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

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

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

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.

William Morris Will Pass

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

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

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?

How Long Until Miley Cyrus Goes Batshit Crazy?

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.

Celebrity Retardation

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.

A Plea to the God of Summer Blockbusters

Something bitchin’ this way comes...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brett Ratner Wears Skirts

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.

Ask a Black Person: Racial Sensitivity for Hollywood Studios

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.

Remake Hollywood

“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

The Future of Hip Hop Smells Like a Frat Boy

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

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.

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

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.

Oprah's Big Shove

The only thing Oprah loves more than giving is Oprah.

Aspiring elitists have a new, invaluable resource for mastering the art of selfish giving: Oprah's Big Give. It teaches us to develop our inner Hilton by doling out charity that's more about making ourselves look good than it is about the receiver's needs. Consider this Oprah 101.

Rule #1: Everything is a competition.

If you want to be a top-notch selfish giver, realize that there are other people out there striving to be even more selfish. On Oprah's Big Give, contestants run around trying to help as many people as possible ("Sorry, no time for CPR, but here's a hundred dollar bill.") in as "creative" a manner as possible ("Did I say a hundred dollar bill? Make it a dinner for your widow at the restaurant where you proposed."). Take a cue from Oprah: mere charity isn't enough; it's got to be charity with flair.

Rule #2: Force help on those who don't want it.

Most people don't realize they need or even want help. It's your job to shove it up their collective ass. If you pass someone on the street who looks poorer than you, toss them a shiny nickel. It'll make you feel better about yourself. If you notice someone with unkempt hair or bad acne, suggest they clean themselves up so they don't sicken others with their appearance. It's a 10-second extreme makeover! (Make sure there's a camera around to document the tears.)

Rule #3: Ignore reason.

Forcing help is one thing, but completely disregarding all reason in your charitable efforts is the pièce de résistance of selfish giving. You say you're having trouble making your mortgage payments because you adopted 12 children? Well, here's a thousand-dollar party to occupy the kids while you figure out what to do.

Rule #4: The rich get richer.

Ultimately, the winning contestant on Oprah's Big Give gets more money than any of the deserving people they helped along the way -- which is really the point of giving, isn't it?

Gettin’ High with Kitty

In which I smoke out the poster pet of the Internet.

It’s kind of a stoner rite of passage to feed a pet some form of narcotics. I find that my cat’s instinctual curiosity and literal inability to “just say no” makes him a prime candidate for chasing the green dragon. Plus I’d hate to be one of those losers who smokes pot alone. That’s why when I get high with my cat I plan activities that the two of us can find equally engaging. Like watching movies where people turn into cats, so we both get freaked out. If I’m sitting there baked out of my potato, considering the implications of turning into a cat (increased stealth, cuter agility), I like to think that ol’ furball can also wig off imagining how it’d be to morph into a human (i.e. no having to bury own shit, non-weird prick, can open a savings account…etc.)

The films Cat People and Sleepwalker pretty much make up the “werecat” genre of cinema, the former of which IMDB describes as an “erotic remake,” which is the best kind of remake. While I zoned out imagining an erotic remake of Downfall, my cat remained transfixed on a scene where some guy gets his arm ripped off. I didn’t want him to get any bright ideas, so it was on to the next film.

Sleepwalkers details that tired old yarn about a shape-shifting mother-son duo that feed on the souls of virgins. For reasons pot-related, I don’t really remember this film. Though I do know it feature my favorite kind of stabbing. You guessed it, corn-stabbing:

As my cat’s interests shifted towards urgently mewling at a shadow, it became clear he didn’t give two buried shits about these movies. My attention eventually wandered as well, and I later found myself on the Internet Googling pictures of Jocelyn Wildenstein, the infamous “real” cat woman of plastic surgery.

Me-ow:

Pitching Woo

Puttin' the moves on a lady, Hollywood-style.

Look, neither of us has much time, so let me cut to the chase. With your help, I think I can get in your pants. I'm closing this deal tonight, because let's face it, you're not getting any younger. Here's how I see it playing out...

It's Passion of the Christ meets Rashomon: a lot of flogging and yelling for God, with conflicting reports of what happened afterward.

Initially, you'd be hesitant because you've been hurt before, plus I have that whole elbow fetish thing, which is a tough sell. You'd be emotionally closed off, but spiritually "excited" due to recurring sexual fantasies about a three-way with Buddha and Jesus Christ. Your strict Catholic upbringing would generate an internal conflict that can only be resolved by dressing like a nun and flogging me with rosary beads.

During the second act, we'd throw in some hip-hop dancing -- that's really dope right now -- and maybe some kung-fu wire work if this ceiling can support a harness. By the time we reach the climax, the journey will have taught you a new appreciation for life and the sanctity of "love" plugs. At its heart, it's a human drama wrapped in an erotic thriller with some sci-fi elements and a twist ending (I'm a hermaphrodite).

The running time would be about 90, 95 seconds. Any longer, and we'd lose the audience. Although I'd like a theatrical release, it's more likely to go straight to video.

As you know, though, this is a star-driven industry, so we'd have to get a big name involved. With our budget in the low six figures -- including the decimal point -- I've been able to reach final talks with the entire cast of the Real World/Road Rules Challenge, who will apparently work for just penicillin shots.

Ang Lee will direct.

What the Hell Happened to My Career?

Hollywood is littered with stars who'll take any role that comes with a dollar sign attached, but these people desperately need to fire their agents. And managers. Seriously, Cuba.

Unlike those who've just gotten too old or fat (or both, Kathleen Turner) to hold out for quality roles or those for whom quality was never an issue (Steven Seagal), there are a select few who seemed destined to build up an impressive body of work -- only to end up starring alongside Casper Van Dien.

Ray Liotta
High Point: Goodfellas (1990)
Low Point: In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale (2007)
Diagnosis: Had the misfortune of appearing in such good films so early in his career (Goodfellas, Field of Dreams) that everything subsequently resembled a sack of crap. That said, nothing excuses starring in an Uwe Boll video game "movie." Nothing.

Mira Sorvino
High Point: Mighty Aphrodite (1995)
Low Point: WiseGirls (2002), co-starring Mariah Carey
Diagnosis: Her Oscar-winning role in Mighty Aphrodite was her own private "perfect storm" in which all the stars aligned to make her seem like a better actress than she really is. Reality set in soon thereafter. (At least she wasn't in Glitter.)

Wesley Snipes
High Point: Jungle Fever (1991)
Low Point: everything since 2002
Diagnosis: Is pretty much a douchebag. Seriously, dude, pay your taxes.

Heather Graham
High Point: Boogie Nights (1997)
Low Point: Blessed (2004), in which she's impregnated by Satan's DNA at a fertility clinic
Diagnosis: Even horny 14-year-olds got tired of seeing her pasty tits.

F. Murray Abraham
High Point: Amadeus (1984)
Low Point: the Sci-Fi Channel killer ape movie of the week BloodMonkey (2007)
Diagnosis: Obviously suffered a cerebral aneurysm sometime during the late '80s that caused him to go from the Academy Award-winning Amadeus to Slipstream, starring Mark Hamill.

Christopher Walken
High Point: The Deer Hunter (1978)
Low Point: Tie: Gigli (2003) / Kangaroo Jack (2003) / Balls of Fury (2007)
Diagnosis: After watching 274 hack comedians do impersonations of him, he's had a break with reality and now thinks he's Frank Caliendo doing a caricature of Christopher Walken.

Cuba Gooding Jr.
High Point: Jerry Maguire (1996)
Low Point: Where to start? Boat Trip (2002) / Snow Dogs (2002) / Daddy Day Camp (2007) / Norbit (2007)/Selling Michael Jordan's underwear
Diagnosis: Sold his soul for the ability to win an Academy Award based solely on a catchphrase. Even Satan regrets this decision now.

Jenna Jameson
High Point: I Love Lesbians (1995)
Low Point: Evil Breed: The Legend of Samhain (2006)
Diagnosis: While I Love Lesbians embodied her amazing tolerance of both same-sex relationships and vaginal trauma, Evil Breed is just a sexless horror movie lacking her usual social commentary and ass play. Plus, now she looks like shit.

Indiana Jones and the Hip-Replacement Surgery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In short, you sicken me, old people.

Coolio: How the Mighty have Fallen

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

Hilarity ensued.

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

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

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

But I should have known better.

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

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

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