The Tribe Has Spoken: Part 1

The votes are in! Last week, we published the first of a series of posts inspired by this season's Survivor: Racist Island since each member of the Hands in the Air gang represents one of the show's ethnicity-based tribes. For this first installment of our Survivor: Blog Island comics, Chris racked up the most votes so he's getting the boot. Here's how the story unfolds...
VOTE NOW! Cast your vote for which blogger goes home next by e-mailing us or posting a comment. Results will be depicted in another horribly racist (pronounced "satiric") comic strip!

Shouldn't It Be Called "The Amazing Race"?

We're not Survivor fans, but we think it's worth exploiting tonight's controversial premiere of Survivor: Cook Islands*. This season, the show controversially splits up the castaways into four racially segregated tribes, and it turns out that each member of the Hands in the Air gang represents each of the four teams: the Asians (Jason), the Hispanics (Jenni), the Blacks (Chris) and the Whites (Steve).

The tribe has spoken: We're a Benetton ad.
(Left to right: Latina Jenni, Asian Jason, white Steve & black Chris)

It's segregated "reality TV" with race pitted against race against race against race on a jungle island. It's like camp, but without the concentration!**

VOTE NOW! In celebration of all this diversity, we're running our very own Survivor challenge. Each week, you'll get to vote one of us off our Blog Island. To vote, post a comment here or e-mail us here with who you think should get voted off -- Chris, Jason, Jenni or Steve.

Whoever gets voted off will be depicted losing an Elimination Challenge in a subsequent comic-strip blog posting until only one Survivor remains! Exercise your civil right to vote, then cancel it out by supporting segregation!
_________
* Be careful with the word "Cook." One typo and that "C" could become a "G" (or maybe that "k" could become an "n"), and then you'd have a real racist show on your hands.

** Mel Gibson typed that. He's blogging here while his buzz wears off. Seriously. I swear on the next Starz airing of The Passion of the Christ.

Happy Birthday, Roald Dahl

Roald Dahl
September 13, 1916- November 23, 1990

Author of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda, The Witches and other stories

James and the Giant Peach*

* That's Princess Peach on the right from the Super Mario video games for those of you non-gamers.

Food for Naught

The usual gang of Hands in the Air idiots has been holding on to some questionable snacks for a goodly amount of time. With the uh, football season starting and all, it seemed like the perfect time to taste and rate 'em.

Dagoba organic chocolate bar in hazelnut. Yo-duh.

Jason: Do midichlorians taste like wax? 'Cause that's all I taste.

Steve: Forget the Jedi, this candy bar is what deserves Order 66.* The Dagobah dragonsnake would spit this chocolate out, just like it spit out Artoo.

Jenni: Organic chocolate is for chumps. This tastes like if the snake from the Yoda action figure went all organic chocolatier on us and used swamp shit to make chocolate that didn't taste too great. With hazelnuts that really didn't taste good at all. And barely noticeable rice crisps.

Even more pointless than you'd imagine: Sports Bar Snacks in Hot Wings & Blue Cheese.

Steve: These things taste like crap, no matter how many Hooters girls bring them to you.

Jason: Tastes like Chex coated with powdered Satan farts.**

Jenni: The idea is very funny but the execution is just eh, whatever. I was disappointed that these weren't aggressively bad but instead were just kinda crappy but like, I could eat them if I really had to. They sat on our coffee table and stunk up the place, though.


Limited edition KitKat in MilkShake brings no boys to the yard.

Jenni: If you hadn't told me it was different I might not have noticed. Smells a little like malt, which would make it KitKat in Malt, not MilkShake but whatever. The chocolate is a l'il milkier than your usual KitKat. I hate it that I am actually kind of talking about the snacks and the boys are just making jokes. It's not fair.

Jason: Gimmie a break, gimmie a break, break me off a gun and shoot me--that's the last time I spend 80 bucks on a candy bar on eBay. Doopduhduhleekduhdoopduhduh.

Steve: I like the idea of limited-edition perishable items, but this candy is bullshit. It doesn't taste like milkshake, it just tastes like an imitation KitKat.




*That's the order that had all the Jedi executed, for those of you who aren't Star Wars dorks.

**"Satan farts" adapted from an "Angel farts" joke made by Jenni the other day, which we're totally writing an inspirational book about.

The Elusive Suri Photographed; Bigfoot Totally Jealous

Well, I'll be. That fake baby of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes is actually real. Baby Suri's appearance on the cover of this October's Vanity Fair proves it (now available in Los Angeles & New York; available nationwide on September 12).

It looks like a kid, but I'm convinced it's a little puppy in a baby costume. (You can use that idea for a calendar for free, Anne Geddes.)

Jenni points out that the baby looks sorta Asian in some of the pictures. I maintain that it's an attempt to ride out the whole "ethnic baby" craze started by the Jolie-Pitts.

Another notable baby observation is that The King of Queens costar and fellow Scientologist Leah Remini wasn't bluffing when she claimed seeing the celebritot early on, describing Suri as "a newborn" and "normal size." Sure enough, Vanity Fair proves that Suri is indeed baby-sized and just born. I just wish I could paint pictures as vividly as Leah was able to, but alas, I come up short when I merely describe her sitcom as "unfunny" and "30 minutes too long."

One last rugrat observation: Is it just me or does it look like that baby's wearing a toupee? With a 'do like that, Suri could totally play a bouncing little Tom Hanks in a Da Vinci Code prequel. This fake baby is totally gonna go places.

An Open Letter to Nerds, pt. 1

Dear Nerds,
Hey guys, 'sup? It's me, Steve, your representative on the Hands in the Air crew. I need to have a word with you all, so grab a frosty Mountain Dew, set down the 20-sided dice for a second, and switch over your attitude modulators from "creepy Internet troll" to "open-minded, hygienically challenged person." Ready? Okay.

I was perusing the Internet, as we all like to do. As many of you, my fellow nerds, I too have taken to the World of Warcraft as a leisure activity, although I'd say the majority of my fellow players have me beat in terms of sheer devoted fervor. So it's not surprising to me when I see the trends and news of the real world bleed into the digital one. It's a pretty natural phenomenon.

But I have to tell you, this kind of shit really depresses me. For those too lazy to click the link, I'll sum up. Basically, someone is planning to pay tribute to the late Steve Irwin, in World of Warcraft. The plan is to get a bunch of avatars into one virtual seaside location and spell out the word "Crikey," then frolic about in the digital surf to, y'know, celebrate the dude's life and shit. Then, if somebody could post the whole thing on YouTube, that would be great. Um, as you guys like to say, WTF (that's "what the fuck," non-nerds)?

Crikey! Let's blow this World of Warcraft wake that these nerds threw for me -- I hear that Paul Hogan is having a Halo party!

I can understand that you're mourning Steve Irwin and you want to show your support, but this kind of shit is just not normal. For one, it comes off as gimmicky at best and outright disrespectful at worst. Don't you see how staging a mock funeral for a person who really died, IRL ("in real life," non-nerds), is patronizing and actually trivializes his death? His avatar didn't die in some reef off the coast of Kalimdor battling Murlocs. He died here on Earth where the real people are. The least you all can do is pay some respects to him in the world in which he actually, you know, lived and died.

But second, this shit has been done before, with disastrous results. What happens when some guild of assclowns raids your memorial service and turns the whole thing into a debacle? You know some of our nerd brethren, despite the ill-used flowery prose and self-appointed "intelligence," are cocks. Straight up, fucktarded cocks. They will fuck with you just for the immature pleasure it gives them because Lord knows we all need to feel powerful sometimes in our lives, even if for some nerds it's in a videogame, ruining the experience of fellow nerds. So what was already an immature display (holding a videogame funeral for a real-life dead person), will be coated in yet another layer of nerd-ridden bullshit.

Third, don't you all understand how bad this makes us look? This shit, right here, is why we all get the shit kicked out of us or teased or bullied or whatever. It's not because we're so smart and people are jealous. It's not because mom says we're special. It's because we have our priorities all fucked up. It's because nerds tend to put this kind of bullshit before actual real, honest-to-goodness human connections. Are our priorities any more fucked up than any other groups? Not necessarily, but our stuff seems to be harder for outsiders to grasp and shit like this is NOT HELPING!

Artist's rendering of Steve Irwin spinning in his grave

So if you really want to pay tribute to Steve Irwin, and not just get the geek clusterfuck that you and your friends put together in WoW on YouTube, then here are some things you can do that will actually mean something:

1. Donate some money to an appropriate charity.

If all of you assfaces would just pull $5 or so out of your pockets and put together some cash instead of meeting up in World of Warcraft, you could make a serious donation to something like, gee, I dunno, THE AUSTRALIA ZOO. You know, the place where Steve worked, which I'm sure can always use more generous financial support in order to better care for its wildlife. The WWF (not the wrestling thing, the animals one), has an Australian branch. They could also use some cash, I'm sure.

There's also your local zoo, or even your local animal shelter. A big donation, or even a small one, in Steve's name, to the cause he obviously was so passionate about makes a MUCH bigger statement and a much more fitting tribute to the man than spelling out "Crikey" in imaginary Night Elves.

2. Learn more about animals.

The man was passionate about wildlife and went to great lengths to spread that passion to everyone he could. So if you take up that curiosity (I don't mean grabbing poisonous snakes or wrestling crocodiles here, but actually learning more about them), that gives his life, and by extension his death, some real meaning, or at least more than frolicking in the virtual surf with some videogame Dwarves.

And spread that passion to others. If, by some miracle or loop-hole in the justice system you have access to children, spend some time with them to talk about animals. Pique their curiosity in wildlife. I can't think of a much better tribute than passing on something like that.

3. Go the fuck outside.

This one is pretty easy and, frankly, some of you need it. Shower first, please, then actually go out and spend some time in the sunshine. Get some vitamin D for Christ's sake! Go on a picnic. Go camping. Go for a walk. Spend time getting to know this planet while you still can. Steve Irwin obviously cared a whole hell of a lot about it. Aren't you curious why? Maybe you can find out. Just go the fuck outside!

Okay, that's all from me for now. I'll send you guys another letter the next time you do something asinine. Okay, maybe not that soon, but whatever.

Love and Natural 20s,

- Steve

Crocodile Tears

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not trying to turn this blog into the Dead People Server just because this is the fourth R.I.P. posting I've made in a row, but it just so happens that a lot of notable people have been dying lately. If I didn't post about famous deaths, I think the passings would slip under most people's radars. So now it's pretty much become my duty to report on the bucket-kickers since I have my finger on the pulse of dead people (albeit that pulse is registering zero beats per minute). For today's bad news, the grim reaper has come for Steve Irwin, "The Crocodile Hunter."

Steve Irwin

February 22, 1962 - September 4, 2006

Steve Irwin was killed earlier today during a deep-sea documentary shoot when he was impaled in the heart by a stingray barb. Now I'm no doctor, but my basic diagnosis would be "HOLY SWEET MARY MOTHER OF JESUS, THAT HAS REALLY, REALLY GOT TO SUCK." It's simultaneously a tragic, yet totally bad-ass way to go.

Despite his name, the Crocodile Hunter didn't actually stalk crocs, but instead he taunted death his entire career by sticking his face in future suitcases, wallets and pimp shoes as they lived in their natural habitat. That's pretty cool, and at least he wasn't altogether nutso strange-o like that Grizzly Man who totally annoyed bears into killing him. Irwin was just a dedicated naturalist who had Linda Evans hair and a true love for animals. The environmentalist community will have one less hero and the late-night talk show circuit will have one less last-minute guest. Looks like Jay Leno will have to resort to booking Carrot Top instead. HOLY SWEET MARY MOTHER OF JESUS, THAT HAS REALLY, REALLY GOT TO SUCK.

----
UPDATE 9/4/06 8:00PM:
What I find interesting is that it's clear that the thing most daily gossip shows hate most is a celebrity death that happens on a three-day weekend. Instead of giving Steve Irwin a proper video send-off, shows like Extra and Entertainment Tonight spent more time hyping prepackaged bits like Katie Couric's upcoming debut on the nightly news.

So while Pat O'Brien was busy drunk-dialing Vanessa Minnillo from his backyard barbecue, some poor intern was spending his Labor Day combing through footage of a Hollywood Video copy of The Crocodile Hunter: Collision Course on DVD to create a last-second memorial that would be squeezed in before Extra's latest update on the awkward Simpson-Lachey tension backstage at the MTV Video Music Awards. That's tension so thick you couldn't even cut it with the serrated barb of a... never mind.

R.I.P., R.I.P., R.I.P.

They say it comes in threes. This week, three influential talents in Hollywood that you might not have known about have passed away: Glenn Ford, Ed Benedict and Joseph Stefano.

Glenn Ford
(Actor, Blackboard Jungle, Superman)

May 1, 1916 – August 30, 2006

Actor Glenn Ford starred as the teacher in Blackboard Jungle and played Pa Kent in the 1978 Superman movie. His other memorable roles include Gilda and The Courtship of Eddie's Father (the movie, not the TV series starring the kid who would go on to become a hardcore punk singer in real life).

Ed Benedict
(Animator)

August 23, 1912 – August 28, 2006

Cartoonist Ed Benedict was a designer and layout artist who started out working for Tex Avery at MGM. He'd soon move on to Hanna-Barbera, where he designed Quick Draw McGraw (who, I suspect, would later influence the drawling speech patterns of Dr. Phil McGraw), The Flintstones, Yogi Bear, Huckleberry Hound, Snagglepuss and other icons of the golden age of animation. Heavens to Murgatroyd.

Joseph Stefano
(Screenwriter, Psycho)

May 5, 1922 - August 25, 2006

Screenwriter Joseph Stefano wrote the screenplay to Psycho (and added the famous shower scene, which wasn't in the book) and co-created the TV series, The Outer Limits.

Gymkata, Gotta Gotta

If you like your martial arts action movies to have a little flair (and by "flair" I don’t mean Steven Seagal in a silky kimono -- I mean more like a karate master busting out a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Cartwheel followed by a sassy dismount), then you’ll be happy to hear that Gymkata is finally being released on DVD.

You insult my honor. Let's settle this on the parallel bars.

Answering the age-old questions of "What if ninjas weren’t really all that cool?" and "What if Mary Lou Retton could kick my ass?" Gymkata serves up an action movie with the chocolate-in-my-peanut-butter concept of martial arts meets gymnastics. And it’s all made to sound really, really authentic by adding "-kata" to its name.

The movie originally came out in 1985 and is finally seeing the light of day on DVD thanks to internet voting in Amazon.com’s DVD Decision 2006. The road to Netflix queuedom started with 30 obscure Warner Bros. movies, but only 10 of them could be voted into DVD circulation. Think of it as the Thunderdome for DVDs, where 30 movies enter but only 10 movies leave, and along the way there are some really fabulous somersault dismounts and balance beam work.

Amazon.com has just announced which 10 winning movies have been made available for pre-order (though it seems they've upped the total to 12 titles), and Gymkata made the cut, earning a January 2007 release. Back in June, I made a blog posting urging people to vote for the movie, and maybe it worked. Whether or not it sells big when it’s released in January is another story, but if it tanks, it’d be proof yet again that internet buzz is too often overblown Snakes on a Plane-style. And that could be embarrassingly painful... like a throwing star tossed by a ninja in a leotard.

Snakes in a Hissyfit

Boo! Hiss! America, you've let me down. After all the nationwide rallying behind Snakes on a Plane, New Line Cinema finally delivered the exact reptilian kick-assery you asked for, but most of the country didn't even bother to show up to see it on opening weekend. The movie's internet fanbase would lead you to believe that the film would premiere at more than a disappointing $15.2 million, but it's like someone switched the marquee to say Pulse or Step Up or "also starring Rob Schneider."

The snakes on a plane find out the in-flight movie is "You, Me and Dupree"

So maybe snakes aren't the creepiest thing to ride in a plane now that John Mark Karr has flown stateside, but the movie is still hands down the most exhilarating flick of the summer. The film's true genius, however, lies in its ability to reveal how overrated the power of the internet really is. Surprise -- MySpace friends don't translate into actual people who'd really like you in person, home movies still suck when they're on YouTube and web darling Dane Cook is even more unfunny in real life.

But strangely the internet hype was right about Snakes on a Plane -- it's one of the best movies of the year, and here's why:

1. Snakes bite people everywhere you want to see a snake bite someone (Yes, there. And there.)
2. Snakes pop out of everywhere on a plane that you'd want a snake to pop out of
3. Samuel L. Jackson does his trademark badass speech and isn't promptly eaten by a shark
4. Samuel L. Jackson doesn't play a Jedi
5. It's a movie about herpetology, and that just sounds funny
6. It makes for fun theater pranks like this
   

The only shortcoming for Snakes on a Plane was that there was a kickboxer on board who didn't actually get to kick any snakes, and there was a GINORMOUS snake on board that didn't get enough screen time to get kicked. Oh, and you couldn't even be bothered to see it yet. To paraphrase Sam Jackson, get your motherfucking asses in the motherfucking theater.

Hot Duff

Perhaps it's not readily apparent, what with all the time and attention we give to her mortal enemy, Lindsay Lohan, but we here at Hands in the Air are fascinated by one miss Hilary Duff. Her calendar hangs prominently in our apartment (we even let the month she posed with her sister stay up!), a tiny picture of her is nestled between Jesus and Mary on this incredibly fashionable wall hanging (it lights up!) that Jason gave me a few birthdays ago, her music is featured in pretty much all of our iPod playlists and, of course, we own much in the way of "stuff by hilary duff," including folders, notebooks, magnets and pens.

The Holy Trinity:
A virgin (not Hilary Duff),
the guy from The Da Vinci Code and Hilary Duff

So I was totally f'in stoked to read that more stuff by hilary duff would be available for purchase in some of my favorite (no joke) stores like Wal-Mart and Target. Even more stokage occurred when I read Hils' quote about it all:

"My stuff by hilary duff Fall fashion collection reflects my personal style and taste. As a designer, I travel around the world - from London to Japan, New York to Los Angeles - to make sure my design ideas are in tune," said Hilary.

Non Duff Divers, please note the lyrics to Ms. Duff's "Wake Up."

"Could be New York, maybe Hollywood and Vine...London, Paris maybe Tokyo...There's something going on anywhere I go tonight..."

Yeah. How could she forget to mention Paris when she talked about herself as a designer?!?!? Don't you love that "As a designer" bit? It's like when Haylie calls herself...um...anything.

No seriously, do you think the person who drafted her quote about stuff by hilary duff knew about the song lyrics and they were being cute, or were they clueless, or what? I can't decide. Luv it either way.

As if the prospect of a new Hilary Duff folder (and maybe a necklace!) weren't enuff, Hil and Hay's movie, Material Girls, comes out on Friday! Since we're getting the seeing of Snakes on a Plane out of the way on Thursday, it's all about the sisters Duff on Friday!

Haylie (left, with the horse face) and Hilary Duff (right, with the giant teeth)

P.P. (post post) One last thing about Hilary--the story goes that back when they were youngins hard at work for the Mouse, Raven (-Symone) and Lindsay Lohan were roomies who had a pic of Hilary on their dartboard. That warms the cockles, don't it?

Saved by the Screech

The life of a celebrity must be so hard. There's the long hours, the lack of privacy and the need to fake actual illness in order to cover for partying too damn hard. And as if all of that weren't enough of a hassle, sometimes some crazy bitch tries to steal your videogames!

Despite any sense of justice in the universe, Dustin Diamond aka "Screech" from "Saved by the Bell," has been out of mainstream consciousness for years, but I guess that doesn't stop crazy bitches from being crazy, now does it? I'm sure that, despite his "Surreal Life"-reject celebrity status, even the "D-man" has to deal with this kind of phenomenon all the time, so when the shit hits the fan, he's prepared.

Gimmie yer money or I'll mace you! You're bankrupt? Oh for fuck's sake. Gimmie them videogames, then, Screech. And Zack Morris' phone number.

So beware crazy bitches! If you're skinny enough and can't throw a decent punch, Dustin Diamond will totally kick your girly ass...at Playstation.

Podcast Episode #007: Scotch and Pee in My Coke

Podcast #007 is ready to offend your ears! This episode features Jenni's sister Deitri, our first-ever guest who dialed in from Cleveland, Ohio to make the podcast a three-state affair (Jenni, Jason and Steve are in Los Angeles and Chris is in New York for those who didn't know). Maybe you could be our next guest, so e-mail your pleas and bribes to handsintheairmail@gmail.com.

Clockwise from left: Steve, Jenni, Chris and Jason. Not pictured: Deitri (or, she could be represented by the house plant)

Highlights of the episode include a story about Scotland, more original Snakes on a Plane songs and a dance song featuring the quotes of Chris.

Vote for our podcast! Show your support and vote for our podcast at Podcast Alley.

Happy Birthday, Alfred Hitchcock

Alfred Hitchcock was born 107 years ago today on August 13, 1899. To commemorate the Master of Suspense's birthday, I've photographed my toy tribute to some of his most popular and iconic films (including two of my all-time favorite movies, Vertigo and North by Northwest).

Meanwhile, M. Night Shyamalan rang in his 36th birthday last week on August 6, and in a typical anticlimactic twist, the event was a self-indulgent celebration of himself that no one could really give a crap about.

Vertigo

Psycho
Rear Window
North by Northwest

Great Ball o' Fire

For much of my adult life, I have made a study of badassitude. You see, I was born a badass, and I am proud of it.

All the world loves a badass, but I don't just want to love the badasses around me, or the badass that is me. I want to understand badassitude, I want to cultivate badassitude, I want to celebrate badassitude. Badasses deserve their time in the spotlight, too.

Though true badassitude is rare, you can find it in many surprising places.

Now, I don't know this little fella's name, but I can tell you this: little yellow computer-generated fire hat dude is BADASS. Look at his face. There's like, 85 emotions in there at once. He's concerned, but he's also a little pissed at you for having to be reminded about this shit. He is serious, but he is playful--goddammit, his eyes are playful.

He is raw power in a rotund, jaundiced, hatted package. You can smell the baditude on this mofo a mile away. You can taste it on your lips.

He's so badass, he doesn't need a name. Or a body. Or a firehose. He puts out fires (and gives safety lessons) through sheer force of motherfucking badass will. If he thinks too hard about putting out fires, the sun will go out and then we'll all be fucked. Do not make him think too hard about putting out fires, I am not in the mood to freeze to death.

Possibly the greatest thing Mr. badass fire hat yellow guy has ever appeared on is sadly not available on the internet, and I keep forgetting to bring my camera to try to take a picture of it from a moving car on my commute home, but I will try to convey the subtle beauty and force-of-nature-level impact of it. Our stoic, fire-hatted hero is placed in the center of a rippling turquoise background; ah, yes, it's the water in a pool. Arranged around him, the stirring slogan: "Children drown without a sound." And then there's some other stuff on there but I forget what it says. Something about installing fences around your pool or hiring a lifeguard or some shit.

Young, pre-fire hat badass before he learned all about fire safety.

Unfortunately, I cannot give you the pleasure of first encountering him in this setting, but this is how I first met the badass fire mascot, and I think you can understand why he's affected me so deeply. Here is a fire mascot, a bit top-heavy but undeniably masculine, dignified in his fire hat, clearly a symbol for stopping, dropping, and rolling--and he's concerned about water-related safety, and children. Is there no end to his heroism? I don't know where he keeps his heart, but it must be enormous. There are lifeguards and whoever teaches people how not to accidentally kill their children to deliver this message, but no, that's not good enough for him. He needs to get involved on a personal level. Fuck, now I'm weeping.

Damn badasses get me every time.

Spitting Images

Everyone's been told they resemble some celebrity, but most people probably wouldn't say that I could be mistaken for Eddie Murphy or Alyssa Milano. The Face Recognition demo at MyHeritage.com would claim otherwise, and the mug-matching program even suggests that I'm a dead ringer for Daisy Fuentes and Michael Caine, too. In reality, most people get me mixed up with the food delivery guy but that's another story.

A webwide sensation, the Face Recognition demo allows you to upload digital photos of yourself, and the program will scan its celebrity database to find the star you most closely resemble. The demo has people uploading photo after photo in the hopes it'll match their looks with Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie, but instead it's a heartless ego-reamer, matching users' pics with the likes of such mirror-crackers as Frankie Muniz or the Snapple lady.

Once, the program actually thought a wrinkle in a shirt in one of my photos resembled Winona Ryder, so now I'm uploading photos of toast in the hopes of uncovering an image of the Virgin Mary so I can cash in on all those religious nuts and/or grilled cheese lovers. To abuse the Face Recognition program even further, I've uploaded photos of some various action figures and toys to see who their celebrity twins are. None of the celebrity toys matched their real-life counterparts, but at least that Malcolm in the Middle kid didn't come up either.

Lindsay Lohan = Elisha Cuthbert. The My Scene doll version of the 24-hour party queen resembles the 24 party pooper.

Jessica Alba as the Invisible Woman = Cate Blanchett. (Click each link to the see the actual Face Recognition results.)

The Rock = Lara Flynn Boyle. Fun fact: It takes 1,487 Lara Flynn Boyles lined up waist-to-waist to equal the circumference of the Rock's neck.

Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy the Vampire Slayer = Keira Knightley

David Boreanaz as Angel (in vampire/ass-face form) = Eddie Murphy

Wonder Woman = Joan Crawford, (wire hangers = bad)

Wonder Woman Baby = Madonna

Saturn Girl = Lucille Ball

Superwoman = Johnny Depp

David Hasselhoff = Natalie Imbruglia, (so by the transitive property of equality, Natalie Imbruglia = Super Awesome.)

Daily Show to Democracy: "Suck it!"

Jon Stewart hates democracy!

I love attention-grabbing, sensationalist bullshit like that because when all I've got is a shitty blog post full of ill-conceived ideas and half-assed statistical studies, I need some crazy shit like that to make me seem important. It's what I'm good at, and apparently I'm not the only one.

"Excellent. With biting sarcasm like this, democracy doesn't stand a chance! Muwahahaha!"

Forgive me for just stumbling on this now--for some of you it may be old news from over a month ago, but I missed this little nugget of column tomfoolery back in late June. Needless to say, I don't spend a lot of time reading The Washington Post's website because I find real, grown-up news boring and sorely lacking in the brand of hilarious "infotainment" that my generation so desperately craves.

I am bound, nay FORCED to reluctantly agree with everything that this column has to say. I've been watching The Daily Show since before the "with Jon Stewart" was tacked on, which made me a rather strange teenager, but whatever. Back then I can remember my youthful optimism, my bushy-tailed exuberance and zest for life. I was gonna go out and grab the world by the tail and drag it home in the back pocket of my OshKosh B'Goshes and give it noogies until it was changed to reflect all of the things I believed in like truth, justice, equality and half-days on Friday. But the years have not been kind. That doe-eyed innocent has morphed into a cynical, curmudgeonly husk of his former self and now I know why--the goddamn Daily Show!

Jon Stewart, you sonofabitch, with your Emmy-winning comedy/social commentary, have turned my world of rainbows and lollipops into a dismal realm of dimwitted politicians and corporate greed and bungled war efforts. A thousand curses upon you and your staff for showing me the foibles of our imperfect government and cleverly exposing the ridiculousness that is inherent in most of our political process. You have raped my childhood and skull-fucked my innocence, you rat bastard.

No wonder I don't want to vote anymore or be a part of the process. It has nothing to do with the fact that the two dominant political parties in this country have moved so far to the extremes of their bases that no sane person could genuinely support either of them wholeheartedly. It has nothing to do with the fact that corporations and lobbies weigh far more on the minds of our representatives than the welfare of their constituents. It has absolutely nothing to do with the constant stream of bullshit "issues" that are cooked up every election year to distract people from actual problems, because God forbid we actually fix social security, the budget, the war, education or any of that stuff. We need tighter restrictions on those damned videogames that Satan codes in a sweatshop of lost souls in the sixth circle of Hell!

The Dark Lord admires his greatest creation since Rock and Roll

And what's most disturbing of all is that, despite what a cynical bastard Stewart's show has made me, I can't stop watching. I need to get my news from somewhere, don't I? I mean, I would watch network news but they're too busy covering breaking stories like eating a lot of fast food makes you fat and the Internet is full of lonely, perverted sickos who want to violate you/your children/your pets. And the networks aren't so great at getting their messages across. I mean, half of the country STILL believes that Saddam had WMDs prior to the invasion of Iraq! That's like half the country believing that 2+2 = 5 or that gravity is optional or that Paris Hilton is not a slut--it's something that all credible evidence says is completely untrue.

So what are my options? I can either continue to watch Jon Stewart destructively, although wittily destroy democracy by disenfranchising my generation and showing me that the people in power care as much about me and mine as I do about them and theirs, or I could watch and read what passes for "real" journalism these days in which hundreds of media outlets tell me how bad things are and then chastise me in op-ed pieces for not doing anything either then or now while completely ignoring their own complicit silence in the past.

All cynical sarcasm aside, I do believe that The Daily Show demonstrates for its audience of impressionable youths and politically minded people with funny bones the startling truth that no, not many people in power give two shits about them outside of a potential vote. If you passionately care about a real issue, chances are nobody's going to raise it on the floor of any democratic body that matters. The voice of the people isn't heard much on Capitol Hill. Now some, like the guy who wrote that column, see that lesson as defeating democracy--grinding people down--and yeah, some of them might just give up on the whole mess. I can certainly understand the temptation. But I see it as a lesson in self-reliance and an impetus for change. If you really care, you can't just sit on your couch and expect things to happen the way you want to because the people in Washington certainly aren't going to get it done for you.

If you really want your voice heard, you need to say something.

Snarky, cynical images courtesy of Jason

Dear Ms. Lohan

Lindsay Lohan has recently been scolded for partying too hard in an infamous letter written by the producer of Georgia Rule, a film she's currently shooting. It seems Lindsay has been showing up late to the shoots because of "exhaustion" that her producer James G. Robinson chalks up to her late-night partying. Lindz is apparently compromising the integrity of the film -- this coming from the guy who produced such classics as Juwanna Mann.

If Lindsay decides to stop partying to concentrate on acting, what will become of the Hollywood nightlife scene? We have a letter of our own that argues against Robinson's complaint.

First, read the original Lindsay complaint letter from her producer here.

Then, expand our counterpoint letter by clicking on it below.