in a heavy, furry rabbit suit while fat kids sat on my lap seemed like I was stealing money from these people.

I immediately hated the job. But on my last day, I experienced the most motivating moment of my life. I walked back to the communal dressing room at the end of my shift to disrobe and pass the giant plastic rabbit head over to the next EB. When I got back there, I realized that the person taking over for me was the guy who played Santa at the mall during the winter. He was smoking and staring blankly into the distance. I caught his attention as I took off the head, and we had the following conversation:

"You like doing this, kid?"

"No."

"Then STAY IN SCHOOL."

So now, whenever I'm seeking inspiration about my career and life, the face that appears in that cloud above my head isn't my parents, or God, or Wayne Gretzky... it's that haggard, Santa-looking mother fucker telling me to stay in school. I'm not even in school anymore, but the message is lasting, loud, depressing, and clear. Stay in school, kids.

Unless it's acting school.

Ask a Black Person: Racial Sensitivity for Hollywood Studios

2008-05-06T13:46:00.000-07:00

Cultural sensitivity can be as easy as asking one of "you people."

A lot of Al Sharpton-led picket lines could be averted if Hollywood studios would just have a black person on call to bounce ideas off of. Allow me to offer my services.

Q: I need a rapist for a movie and have narrowed the actors down to a white guy and a black guy. All things being equal, which one should I choose?

A: You can hire the black guy without feeling guilty if you balance that negative stereotype with a positive one. For instance, the rapist could be sent to jail, where he develops his instinctual ability to play basketball. When he's released, he goes to college on a scholarship and makes it to the NBA, where he becomes a superstar. Then, ironically enough, he's free to rape at will. Can you say twist ending?

Q: My company has always prided itself on realistic, culturally sensitive casting, and right now we're putting together a mostly Negro ensemble piece. The leads will be played by Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon, and we're looking for a young actress who could conceivably be their daughter -- you know, color-wise. We're leaning towards Dakota Fanning. Is this realistic? ...Mariah Carey being half white and all.

A: Wow, I don't know what's more disturbing: your evaluation of talent or your understanding of basic genetics. The only way you can keep Dakota Fanning is if you write her character with an advanced case of vitiligo.

Q: I'm a veteran Hollywood director whose movies haven't yet found an audience within the African-American marketplace. What can I do to, you know, get jiggy with it?

A: You're not fooling anyone, Ron Howard. I know it's you. I would suggest that you do something drastic, like -- I don't know -- casting some black people, but since you'd probably end up writing dialogue with words like "jiggy" in it, I'd say we're all better off the way things are.

Q: I'm directing my first black love scene, and I want it to be accurate. You guys like doggy style, right?

A: Yeah, if it involves a pound of flour, a burlap sack, and yo' mama. Oh snap! But seriously, yes. Yes, we do.

Q: Is Vin Diesel black? We've got a quota to meet.

A: He's 1/3 black, 1/3 Italian and 1/3 asshole. So, you need 2/3 more of a black person for your quota. Try some combination of Halle Berry and Jessica Alba.

Hollywood Facial Hair Guide

2008-05-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

In a land where your appearance can make up about 80 percent of your net worth, its not your mouth that does the talking, it’s the follicle-laden area around it that speaks for you.

Soul Patch: You refer to graffiti as “art” and refuse to attend films not made in Europe. You love bands no one has ever heard of and if you have to wear glasses, their frames are as thick as a Goodyear.

Chinstrap: You are either a wealthy pro athlete or someone who has recently married Britney Spears. You spend more time sculpting this creation than you do at a job, and gold jewelry figures heavily into your wardrobe.

Moustache: You are deeply tanned, have bad taste in sunglasses and are likely here illegally. I mean you, Burt Reynolds.

Full beard: You are at the extreme end of the wealth scale – meaning you are either Steven Spielberg or picking through his garbage. Either way, your looks matter little to you.

Three Day Scruff: You concoct painfully transparent schemes to look cooler or more hip than you are. You frequently shop at second-hand stores and wear sneakers that look just as good on middle-schoolers.

Handlebars: Hygiene is not a priority for you, but kicking ass and drinking Pabst are at the top of the list. You own or may have starred in the first season of Jackass. You may also be gay, but we’re not going to ask.

Goatee: You have a lot of insecurity to cover up, and you have apparently decided that insecurity rests mostly on your chin and upper lip. You are also weirdly comfortable with your assumed status as a sexual predator.

Pencil ‘stache: Hello John Waters.

Blast from the Comedy Past

2008-05-05T17:48:00.000-07:00

Standing in line for a show at the UCB this week, I noticed someone behind me who looked familiar. “His name was…ME!”

For every article of clothing he was wearing, there were probably five copies just like it in every thrift store in the city: the solid color hoodie sweater, black Converse sneakers, an appropriately worn ringer-tee promoting some summer camp kayaking trip that had occurred decades before he was brought into existence. I knew that I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite place it until a friend of his showed up and they got to talking. Their conversation went a lot like this:

-“Have you watched much South Park?”

-“Nah, I only really watched the first couple seasons…”

-“Well you know that Kerri Kenney, Ben...Something, and Thomas Lennon all went to college together, right?”

-“Yeah, that’s where they started The State. Man, Porcupine Racetrack is such an amazing bit!”

-“Do you ever watch The Office?”

-“Yeah I catch it sometimes but, I dunno, to me it’s just, like, missing something from the British version.”

It must’ve been when one of them brought up Mr. Show for the third time that I realized why they seemed so familiar. It was because they were having the exact conversation that I probably had four years earlier, the first time I trekked across town from Westwood to see an alternative comedy show at the same theater in the bright morning of my early college years. I was doubly excited by my youthful belief that any venture east of Doheny held a good chance of being tranny-raped.

I listened in on the rest of their talk the way a proud parent might watch a toddler stagger to its feet and pull itself along the edge of a coffee table. I could see where certain views would later be refined, tightened up, where certain connections would eventually be laid in, or abandoned.

One of them, for example, was still under the impression that Robin Williams is funny. Tsk tsk, and for shame. This culture is a constant exam and that view is a patently wrong answer. Williams is ironically likeable in Mrs. Doubtfire, he served his purpose in Death to Smoochy, but he has no place anymore on the stand-up stage. Not in the post-Patton era.

Other guy, you showed good instincts by downplaying your ignorance of a popular TV show by explaining that you only watched it in its early days, before all the fucking fanboys jumped on the wagon. Of course, you’ll soon learn that this technique doesn’t work on South Park. The sanctioned view is that the show has actually gotten better over the years. In the future, try covering such flub-ups with a line like, “Oh, you were talking about South Park? I totally thought I heard you say The Simpsons.”

Another excellent gauge of these guys’ familiarity with the alternative L.A. lifestyle was that they had heard of Toi “Rockin” Thai Food, but had not yet eaten there. However one of them did understand that the thrust of the restaurant is, “really good Thai food, but, like, with this really edgy atmosphere.” Yeah, edgy because the whole ordeal of parking, waiting, eating, and paying can take upwards of 3 hours, and it will totally make you late for David Cross’ set at the M Bar. But you didn’t really care about seeing him anyway, right? Or did you? Go on, say what you think. Everyone is listening.

Trailer Trash: The Dark Knight

2008-05-05T14:14:00.000-07:00

Batman faces off against Hollywood’s most infamous villain: shit blowing up good and proper.

The Dark Knight represents pretty much everything I hate about movies: comic book adaptations, sequels, prequels, remakes of movies that are all ready pretty good that were made less than 20 years ago.

I also don’t exactly care for the work of the director, Christopher Nolan. That movie where everything was backwards was such a piece of shit. I think the reason why everyone liked it so much (yeah, I know you liked it) was because it made people think they were watching a deep and thoughtful art film, but really it was just some dumb revenge fantasy with serious narration (written with Nicholas Cage in mind, no doubt).

I didn't like the last Batman movie either. There was all this kung-fu nonsense. Not enough shit blowing up. All that lame pop-psychology. What was the bad guy’s evil plan, making people hallucinate? Where I come from, that’s called a free high. I pray every day for a super villain like that.

I was therefore surprised out how awesome this trailer is. Shit blows up good and proper! I counted 11 ‘splosoins (although some of these coulda been mulitiple shots of the same ‘splosion). And these are quality ‘splosions. It doesn’t hurt that they got a goddamn genius to cut this trailer, making the ‘splosions look even more cool. Al-Qaeda should use this preview as a recruitment film.

This is basically Heath Ledger’s trailer, and he looks incredible. Morgan Freeman gets about three seconds in this trailer (twice as much as 50 Cent in whatever that other movie was.) I don’t think he’s the butler, because the butler is the British guy. He probably plays the president, or God, or something like that.

Gary Oldman’s moustache gets a few shots. Aaron Eckhart, who is also supposedly in this film, is nowhere to seen.

[Editor's note: Mr. Eckhart is plastered all over the second trailer. Don't even think about reviewing it though.]

I can't wait for them to remake Batman and Robin. Who will play Mr. Freeze? My guess is Billy Cruddup, or maybe Paul Giamatti.

The Couch Hopping Guide

2008-05-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

It's safe to say that you're not really a true Angeleno until you've taken an extended residence on your buddy's couch.

Times are tough when you've just made it to the big city. You probably don't have a job, and if you do it's an unpaid internship, so why pay rent when you can just take advantage of someone else's goodwill?

Finding the Right Friend To Mooch Off Of

I went to an expensive, private college filled with tons of spoiled, rich kids and then made friends with the financial aid students. Don't make the same mistake as me. When you finally move to LA, you're going to want to fall back on Clayton, the trust-fund baby whose parents bought him that house with the pool in Los Feliz, not Gary the PA who lives in a Van Nuys bachelor.* Clayton doesn't give a shit how long you stay, because it's not like he's paying the bills. Gary wants a portion of the rent for every night you sleep in his parking space.

You'll also do well to find someone who has a ridiculous 70-hour assistant workweek. They won't be around for you to get on their nerves and when they do get back to the apartment, they'll go straight to bed without nagging about all your luggage strewn across their living room.

Create the Appearance of Progress

The majority of couch-hosters aren't going to want to give shelter to someone who seems like they will be there forever, so it's important to establish the facade that this arrangement is only temporary. Leave your laptop on the coffee table with the Craigslist housing pages onscreen at all times so they think you might be moving out soon.

Getting Laid

Her place.

Dealing With Your Friend's Roommate

This is the trickiest and most common problem that all couch-hoppers will encounter. Sure, you were on friendly terms with the guy beforehand, but once you move into his living room, you two are destined to become mortal enemies.

He didn't agree to let you live there and not pay rent. The most effective way to deal with the roommate is to simply sow the seed of hatred for him into your friend. It's as easy as eating all your friend's food while he's away and then blaming it on the other guy. Once this has been accomplished, your friend will now want you to stay at his place purely out of spite. It'll definitely make your living situation more awkward, but it always beats signing a lease.

*Guantanamo Bay prison cell with a hot plate.

Critique of a Critic: Forgetting Sarah Marshall

2008-05-02T17:10:00.001-07:00

Most movie critics have no qualifications to be telling people what to watch. They ‘analyze’ movies with no accountability and no one to make sure they’re doing their jobs. That is, until now.

Review: “It's really hard to like a character when his own movie makes fun of him.” - MaryAnn Johanson, of FlickFilospher.com

Review of Review: “It’s really hard take a critic seriously when she talks out of her ass for the whole review and upon further research, her entire career.”

This woman obviously knows comedy. I mean, who likes a comedian who is self-deprecating? When I go to comedy shows all I want to see is good looking, arrogant assholes. Oh wait, my bad. Using the most basic research tool known to man, Wikipedia, one could find out that self-deprecation is commonly used by some of the most hilarious and successful comedy writers ever. She must have missed Woody Allen, Larry David, Jon Stewart, Conan O’Brien and David Letterman while she was watching Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List.

Good thing we have Professor MaryAnn “Giggles” Johanson to lecture us about comedic theory:

Oh, but you’re not supposed to “think” about a movie like Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Then, perhaps, you’ll actually find it shocking and outrageous when Segel appears full-frontally starkers for no reason… (Not that there’s anything gross about the human body except in the eyes of movies like this, of course).

Not only is she contradicting herself by not thinking and irrationally jumping to conclusions, she again did no basic research to find out the motives of the movie’s makers. If she had, she would have realized that the dong’s intent was to make the exact commentary she said was devoid from the movie.

It’s better if you don’t think too much because then you can ignore the ridiculous coincidence [that reunites the recently broken-up couple in Hawaii].

Yes, because movies never have coincidences or unexplainable events that act as plot drivers. Even if anyone did give a shit that a comedy had some slight plot holes, she’s ignoring that it is all blatantly explained (however unreasonable it may be). Apparently Sarah Marshall doesn’t live up to the literary standards like some of her recent favorites like Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium or The Bucket List.

[Editor's note: Anyone who still refers to themselves as a Generation Xer shouldn't be reviewing movies that came out in '95, much less now. Stick with your Reality Bites and your God damn Dave Eggers.]

Pope Benedict’s L.A. Itinerary

2008-05-02T15:38:00.000-07:00

The Pope's itinerary from his recent trip to Los Angeles has surfaced on the Internet.

Day 1:

9:15 a.m. - Kick off “Pope It Like It’s Hot” promotion of the new RCC (Roman Catholic Church)

12:00 - Lunch at Nobu

2:30 p.m. – Deliver ultimatum to Hollywood Jews: “One more ‘Basic Instinct’ sequel… or else.”

4:45 p.m. - Test the durability of the Pope Mobile’s bullet-proof glass by doing two full miles on the 405

9:00 p.m. - Cage match with Tom Cruise for control of the greater universe

Day 2:

9:15 a.m. – Issue Papal Edict 919: “Double Bacon Croaissanwich, stat.”

11:30 a.m. – Kimmel live (use childhood stigmata anecdote)

1:30 – Return Zeta-Jones’ phone call; ‘Sorry, it’s binding, you’re stuck with him.’

4:00 p.m. - Chin lift; eyes done.

11:00 p.m. – Clubbin’ on Sunset. (wear black robes, gold cross)

Day 3:

9:15 a.m. – Bloody Marys, Alka-Seltzer

10:00 a.m. – 2 p.m. – Cut tracks for new album: “Pontiffication” (feat. Chingy), “Love Missal,” and “Psalm Like it Hot.”

12:00 p.m. – Anointing of the sick rims on Chingy’s Escalade

2 p.m.- 5 p.m. – Shop for new robes on Rodeo, pimp Holy Miter with crystals

Days 4-6: Vegas, baby!

Day 7:

8:00 a.m. - Return flight. Take quiet time to visit His altar and worship at the feet of Christianity’s only higher power – Mel Gibson.

Remake Hollywood

2008-05-02T14:59:00.000-07:00

“Hulk”. “King Kong”. “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”. What do all of these films have in common? They have all been, or are in the process of being, remade.

Hollywood is nothing if not a bastion of liberalism, and just as driving a Prius and recycling cereal boxes are core liberal values, so too is the recycling of movies.

The tragedy of the Hollywood remake is perhaps best exemplified by the soon-to-be-released “The Incredible Hulk”. Ang Lee’s “Hulk” came out just five years ago and was none too well received if memory serves. Eric Bana as Bruce Banner was dark, distant and sullen, and seemed more or less content to exist within the confines of a petri dish. His idea of getting angry consisted of gritting his teeth and growing an extra 9 feet; the man could have used some training in teeth-gritting from the recently deceased Chuck Heston. Remaking a movie this soon after the original disaster is like losing a contest of who-can-ejaculate-the-farthest, then challenging your opponent to a rematch fifteen seconds later.

So how the fuck is it that Marvel and Universal saw fit to remake a movie that a ten year old in 2003 will be able to remember as being a stinking pile of green eggs and shit as a fifteen year old come June 2008? And Edward Norton? I mean, come on. Lose street cred much? Been a few years since “American History X” and “Fight Club”.

Moving on, I propose that after the second remake of “King Kong” (let’s remember that that means the movie has actually been made three times) Peter Jackson should not be allowed to replicate anything onscreen larger than a tree or an elf or an orc. And he should have fairly limited access to those.

“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”. Haven’t seen it, I’ve only seen the original. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to make a motion to confine Johnny Depp to roles where he can’t: paint his face white; wear a costume; ever be directed by Tim Burton, ever again.

Fuck, man

Grand Theft Auto Easter Eggs

2008-05-02T09:57:00.000-07:00

MadAtoms has gained an exclusive copy of these deleted cutscenes from GTA4.

Grand Theft Auto Easter Egg

He's So Straight, He's Gay

2008-05-01T18:13:00.000-07:00

It's official: hyper-machismo is the new gay.

We all know that guy. He lives his life just a bit too close to our personal space. He relishes every opportunity for man-on-man contact: high-fives, chest bumps, spontaneous wrestling matches, invasive wet willies. He always checks to see if you wanna "work out," with no hint of irony. He doesn't realize it, but he's totally gay.

I used to think that sexual orientation was a straight-line continuum, but it's actually more like a circle, and hyper-straight men have gone so far around their end that they've looped back to the gay side. And not the cutesy, fun-loving West Hollywood gay, but rather the no-nonsense, sock-in-your-mouth, prison cell gay.

The whole teabagging phenomenon should've been a clue. What straight man would want to put his junk anywhere near another man's face? Who's degraded more in this equation?

But über-butches will do anything for the approval of their "boys" -- particularly if it involves rubbing testicles on another man's person. They're so male-centric that now I realize that "Bros before hos" isn't just a philosophy; it's a mating call.

It makes sense, really, because gay men trying to act straight tend to overcompensate, like, "See, I love poon! It's all...flappy and stuff." It's transparent and sad.

C'mon, guys, look deep inside -- you know, where your boy stuck a Sharpie when you were asleep -- and you'll realize that you're living a lie. Put down that Dane Cook CD and pick up a rainbow flag. This is 2008; you can be both macho and proudly gay. Look at Lorenzo Lamas or that construction worker from The Village People.

To the People who Love Canter's Deli:

2008-05-01T15:06:00.000-07:00

Stop it.

Everyone has one friend who LOVES Canters. They suggest it every time a group of 3 or more are hungry and, once a week, they go out of their way to mention a craving for those pickles and bagel chips they have. I understand going out of your way to get a really good steak, or driving an extra 15 minutes to get to the bar that's got your favorite beer on tap. But Canter's is a deli.

As a matter of convention, they serve basic foods you can buy in a grocery store. If we boil this down to Canters' basic function as an establishment, you're really paying these people to assemble 3 or 4 ingredients into a sloppy stack or bowl of those 3 or 4 ingredients.

But what restaurant doesn't? Isn't the point of eating out that someone else prepares the meal while you and your homeys talk shit on your friends who aren't there? Yes, absolutely. But the process of going to Canter's is an absolute nightmare. Not only do you have to wait in line no matter when you eat, but parking there is impossible considering the additive cluster-fuck effects of being Melrose-adjacent and across the street from a high school.

So once you've performed the Herculean tasks of finding parking, standing in line, and getting sat at a table, you get to eat some food that looks shockingly like food you can make in your own fucking house. I'm sorry, but if I'm going to pay 12 dollars for a sandwich, it better include a hand job and free valet.

Canter's does not.

Believe me... I asked about the hand job and was pointed toward a 50 year-old Eastern European battle-axe who stuck out her palm for 'tventy fife dollas'. Cheap. Not free.

The Future of Hip Hop Smells Like a Frat Boy

2008-05-01T14:11:00.000-07:00

Hip hop. It’s a genre of music. It’s a cultural movement. It’s an attitude. And now, a way to sell perfume in a can.

Proctor & Gamble is launching a record label to bolster the image of their TAG body sprays and deodorants. They’ve cleverly called it TAG records. This came as a surprise to me, since until now most ads for TAG involved promising young white guys that TAG products would get them laid by bikini models.

Since young white guys really really want to get laid by bikini models, the side effect of this marketing is that men purchasing this product spray about three times the amount of scent needed.

Guys, there’s only one thing that women can smell right away. And that is desperation.

I appreciate that TAG wants to expand beyond the gullible young white guy market, but what kind of rapper is going to sign up for TAG records? TAG isn’t a high-end product like a Mercedes or health insurance. It’s something literally any douchebag can, and does, purchase.

Now if the label was put together by King Cobra or Smith & Wesson, THAT would a place to go for street cred. But a deodorant maker? You might as well cut your record with the help of LA looks hair gel.

P & G (that’s their street name) knows that grooming products alone won’t attract talent, so they went ahead and put Jermanie Dupri in charge.

He’s a big shot producer who has worked with Usher, Mariah Carey, Kris Kross and many others, but can he lure artists to a label that is fundamentally a corporate sell-out?

(Editor's note: I hope so. Maybe it'll finally kill a dying genre. Actually, it was dead by '96. RIP Tupac)

And we all know P&G won’t limit themselves to just hip hop. How about a Hair Metal label sponsored by Head & Shoulders? A Goth label sponsored by CoverGirl? An Emo label sponsored by Gillete razor blades? The possibilities for poorly conceived panders to America’s youth are really limitless.

I just don’t think I’m ready to buy any music from T-Pax Records.

Retard Romance

2008-04-30T18:32:00.000-07:00

Does anyone want to have to think about retards banging?

Dear Hollywood Execs,

I get it, you’re equal opportunity whores and so am I, but do me a favor and stop making movies and television shows with the mentally handicapped boning down. When I was a kid I happened to watch Life Goes On and they let two 'tards fuck and then have a baby. A BABY. I’m not saying that retards do not deserve a baby, but seriously, get real.

The last thing I need is retard sex embedded into my psyche forever. Too bad after the whole Life Goes On incident things inevitably got worse after I happened to watch The Other Sister(go to about the 2 minute mark in the clip). Some exec smelled Oscar when she read the script and saw the part about the two of them reading The Joy of Sex while planning a session of steamy, hot, love making, with a few misplaced chromosomes.

I know that Juliette Lewis and Giovanni Ribisi are not actually 'tards (just Scientologists), but the idea of those two intentionally acting retarded and consequently having sex in a "drama"...just send the Academy a check. It would be more dignified than this kind of schlocky pandering for industry recognition.

(Editor's Note: I haven't actually seen I Am Sam, but from what I gather in this clip, retarded Sean Penn is caught banging a (possibly retarded?) hooker.)

I’m not saying we don't need retards in films, I’m just asking for some discretion. I once had to suffer through an episode of Law & Order where the parents of some retards were trying to get them fixed like they were insubordinate animals because all they wanted to do was screw.

On a personal note, every time I run into my friend’s mentally challenged Aunt, I feel like a pervert because I immediately imagine her humping Corky from Life Goes On.

XO,

Sabrina C.

An Ex-Con’s Guide to Being a Background Artist

2008-04-30T14:53:00.000-07:00

So you just got out of prison and you need to find gainful employment. Where’s a parolee to go? Central Casting!

Here are some tips to help a fish survive his new life as an extra.

-If you’re working on a cattle call where there are more extras than cells in a block, know that they can’t really keep track of everyone, and unlike COs, PA’s don’t do counts. This means you can wander off the yard and find a quiet place to nap or do push-ups. Just make sure you make it back to the bullpen before your bit is up.

-Stay away from anyone with lawn chairs. These lifers make a career out of being an extra and love to talk about how they got to be a pirate on Dead Men’s Chest. They will bore you to tattooed tears and you’ll probably be tempted to shank them, which, (unlike in prison,) will not help you gain the respect and esteem of your background artist cellies.

-Stick a Snickers bar or a can of Coke in your pocket every time you walk by the Kraft service table. Take your score home and send care packages to that cho-mo with the life jolt. Or, if you’re feeling entrepreneurial, you can exploit small black children to unload your stash for you; just send the kid to fence the wham whams outside any Starbucks in West Hollywood or Beverly Hills.

-Sometimes production companies will try to save money by giving the extras cheap boxed lunches while the crew eats gourmet spread from a lunch truck. Don’t plex, just pose as a gaffer. Even people who work on movies don’t really know what gaffers do, so just act like you belong and you know what you’re doing. And if anyone rats you out, just dummy up, give 'em the red eye and roll it up back to extra holding.

Trailer Trash: Bangkok Dangerous

2008-04-30T09:04:00.000-07:00

Cage. Haircut. Bad.

Bangkok Dangerous? What is that? It's not a sentence, or a description, or anything! It's two words placed next to each other!

Apparently, this is a re-make of a Thai movie called... Bangkok Dangerous. Maybe the title somehow makes sense in a country where heroin is cheaper than milk. Still, that's no excuse. They should at least put some fucking punctuation in there. What about, Bangkok? Dangerous! Or at least, Bangkok; Dangerous. Bet you’ve never seen a movie with a semi-colon in the title.

Does Nicholas Cage have it written into his contract that every movie he makes has to have really serious narration with the main character going through some existential crisis? Is it like a focus group thing, where audiences expect it and are disappointed if there isn't any grim voice over?

Speaking of Cage, his haircut in this trailer is just an absolute disaster. The embarrassing thing is that I had the exact same haircut junior year in high school. I mean identical. It’s like he went back in time, shaved my head, and made a wig out of it. All I can say is that it was a different time.

Now, I don’t expect every Cage movie to be completely original. They can’t all be Ghost Rider (or can they…). But Bangkok Dangerous seems to be pushing the limits of hackneyed filmmaking. An expert hitman developing a conscience? Why not make Cage’s character a retard, rename the movie Forrest Gump, and call it a day?

I usually let trailer narration slide, because it’s all so weird it hardly seems fair to single any one out. But there’s a line in Bangkok Dangerous that’s just priceless: “When you deal in the business of death, saving a life can be the most deadly job of all.”

Um… is that like one of those sayings that’s supposed to clear the mind of conscious thought, like the tree falling in the woods, or licks in a tootsie roll pop? I’ve read it like fifteen times. The more I read it, the more I’m convinced that Robert Frost has been resurrected and is now writing trailer copy for shitty action films.

GTA 4

2008-04-29T18:26:00.000-07:00

Barack Obama: “Stop enjoying your childhood”

2008-04-29T16:19:00.000-07:00

Supporters of Barack Obama will often tell you that he’s for: hope, progress, and the elimination of subsidies to the private student loan industry which has repeatedly used unethical business practices. But they rarely tell you what he’s against: fun.

In his speeches Obama will often mention that that America needs to “parent better” and we should “turn off the television set, turn off the videogames.”

Normally, politicians get all snippy when children start playing games that simulate the murder of pedestrians and prostitutes. But when Obama mentions videogames, it is because he associates them with underachievement.

I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’ve known for a long time that Obama was in the pocket of the powerful reading and learning industries.

But with our manufacturing base decimated and our white collar jobs all shipped to India, what industry does Obama think will power the US economy in the future? Trigonometry? Spelling?

No. In our likely post-apocalyptic future, the real growth industry will be sniping. In order to have a robust sniper-based economy, we need to start training kids today. Under Obama’s plan, America economy would get pwned by Chinese n00bs.

But videogames can help kids in more traditional areas of education as well.

For example, did you know that turtles can carry salmonella? Kids are right to learn to stomp them.

And dogs are animals, right? Then what better way to learn about biology than a vigorous game of Nintendogs?

The point is that a vigorous videogame regimen is actually good for children. Why do you think that Japanese and South Korean schools are consistently ranked better than the schools here? The key to achievement isn’t discipline, it’s Xbox.

Besides, those videogames and television shows are handcrafted by the gentle, hardworking residents of Los Angeles. We put in an honest day’s work making the world’s finest first-person shooters and reality dating shows. Next to food and jobs, our popular culture is America’s chief export.

It ain’t science or math, Obama.

Acceptable Reasons to Be Late for Work

2008-04-29T11:17:00.000-07:00

Because everyone has to fight the traffic.

A 10-mile drive in LA can easily take an hour, so what excuse can you give for being late for work when everyone has to fight traffic? Here's a few choice options.

The paparazzi confused me for Mario Lopez.

Make sure you pick a star that: A) you look remotely like and B) is famous enough to be hounded but not so famous that the paparazzi would've tailed you all the way to work.

It's the Scientology time of prayer.

Employers won't touch this one with a 10-foot pole. They won't know enough about Scientology practices to argue, and they won't want to infringe on anyone's religion -- especially one that has non-believers fed to giant sand worms.

I had to smuggle a nanny across the border.

This one is both relatable and socially relevant. Your boss will want accept the excuse to show his commitment to diversity -- short of actually hiring a Mexican himself.

The reality show I auditioned for made me eat sheep zits dipped in bile, which of course gave me projectile diarrhea.

You can play around with the exact food you had to eat for the audition, but it should always come back to projectile diarrhea.

The porn shoot at my house needed a third dick.

Back in the day, this excuse would be the exclusive territory of the rich and pervy in the Hollywood Hills, but nowadays all you need to make a porn movie is a video camera, Internet access and a teen with low self-worth.

The dead hooker in my trunk was leaking.

We've all been there before, haven't we? Chances are you won't even have to explain any further, except maybe to specify which bodily fluid was leaking (my choice: lymph).

Get in my In-Box, You Sluts of Myspace

2008-04-28T19:33:00.000-07:00

It might just be me, but I miss Myspace. I miss the anonymity of stalking or being stalked without having your current mood displayed for an entire social networking site to see.

I miss Myspace’s clean and sleek bulletin board, uncluttered with bullshit applications. I’m gonna say right now, I don’t give a rat’s arse about tending your garden, playing Scrabulous, or poking you. In fact, poking kind of hurts, so don’t bother to poke me back.

I’m especially depressed by seeing photo after photo of babies, and pregnant friends. I’m in my twenties for godssake, and I live in Los Angeles, land of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Keep your engagement rings on your fingers, and put your ugly babies up for adoption. You are totally harshing my social networking mojo.

Last night I got totally nostalgic. I got two friend requests from two totally hot sluts: Carisssa and Heidi. Both sent me pleasant messages, imploring me to be their friends. Heidi told me how lonely she is, and wouldn’t it be nice if I could be friends with her and her nudie pictures? Carissa was a little more blatant. She asked me if I like big tits.

Now, I’m a straight female, but let’s be honest here, who doesn’t love big tits? So I did something I haven’t done in weeks. I signed onto Myspace. It’s simple white and blue background put a twinkle in my eye. I noticed my favorite indie band was coming to town, and someone needed to get rid of a kitten. I’ve missed so much!

Then I did something I’ve actually never done. I approved my two new slut friends. I didn’t even have to ask them how we knew each other, or tag which school we both attended. With just one click I instantly had two new hot friends who won’t hold it against me that I’m not giving them gifts, or completing their compatibility tests.

These girls are nice and simple. I can look at their giant tits, and the only garden I have to tend is my own. I miss you Myspace.

Your Computer Thinks You’re Ugly

2008-04-28T19:27:00.000-07:00

But it'll still pork you.

There’s a new way to interact with your computer. It involves your dong.

Recently, I came across a few disturbing things on the internet, and neither was the work of Japanese.

First of all, they’ve went and made the Fleshlight USB compatible.

What is a Fleshlight? Imagine a large flashlight, rip out the bulb, reflector, and the batteries, then stick in a silicone cooter. That's a fleshlight, and it creeps me the hell out. Normally, the word "flesh" is followed by "crawl" or "eating bacteria." This device is about as appealing as a toaster with a sexy mouth, or a garbage disposal with a nice ass.

Now this little rubbery hamcave can be hooked up to the computer as an “input device.” You can play “sex games”, where your thrusting translates into simulated movements.

Right now it seems it is only games involving boning, but wait a few weeks and some enterprising fellow will be scoring headshots with his schlong in Call Of Duty 4.

If you’d like to get one, here’s the link. (NSFW!)

At the same time as I learned about this “improved” USB fleshlight, researchers in Israel have invented a computer program that can recognize beauty in women.

Why just women? Maybe because the standards of attractiveness vary so widely for men, or maybe it is because these Israeli scientists are some ugly bastards. There’s no way to know.

The program can see an image of a woman, and based on various factors, can determine her attractiveness.

In a society already overly obsessed with appearance, these scientists are looking for a way to quantify beauty mathematically.

I’m not convinced I want computers knowing how unattractive we are. You think girls have image problems now? Wait till their BlackBerry calls them ugly. And can prove it. With a chart.

The only upside is that when tomorrow’s generation of actresses get past the computer controlled auditioning process, they can do their casting couch work from home, via fleshlight connection.

And that means less driving, and less greenhouse gas emissions. Who needs self-esteem and self-respect when you have a cleaner earth?

How to Throw the Perfect Abortion Shower

2008-04-28T12:12:00.001-07:00

These days it seems like preggers is the new anorexic.

With celebs like Nicole Ricci recently popping one out and Jamie Lynn Spears on stork watch before her 17^th birthday, not to mention movies like Juno and Knocked Up, you’d think that no one in Hollywood has ever heard of an abortion. Sure, babies are cute and the tabloids love a baby bump rumor, but there is something to be said about not giving birth to your Pilates instructor’s illegitimate love child.

For the Hollywood homemaker who doesn’t want to lose her size 2 status, even if it is only for 9 months, abortions can be chic too. Just think of all the Louis Vuitton purses you can buy with the money you’ll save from not having a baby. And what better way to celebrate your newly vacuumed interior than by throwing your self a Bye Bye Baby Shower! Amanda Egge gives you tips on how an abortion party is done, Hollywood style.

Who Should Host?

Unlike baby showers, it is perfectly acceptable to throw your own abortion shower. Abortions are essentially selfish acts, and as such, the aborter is expected to engage in other selfish and self-centered acts, like throwing a party for herself, asking for presents and spending a thousand dollars on an outfit that shows of her hot, flat baby-free tummy!

Invitations

It’s probably best to keep the invitations discreet, lest your baby killing gets leaked to the gossip blogs. In this case, a simple phone call or text saying “Abortion Shower, Saturday at 2, my place.” is totally appropriate. Just remember to leave any pro-life friends off the guest list (the last thing you need is a guilt trip about how you should have sacrificed 9 months of clubbing to grow a baby for some Brangelina wannabes!)

Gift Registry

Have fun with the gift registry. Remember, you aren’t having a baby so pick items that are inappropriate for an expectant mother such as a wine decanter, a sterling silver coke straw or kick boxing classes. Flasks and rollerblades also make great abortion shower gifts; nothing says “no longer with child” better than a drunk girl with wheels strapped to her feet!

Themes and Games

Do make your abortion shower have a special theme, such as Pirate (arg!), Barnyard Hoe Down or Luau. Then pick games based on the theme such as the Pirate themed game Pin the Fetus on the Plank, or go with an abortion shower classic like Stairway to Heaven Musical Chairs!

So go ahead and celebrate your newly evacuated uterus, get wasted and smoke cigarettes like you’ve never heard of lung cancer. Then, the next time the pool boy tries to get you to go bareback, just remember: pregnancy is curable but herpes and AIDS are totally not, so be a smart Hollywood homemaker, have fun and don’t forget to rubber up!

Blackness Tips for Barack Obama

2008-04-25T14:37:00.000-07:00

Let's face it, Obama could be blacker...

Barack Obama is winning about 90% of the African-American vote, which sounds impressive until you realize that historically, black support doesn't require a high standard from black politicians (Am I right, Marion Barry?). Ninety percent on the black scale is actually about a D-plus.

The reason for Obama's disturbingly low "Black Belt" numbers is pretty clear: he's just not black enough. And I don't mean the whole mulatto thing; he just hasn't connected with the entire populace the way that he needs to in order to sweep the African-American vote.

So, I put my ear to the streets to find out what the peeps had to say (feel free to steal lingo like that, B.O.) about keeping ol' Barry from Gumbeling up the Democratic nomination.

Give yourself a title.

Make it something "rappy," like Lil' or O.G. On special occasions, carry a scepter and a tastefully bedazzled pimp cup.

Sleep with Hillary.

This might be a bit tricky, with both of you being married and all, but that hasn't stopped generations of NBA players from bedding white women.

Cornrows.

Of course, this would require some time to grow your hair out, not to mention that awkward in-between "halfro" phase. A weave might save time -- maybe some Rick James braids or a retro Jheri curl.

Cling to guns and religion.

Contrary to media types, these aren't the sole property of white rural Pennsylvanians. Black folks can be just as clingy -- just more rhythmic with their religion and more illicit with their guns.

Star in a Tyler Perry movie.

He's all the rage, and it would help procure those religion-clingers.

Downplay the African connection.

Black people are just as xenophobic as whites, so try a more all-American name, like Denzel or Tiger. Or maybe just add a prefix like "La" or "Da" or "Ja" to your name. DaBama would be both a name and a clever pun.

Start beef with 50 Cent.

Not only would you improve your street cred, but your linguistic skills would come in handy, as verbal barbs like "miscreant" would no doubt go over Fiddy's head.

This Week in Moving Pictures -- Why I Hate "The View"

2008-04-25T09:51:00.000-07:00

I have the day job that every 6 year old dreams of: I watch TV.

I'm on staff at a television show where my job is to sit in front of a TiVo all day looking for weird and funny stuff. As a result, I watch a lot of shows that I never would have otherwise. While I do enjoy some of these programs, I have rapidly spawned an unhealthy hatred toward ABC's The View.

Before I watched The View every day, I thought yelling at the TV was just something my dad did when a liberal was on the screen. But now I myself spend 60 minutes of my day seething and shouting at my set. But why exactly does The View make me so furious?

1) They talk over each other... a lot. This is a problem properly functioning adults do not have. It happens so often the hosts even have a name for it: "Cross-talk." Feel free to scream "one at a time!" at your computer monitor. I have multiple times during the writing of this post.

2) Even though their job is to go on live television and discuss "Hot Topics," the ladies rarely familiarize themselves with the material they cover. "Elizabeth: Did you guys watch American Idol last night? Joy: No, I hate shows like that. Whoopi: I never watch it and I don't ever plan to. Barbara: That's the singing show, right?" AND THEN THEY ALL TALK ABOUT IT FOR 6 MINUTES. They have a blatant disregard for information as a concept.

3) They critically misunderstand what it means to segue between topics. "It was so sad to see those Kenyan dying of AIDS. They go hungry every single night. But luckily the members of our studio audience won't go hungry with this box of Sees Candy they're all receiving!"

4) Last week, Whoopi kissed Joy on the mouth and I have found it impossible to masturbate ever since.

I'm drafting a letter to The Mayor of Television to not only take this show off the air, but to provide me with a free lobotomy in a desperate attempt to forget about the time Sherry referred to someone as "The black Patty Labelle." I wish that was a hilarious joke I just thought up, but it's not. It's just not.

Defaced

2008-04-25T09:33:00.000-07:00

Hey Facebook. If I wanted to be friends with him, I would have already added him, ok?

Dear Facebook,

I appreciate that you’re always working to improve yourself, but I have a real problem with your recent “application,” these “People I May Know.” It’s great for you, conceptually, but do you ever think about anyone but yourself?! It sucks for me and probably “Him.”

Like how about the fact that grammatically you refer to ‘people’ in the most plural sense of the word. It’s not “Person You May Know” or “Know This Guy?” In reality, you only ever show me one person.

Add to that the fact that the one person just happens to be my ex-boyfriend, who I habitated with for years, introduced to all my friends, and touched parts with on a semi-regular basis, and you might see why I want to punch you in your screen. Yeah, I know him. No, I do not want to be his friend.

Can we please talk about the fact that you’ve neglected to give me any option to make this screen go away other than to be-Face him, which I JUST TOLD you I don’t want to do. You never listen! I’m not harboring resentment towards him, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested in seeing his “status” or tagged photos of his new Tiny Asian Girlfriend on my home page.

You’re so unfair! Are you doing this to him? Are you?!

Will you just be honest for one second? What are you really trying to say? Every. Time. I. Log. In.

Also, why not go for broke. I mean, you have a “Wall” and a “Fun Wall” why not have a “Naked Wall” –- where we can collect all the peoples that we’ve let see us at our most undressed and afterwards had that horrible realization that we actually LET them touch us from the inside (a.k.a. Regrettable Naked Times) and it feels like we’ve just run full speed, head first, into a brick wall—The Naked Wall. If we can make it “public” you’d be doing a community service by helping us avoid double-dipping.

Also also, what else do you know? Is a “People You Will Open Yourself Up To Only To Get Hurt” feature in the works? How about “Good For One Date” or “Don’t Date This Dude” or “People With Baggage Who Never Open Their Proverbial Suitcase” or “Secretly Married?”

Look, our problems are fixable, if you’re willing to change. I’ll keep ignoring those “87 requests” for bullshit things, if you will stop being jealous over him. Seriously, it was a million years and 3,000 miles ago. But if things aren’t gonna work out between us, I still have my space.

-andrea

Promoting Your Improv Show

2008-04-24T17:22:00.000-07:00

Improv shows are a dime a dozen in LA. Here's a list of "don'ts" to help you effectively promote your gig.

When you live in LA, you're friends with a lot of actors and you inevitably get invited to 6 improv shows a week. I turn down 99% of these requests based solely on the info on the flier. If you want people to show up to your gig, I recommend you heed the following:

-Don't perform at a venue that has words like "laugh," or "ha ha" in the title. This implies that the only time these sounds will actually be heard throughout the evening will be when the MC repeatedly mentions the name of the club. I'm sorry, but I'm simply not driving out to Pasadena to spend a entire night in a place called The Chuckle Hutch.

-When naming your troupe, don't use the buzzwords like "improv" or "comedy," and for the love of God don't use a Simpsons reference or make it rhyme. It's like naming your ska band something like "The Ska-shank Redemption." It's a douche move and I'm not going.

(Editor's note: I'm a big fan of SSR. Is that wrong?)

-Even if your group is good, watching 2 hours of terrible improv groups before you makes me want to murder you and all of your fellow joke-sters. Just tell me when your set starts. I know this goes against the actor's code, and if I'm willing to come see my friends I should be willing to experience the other groups as a sign of artistic support blah blah blah blah blah rage punch stab run.

By the way, if you're free Wednesday night at 11:15, my group "The Chortle Squirrels" is doing 10 minutes at Happy Harry's House of Ha Ha-larity. 3 drink minimum and you have to bring your own drinking glass.

Drinks are on the House

2008-04-24T14:27:00.000-07:00

Having a steel worker for a father, I come to usually side with labor when labor clashes with management. However, being a motherfucker, I will invariably side with mischief over either party.

When I found myself in the middle of a thousand airline workers on the verge of striking one Saturday night labor ended up getting the short end of the stick…and a shitbag Mardi Gras themed bar got that stick up their ass.

After dinner my friend and I went for coffee to see a curious sight. We noticed a line of several hundred people holding candles walking single in a single file line and wearing lime green t-shits with the words “give us a break” in large letters. The mood was heavy so I knew this line wasn’t going conga. The line ended up at the headquarters of a major airline that just happened to be in the 11^th hour of labor negotiations.

A man appeared with a mega-phone to announce that the airline was at an impasse with the union. People grumbled and affirmed their commitment to striking with slogans of solidarity like, “fucking assholes, fuck this shit.” The scene got ugly as the airline employees knew they’d be on strike and struggling.

Then as easily as all seemed lost, the workers got what they wanted and more. A little time passed and the mega-phone guy announced that they had a breakthrough and would be getting most of the concessions they requested. The crowd grew optimistic and light-hearted as the speaker warned that the deal was not done yet.

I approached the man in charge and told him that I was the manager of the Fat Tuesdays down the street. I offered my support and told them that if they get this thing worked out, the first round is on the house. The man immediately held up his mega-phone and boisterously told the workers that they were going to get some free drinks at said bar, the people roared with applause.

Another 30 minutes or so passed and the man stood up on a chair to proclaim, “We got it! We got it! We got it! Now let’s celebrate at Faaaaat Tuesdaaaaays!” Sadly, I could not join them for that complimentary first round. Yet, I could take some comfort in seeing several hundred people arguing over who was going to pay a $5,000 bar tab.

"Donut Time" Almost Cost Me My Life

2008-04-24T11:20:00.000-07:00

When forced to choose between my own physical safety and 85 cents worth of donuts, the decision was alarmingly easy.

I did a late night improv show in Hollywood recently and was hungry on my way home. It was 3AM and I was faced with the decision of stopping at an establishment called "Donut Time" at Santa Monica & Highland or baring hunger pains for my 20 minute drive home to the Westside. I was tired and not of sound mind when the choice became crystal clear: it was motherfucking Donut Time.

At night, the corner of Santa Monica & Highland is exactly how my strict parents envisioned all of LA when they wouldn't let me drive up here in high school: Shady characters, gender benders, and a public display of those black stereotypes that white people feel really guilty just thinking about.

I parked my car right next to an angry African American gentleman who was menacingly looking back and forth. When I got out of my car he screamed "what chu want?!" at me, to which I replied "a donut." He didn't respond to that, which I decided was the best possible outcome to that interaction. Two very polite transvestite hookers greeted me at the door and asked if I needed anything. I figured using my "donut" answer again might take on a tragically different connotation in this scenario. I said "no thanks" and threw up a little in my mouth.

Once inside I asked the sagely Korean owner for a bear claw; he gave me a cinnamon role. I tried to correct him but he insisted that what he had just bagged up was, in fact, a bear claw. I had 2 thoughts at this point 1) This does not matter, they taste exactly the same, this is not the time or place to have a semantics argument over breakfast pastries.. and 2) Fuck THIS guy. He owns an establishment called "DONUT Time" yet has an amature donut vocabulary? It may be 3AM, but justice does not sleep, good shopkeep!

I made it out alive with a real bear claw, a second offer for horrifying threesome with the hookers, and something I can only describe as a "honkey stare-down" from the man standing by my car. Snacks always taste better when you risk your life to obtain them. And you know what? That was a good god-damned bear claw.

Mirror Mirror On The Agent’s Wall

2008-04-23T17:13:00.000-07:00

So after a mass mailing of about eighty of my headshots to eighty different agents, I finally got a meeting on Wilshire Blvd. I was feeling…damn good. The building was impressive, my monologue was prepared, I was new in LA, and this was my moment to shine.

When I walked into The Agent’s office, the first thing I was struck by were the mirrors: we’re talking floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall. From The Agent’s last name I was expecting someone of Asian decent, but this guy was British - and once he began speaking I was quick to realize, he also had a lisp. I tried to catch his eye so I could smile and introduce myself, but that proved impossible since he never once took his eyes off his own reflection…even as he shook my hand and invited me to sit down on the couch.

The Agent poured me a glass of champagne, refilled his own, and began to impart his dubious wisdom: explaining to me the impossibility of getting a SAG card without an agent, saying how hard it was to even get an agent if you didn’t have blonde hair and big tits. He found himself riveting. His eyes staring squarely into his own.

Once he was finished with his monologue, I performed mine (a piece from the Vagina Monologues) with gusto and conviction! And as my voice broke for a tear-filled finish, I looked up and saw that The Agent was aligning his toupee with the help of the mirrors on the north and south walls.

I sat back down on the couch and The Agent told me my monologue needed some work. He knelt before me and put his hand on my knee. “Everybody needs…friends in Hollywood. Now why don’t you see my secretary and if you like, she’ll set you up next week for a 6:00 appointment, my last appointment of the day.” He winked at himself.

As I was ushered out of the room, I saw the receptionist packing up and a girl who looked like me except with blonder hair and bigger boobs sitting on the couch. I checked my watch. It was 6:00.

Lie the Balls She Gave You Off

2008-04-23T13:32:00.000-07:00

You can literally hear it in her voice when your mother shifts from talking about your father’s bursitis and the son of a bitch your sister married to asking you how it’s going for you out in Hollywood: Hope.

Hope that her little boy or girl is not actually doing what they say they are doing, and toiling in the mailroom at a third-rate talent agency. That the child she wanted to be a doctor, a congressman, fuck even an accountant, isn’t literally washing someone’s dishes just to have a job in ‘the industry.’ With that kind of sentiment underlying your every conversation, why would you do anything but lie your balls off?

A few weeks ago I spent two hours in the office of a powerful director trying to cover his massive, floor-to-ceiling windows with a black, velveteen cloth to make sure no light could get in during an upcoming screening. The process involved cutting and hanging a textile approximately the size of Connecticut without disturbing any of the man’s plants, metallic Buddhas in repose, framed head shots or Arabian tea sets, a task that required me to delicately and painstakingly tap a series of tiny nails into the window molding, standing on a chair.

Not long after, she called.

“Well, I was just in a Powerful Director’s office for a couple hours, actually...”

“Really? What were you doing?”

“Having a meeting.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Art. Movies. Religion. We just kind of talked.”

The Man Himself was actually at his Malibu home at the time, but what the hell.

“Wow. Is he going to read your script?”

“Ma, it’s not like that. He has to ask for it. It’s impolite to offer it.”

“You were in there for two hours and he didn’t ask?”

“He said he was thinking about it.”

“Well, at least you’re not washing his dishes.”

“True. True.”