Robots in Disgust

Like every good patriot, we spent our 4th of July exactly how our forefathers intended -- we saw Transformers. Everyone knows that the true American dream is for a car to turn into a robot, and Michael Bay's blockbuster played out like a flag-waving triumph of the human spirit. Or maybe it was just a bunch of stuff explodin' with a robot pee-pee joke mixed in for good measure. In either case, we saw the movie (or maybe endured is a better word) and have a few thoughts on it...
The Arclight theater in Hollywood had the Autobots on display. In related vehicle prop synergy, the Arclight also had the sailboat from estrogenated weepie Evening on display. That's the movie starring Meryl Streep, Claire Danes and some chick who looks like Laura Dern, Jr. ...Yeah, nobody was interested in looking at the boat.

Jenni's 5 random thoughts on Transformers:

1. The line "No no no no no" is uttered by literally half the cast, and I think Shia says it at least three times. Sometimes another word is added -- "No no no no no run!" -- or what have you, but, yeah. Shit, I guess screenwriting is easy.
   
   
2. The transforming sound effect never seems to actually correspond to any particular bit of transforming. It's sort of just played early in the transformation. Totally took me out of the moment every time.
   
   
3. There's really no logic to the transformative powers of the robots. They can scan other machines and remake themselves (which you would imagine involves some type of matter generation or at least manipulation) but they apparently can only use that power to change their body styles or paint jobs but not, like, heal themselves. Some robots die when ripped apart, others do not. That's silly.
   
   
4. Shia LaBeouf is not appealing. He can't carry a film. And he's not even that good of an actor. I don't care what Steven Spielberg thinks. He's wrong.
   
   
5. I think they inserted the love story between Megan Fox and Shia LaBeouf into the film so that there was at least one thing in the movie more implausible than alien robots that transform into cars and shit.
   
   

Steve's 5 random thoughts on Transformers:

1. What's with the rollerblading Constructicon? I would figure a giant-ass robot can move fast enough just by running, so what's with the skating action? Besides, rollerblades went out a long time ago. He should have formed up a transforming razor scooter.
   
   
2. I appreciated the use of classic Transformer lines from Optimus Prime. Peter Cullen basically saved this movie for me.
   
   
3. Too many humans, not enough robots. The cartoon was basically all about the robots, and rightfully so. There were so many people in this movie and so few of them were necessary to the story, yet we got to spend a lot of screen time with them. As much as I like to watch Anthony Anderson play the same character he's always played in every movie he's ever been in for the umpteenth time, I paid my $10 to watch some transforming robots, thankyouverymuch.
   
   
4. At least Hot Rod wasn't in this one. God, he's a douche.
   
   
5. The ILM folks took Frenzy in a direction I can only describe as Pit Droid-esque. Watch some Phantom Menace, (if you can stomach it, har har), and you'll notice some familiar behavior with the Pit Droids in the podracing sequence. I didn't mind a lot of the humor of the movie, but it really robbed that character of any kind of sense of danger.

Jason's 5 random thoughts on Transformers:

1. The final edit of Tyrese yelling "Bring it!" is totally different from how he says it in the trailers. I'm still waiting for it to be brought.
   
   
2. Robots don't need lips. Robots shouldn't have lips. Optimus Prime now has lips.
   
   
3. Michael Bay managed to make smokin' Megan Fox altogether unattractive by having her make out with Shia LeBeouf at the end of the movie. Her lips are now officially as gross as Optimus Prime's.
   
   
4. The climactic showdown would lead you to believe that downtown L.A. is a bustling city center, when, in reality, the only reason anyone would ever be there is if you happened to be A) serving jury duty, B) attending a convention or C) a homeless crack whore.
   
   
5. They killed Jazz. I thought Kenny G had already done that.

Yippee Ki Yay

Live Free or Die Hard opens in theaters today, so I've put together some scenes from the movie with a little help from the wallpaper-maker feature on the film's website. Now, mind you, I haven't seen the movie yet and I don't exactly know what it's about, but I'm pretty sure the story has something to do with "kicking" and "ass." That said, I suspect my pictures are fairly good representations of what happens in the flick.

"I'm too old for this crap!"


"I'm too old for this crap!"

"I'm too old for this crap!"

"I'm too old for this crap!"

"I'm too old for....
Dude, you are soooo annoying in those Mac ads!"

R.I.P. Vince McMahon, Pt. 2

All it takes is a dose of reality and unfortunate timing to turn planned hype into a regrettable mistake. Earlier, I posted an obit on the WWE's "deceased" Vince McMahon, but his fake death was tragically cut short when he emerged to cancel last night's match because one his wrestlers hanged himself after apparently committing a double homicide.

This looks nothing like the dead wrestler,
but like all of wrestling, I'm faking it

There's nothing worse than making light of death by concocting something like the pretend murder of Mr. McMahon, only to have it soured a few weeks later with a real-life murder-suicide. Awkward! That's sorta like when you tell a horribly off-color joke about the Holocaust only to find out that one of the people in the room is actually a Nazi. Wait. Did I phrase that right? Well, the point is, it's hard to make Nazis laugh.

So, with the actual death of wrestler Chris Benoit, the WWE has removed ALL references to Mr. McMahon's fake death (the link in my previous post doesn't go anywhere anymore, but the WWE did keep the McMahon death story online when former WWE wrestler Sherri Martel died a few days after his "demise"). In place of the McMahon storyline, the WWE has posted an awfully defensive rebuttal disputing claims that Benoit's violent freakout was fueled by 'roid rage.

Anyway, I've mentioned death, suicide, a murdered family, Nazis and drugs, so I think I've hit my quota for insensitive, taboo commentary for the day. Whew! At least that gives me more time to work on my cancer-porn post. Tumorotic!

Spoiler Theatre: Fantastic Four - Rise of the Silver Surfer

With so many blockbusters coming out this summer, it's just hard to know which movie to spend your money on. A brand new Die Hard movie? Reserve my seats! Another Pixar cartoon? Sign me up! A new comedy with Robin Williams and Mandy Moore? Change my pants! A sequel to Daddy Day Care? Kill me now!

As a public service, I'm presenting the first installment of "Spoiler Theatre," in which I'll ruin the plot of an entire movie by re-enacting it with toys in a comic strip. Luckily, I can't "ruin" the plot of Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer since the screenwriters were nice enough to do that beforehand...

Click on each page to see it in its full-blown glory, all big-like.

Goodbye, Bobby E

I don't usually do the dead folks posts, because Jason is really the most morbid person on the crew. But this death--this one hit home.

Bob Evans
Sausage King/restaurateur
May 30, 1918 - June 21, 2007

Jenni and Steve mourning outside the Bob Evans closest to the Cleveland airport. Not pictured: Bob Evans in toy form.

Bob Evans, a man who created the best sausage I ever put in my mouth (sorry, Steve), has died. But let's not dwell on his death. Let's celebrate his life--and that freaking delicious sausage. The man's sausage was a thing of beauty. No man, no woman, no child--possibly no creature living on this earth, even the dirty vegetarians--could resist Bob Evans' plump, juicy, perfectly spiced and fragrant tube of meat. I could eat Bob Evans' sausage all night long, and beg for more.

But it's not just the sausage--oooh, the sausage. Bob Evans' sausage empire included hundreds of excellent Bob Evans restaurants in (apparently) 18 states, including, of course, Ohio, where it all started. I remember hearing once that Bob Evans would only ship sausage (and I guess place restaurants) within a short drive from the Bob Evans Farms epicenter, to ensure a quality product. That's great, but it kept Bob Evans restaurants from being out West, where I've lived for seven or eight years. I suppose it's possible that will change now that Bob himself is gone, but in a way I guess I hope not, because I like that a company put quality and customer experience over profits. You know, if that story is even true and I didn't make it up in a sausage-fueled fever dream. I get a little crazy on the sausage.

I look forward to going to Bob Evans every time I'm home (which I just happen to be at the moment), and, in fact, it's typically our first stop when we land. Sometimes, I even order non-sausage food, though it's rare. I loves me some sausage.

Since this post isn't long enough, I'll share a recentish Bob Evans anecdote.

A while back, a few months before Bob Evans went totally smoke-free, I was grossed out by being seated too close to the smoking section, and so, I picked up a crayon and wrote, with my left hand so it would look real, a message somewhat like this:

Dear Bobby E,

I love your food but my mom says we can't eat here anymore because the smoke in the air might make my cancer come back.

Please, Bobby E, get rid of the smokers so I can eat at your restaurant. I love it because my name is Bobby, too.

Love,
Bobby

Hmm. I remember the original being funnier than that. I know there was cancer, the Bobby E thing, and the cancer kid was named Bobby.

Yeah.

Sausage!

News Flash: Rich Baby Has Fat Feet!

In an exclusive Father's Day interview in the current issue of gossip rag OK! Magazine, new daddy Larry Birkhead vividly describes how baby Dannielynn looks exactly like her late mom, Anna Nicole Smith.

According to OK!, Birkhead says Dannielynn has "chubby little toes exactly like Anna's." He also goes out on a limb to say that the tot has Anna's legs and lips and that she pouts just like her, too. The baby also has two eyes and a little nose and other baby-like baby features that babies are known to have during babyhood.

As featured in OK! Magazine, the publication that's
proud to shout "We're 'Mediocre!'"

So is Larry saying that Dannielynn is exactly like Anna or is he really trying to say that Anna was exactly like a big, fat baby? I guess pointing out Dannielynn's resemblance to Anna Nicole is a bit more tactful than flat-out saying the baby looks like a giant sack of money in a diaper.

More Than Meets the Eye

Now that the Spider-Man and Pirates blitz has subsided a bit, it's time for the Transformers movie frenzy to begin. Somewhere, there's a despondent GoBot out there who's hoping he can stop slumming as a toaster so he can cash in on some Transformers love. Sheesh, they've even inspired their own Mr. Potato Heads like the Spider-Man and Star Wars spuds. Before movie tie-ins existed, it must've been tough back in the olden days when the only outfits available for Mr. Potato head were a sombrero and a felt mustache.

Mr. Potato Head as "Optimash Prime."
He also transforms into hashbrowns and a carb-heavy casserole.

Even without their popularity validated by a tuber likeness, the Transformers are guaranteed a blockbuster summer. And since their movie is directed by Michael Bay, you know it'll be full of stuff blowing up real good with none of that pesky talky-talk stuff getting in the way to revive your brain (if the ads are any indication, the most quoteworthy line from the film is Tyrese yelling "Bring it!").

Michael Bay's upcoming Lincoln Logs movie will totally kick ass, too.

Transformers is a movie based on a cartoon based on a toy, so you'll end up rooting for characters with incredibly ridiculous names like "Sideswipe," "Tailgate," "Wheeljack" and "Shia LeBeouf." Surely you'll feel stupid in the theater yelling "Bring it, Skid Marks" and "Hooray for Lube Job," so here's a list of possible Transformer character names that I'm suggesting for the inevitable sequel...

Bucketseat
Wiper Fluid
Airbags
Speed Bump
Hummer (the promiscuous "service" vehicle)
Exhaust Pipe
Cupholders
Power Locks
Antenna Balls
Calvin Peeing Decal
Honor Student Bumper Sticker
Spare Tire
Junk in the Trunk

Got your own suggestions? Bring it!

Jenni Hates Everything: Fantastic Four Edition

Jason and Steve dragged me to a showing of Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer this weekend. Yeah, it wasn't good. Naturally, it's the number one movie.

I was going to liveblog it from the theater, but apparently there are rules against laptops in the auditoriums. Who knew?

So I'll just sort of cobble together the experience from memory and the limited notes I took when not ogling Chris "Hot-ass Johnny Storm" Evans. But first, a story.

Pre-Show

As per usual, I there were total turds sitting behind us, this time in the form of an obnoxious little girl and her equally obnoxious father. I couldn't turn around to look at them because then I surely would have commited some unspeakable act of violence with the free Red Vines the theater gave us for pardoning their dust.

The theater we saw it in is converting over to an Arclight, which is actually where we usually see movies because they have assigned seating and delish popcorn. So before the movie, an employee will come out and talk to the audience (something that adds little-to-nothing to the experience but I suppose makes the easily impressed feel like it's "an experience") and in this instance they brought the house lights all the way up to do that, and the little twat behind us says "Ugh, WHAT is this now?!" and I'm making a Red Vines garrote to silence her (sweetly) and the employee says "no commericals" becuz they don't show commericals and NOW the little cunt is onboard with the psuedo-Arclight experience and she begins to chant "Yeah! NOOOOO commericals! I hate commericals!" and I pull the Red Vines too hard and my garrote snaps in two. Great, my hands stink of artificial strawberry gunk for nothing.

The employee's greeting and explanation is over and he leaves, and the lights go back down and the trailers and commericals start up. And the little piece of shit has apparently forgotten her hatred of commericals, because she cannot SHUT UP about anything she's seeing, and she's laughing at the commericals and reacting to the trailers and clearly she's in hog heaven--what the hell is she going to do when there actually aren't commericals for her to delight in? Stupid little twatty brat.

Your Feature Presentation

Anyway, the movie. Written for the lowest common denominator (see: the twatette and her twat father who were sitting behind us) with cheap, obvious gags and by-the-book action sequences, this movie wasn't trying very hard--and apparently I am the only one bothered by that.

Some observations from my notes:

The Silver Surfer sort of reaches near his crotchular area and clearly thinks "Where's muh dick?"

Dr. Doom (Uh, Victor Von Doom, I dunno that they ever actually call him Dr. Doom) at one point is surfing thru the air on the Surfer's board (the source of all the SS's power in the movie, LAME) in full-on Doom regalia, hood and metal face and armor and all, and if that sounds stupid, honestly, you have no idea HOW stupid it is until you see it. Just sad.

Luvved Jessica Alba's definitely uninvisible makeup. Very exaggerated, lots of heavy liner.

But there's a Paris Hiltonality to the blue contacts and blonde wig. Sometimes it worked, sometimes, not so much. And her lips were superpoofy. Odd.

They made the Fantasticar a Dodge (hahahoho) and there's a joke about it having a hemi that's not even hemi funny. (Steve says the joke was hemifisted; Jason says it was hemisexual.)

Chris Evans (Johnny Storm) is freaking hot but he's now a bit bulky muscley in the upper body which he didn't need to do, but love what he's done with the lower body. Should have been more camera focus on his ass and legs.

OMG what has happened to Julian McMahon's face? It's puffy and weird. Age is a cold, cold bitch. In the theater I jotted down "Faux physician, really heal thyself."

Apparently the big terrible plan for earth's destruction is the Silver Surver drills bowling ball-styled fingerholds into the ground and Cloudlactus will finger the world to death.

Come ON Galactus, of course the Silver Surfer rebelled--you can't take away a man's dick and expect him to be loyal.

The chick they pair Johnny Storm up with isn't hot enuff for his fine ass but there is one point where Sue and Johnny (Jessica and Chris) are having a moment and it totally looks like we're in for a brother/sister makeout session which I'm all for when the brother and sister are that yummy. Can I be in that family? Rowr.

When the Silver Surfer says "My people called him Galactus" the twat father behind us stage whispered "Galactus" along with him. I believe I should be congratulated for not breaking his nose into his head and up through his brain for that. It was clearly deserved.

Yeah, this was full of spoilers. But I think that's only a big deal if, you know, the movie has a plot and a story and shit.

R.I.P. Mr. Wizard

Educational TV personality Mr. Wizard died Tuesday, sending shockwaves throughout the science community with the revelation that he was actually still alive as of a day ago.

Mr. Wizard
TV host/scientist/wizard
July 10, 1917 - June 12, 2007

Blinding you with science and/or hydrochloric acid

Mr. Wizard hosted various science shows for kids throughout the 1950s and '60s, and more notably, he helmed a popular 1970s series with his second wife, Mrs. Norma Wizard (his first wife, Ms. Dutton-Wizard, did not pursue a career in science).

On his popular TV series, Wizard taught kids valuable science lessons like volcanoes are actually filled with baking soda and that vigorously rubbing a balloon will create static electricity as well as one really, really aroused balloon.

In other death-related news, World Wrestling Entertainment's Chairman Vince McMahon is presumed to have "died" Monday after the limo he boarded at the conclusion of last night's episode of WWE Raw exploded. Conveniently, the cameras were rolling the entire time to capture the incident, which, like all of wrestling, just couldn't possibly be scripted since wrestlers can't read.

Vince McMahon
WWE Chairman
August 24, 1945 - June 11, 2007???

The Rock sheds a tear for Vince McMahon
or, possibly, the box office failure of Walking Tall.

The only way last night's wrestling finale could've been any more shocking would be if the episode had ended with absolutely nothing of consequence happening while a cheesy Journey song played in the background. Hmmm... and speaking of which -- and since deaths come in threes -- you could go for the bucket-kicking hat trick if you count the mass extermination of HBO subscriptions at the hands of pissed-off Sopranos fans. I guess Taxicab Confessions and Real Sex 32 aren't enough to keep people paying for premium cable. It doesn't take a dead science guy to figure that out.

R.I.P. Charlies

Last week was a bad one for guys named Charles. On Friday, 1970s game show icon Charles Nelson Reilly passed away. Famous for being a Match Game fixture, the CNR leaves us with two very important things: a legacy of filling in the blanks with the word "boobs" and an entire closet full of ascots and toupees.

Charles Nelson Reilly
Actor, Match Game celebrity

January 13, 1931 - May 25, 2007

Also last week, Charlie Pace was finally killed off on Lost. For those of you who don't watch Lost, Charlie was better known as "that Hobbit guy" on the show. For those of you didn't see the series finale last Wednesday (SPOILER ALERT#1), Charlie died by drowning before (SPOILER ALERT #2!) the show failed to tie up any of its mysteries because the series got picked up for three more seasons, giving the writers a bit more time to figure out what the hell is supposed to happen on the show.

Charlie Pace
(Dominic Monaghan on Lost)
2004 - 2007

SPOILER ALERT #3: Since deaths are supposed to come in threes, it might be a safe bet to add a famous Charlie to your dead pool list right now. I'm not saying that I have an inside line on this or anything, but if Lucy pulls away that football again at the last second, she could have blood on her hands... and an awful lot of nickels from good-grief counseling a traumatized Peanuts gang with her psychiatric sessions.

Happy 200th Post!

Today, we celebrate our 200th post... in hell... for Sparta!

Jenni vs. Predator Part Two: Entrapture

Me 'n' my soul had a vision. We were, like, so totally on a mission. I may be filthy dirty in the mouth and mind, but still, there are way worse perverts out there, and little kids who need my help, since obviously their parents don't give a shit.

I put on my perv-huntin' "no fat chicks" cap, fired up the ol' lappytop, and got to trolling for justice.

I'll be the first to admit, the early attempts didn't go very well. I think it was my opening lines. Perhaps I was a touch overeager.

6yrsgoingon12in: Whew, I needs me some cock.
(virtual crickets)
6yrsgoingon12in: I sed I'm 6 years old and HORNEE!!!!11!1!!
((dickenjane has left the chat room))
((D.Flower has left the chat room))
((kilfhunter69 has left the chat room))
((yngaznluvrmiller has left the chat room))

[DO OVER]

blewnicorn95: my virginity is like a brick in my tiny, lacy underpants. heavy and scratchy. If only someone would...lay that brick.
((Peeniemeeniemineymo has left the chat room))
((Chodeally has left the chat room))
((cap'njzz has left the chat room))
((the chat room is empty))
blewnicorn95: anyone?

[DO OVER]

Virjenni: Someone put me out of my misery--I've gone 10 years without sex! Ha! Because I'm only 10!! Get it? 10 years without sex? Come on, I know most of you are three, four times my age and can totally beat that!!! Let's hear it boys! Are you hornier than a fifth grader?
painalingus has left the chat room
bigballz6969 has left the chat room
insemenator has left the chat room

Huh. My quarry was obviously a bit sharper than Chris Hansen had lead me to believe--the hard sell was not gonna work. Luckily, I used to be a profeshunal writer, so I knew from subtlety. But once I started being "real" I got sort of depressed about the whole thing. How can anyone really do this and not want to blow their brains out?

Katsnatchfvr: NE buddy want 2 be my friend?
Katsnatchfvr: talk 2 me!!!!
tungkiss: Hey, sweethart, how'r U?
Katsnatchfvr: OK but how do u kno i'm sweet?
tungkiss: I dont.....but i wood like 2 find out!
Katsnatchfvr: ^o^" how?!?
tungkiss: u no how
Katsnatchfvr: no -__- ?
tungkiss: i can taste u
tungkiss: down there
Katsnatchfvr: oh yeah? on my foots?
tungkiss: UR silly I mean ur girl parts!!
Katsnatchfvr: "girl parts?!?" those have a name, dickweed
tungkiss: huh?
Katsnatchfvr: uh...oh i bet that would tingle tangle me in my underpants place
tungkiss: oh yeah u will LOVE it
Katsnatchfvr: describe it to me!!
tungkiss: i will kiss you down there like on ur mouth but instead on your pussy
Katsnatchfvr: oh you think that will do something? pfft. no wonder you talk to preteens online.
tungkiss: uh oh God UR a cop
Katsnatchfvr: silly! i was just jokin...like that guy on TV whose name nobody ever remembers
tungkiss: thats not funny we could get in a lot of truble
Katsnatchfvr: we?
tungkiss: yeah and then we cant be in luv anymore honey
Katsnatchfvr: "Luv?" Um, yeah. You probably kind of mean that. This is just too sad. Are people really this lonely? Do all of you really have no one better to talk to? Fuck, that's some messed up shit right there. Ugh, I need to lie down.
tungkiss: and I can get on top of you and make you feel good with my hard cock in your tiny pussy
Katsnatchfvr: ...
tungkiss: baby what's wrong? u make me horny
Katsnatchfvr: you make me worry about the future. and the past.
tungkiss: don't worry ill use protection
Katsnatchfvr: that's not...wow.
tungkiss: you'll be saying wow a lot honey i promise
tungkiss: i really kno how 2 do it
Katsnatchfvr: that i seriously doubt, or you wouldn't need to be here chatting up kids

Yeah, so, in the end, I didn't manage to get anyone arrested. I mean, I went to their houses and hammered their balls flat, and fed them anything that leaked out. But I'm telling you, half of them liked it, so, mission totally not accomplished.

Oh, well, no matter. I had a vision the other day about people who steal music and movies from defenseless corporations. Surely that will be an easier vigilante mission for me...(wink)

Until then, here's a bonus one:

[DO OVER]

rubberpantz: nknhbhkbmesddrs asdfasfdfdsasaewajk (Hey pervs! that means, "Hi, I'm a little toddler, totally unable to express my deep and boundless desire for delicious grown man-cock, but rest assured, I am in the market. Are any of you, perhaps, a member of the clergy, or a teacher?")

Celebrities Under the Influence

While tabloid TV shows like Extra are preoccupied with reporting that Anna Nicole is still dead, the real juicy gossip from this past weekend involves celebs and the bottle.

First, David Hasselhoff was shown drunk, on the floor and struggling to eat a hamburger in a videotape more publicly shameful than his appearance in Nick Fury: Agent of Shield.

Talking to a car was the first that hint the 'Hoff had a problem.

The next big bit o' weekend wino gossip is that Ty Pennington, host of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and designer of Sears towels, got busted on suspicion of drunk driving.

What's really noteworthy about the story (besides the fact that Sears reportedly touts "designer" towels) is that the scandal is just begging to be made over with home improvement puns... Ty got hammered! He was drinking a screwdriver! The cops nailed him! He applied some stucco and a faux patina to age up rumpus room! OK, so they're not all winners, but you can at least be guaranteed that if he ends up serving time, his cell will have sweetest racecar bed and beachfront mural in the county. If only Paris Hilton were so handy.

Ty one on!

Millions of Imaginary Girlfriends Trapped at Home While Comic-Book Geeks Flock to Movie Premiere

Now in theaters.

Only a superhero could have the potential to end the
three-week reign of Disturbia at the top of the U.S. box office.

Jenni vs. Predator Part One: Illumination

One day, Jenni felt a small tugging at the sleeve of her soul.

"I have a soul?" she thought to herself, and to no one in particular. (Jenni believed other people could hear her thoughts, and while sometimes she addressed them to someone, this time she was just too genuinely surprised to get specific about it.)

"Ahem," said the soul-tugger, "Down here."


In the dimly lit realm of the metaphysical, Jenni's soul looked down past its woefully stretched-out sleeve and gasped. Before it sat a moderately brainless and dangerously lonely child, its helpless face and large-eyed, blank stare artfully--yet ominously--illuminated by the glow of its computer screen.

As Jenni's soul watched, the scene shifted. There was the child in its own cheerfully lit home, looking for companionship and attention in unmoderated chat rooms, innocently typing and LOLing away, when what can only be described as an appropriately dark metaphoric shadow shaped like a hulking, creepy-ass, pathetic man holding a four-pack of a malt beverage appeared in the doorway, severely compromising the once cheerful lighting in the room.

"Help me," the child said.

"Fuck yeah, I'll help you--help you out of your virginity!" the shadow shaped like a big ol' nasty predator said.

"Dude. The kid was talking to me." Jenni's soul asserted.

"ROTFTNLAABIS," the child sputtered. (That means rolling on the floor totally not laughing at all because I'm scared. Seriously, these kids and their secret codes.)

"Don't worry. I got this!" Jenni's soul bellowed.

"You don't really strike me as a virgin, but shit, I'm obviously lookin' for it any way I can get it, so, yeah, all right, baby. I want to hug u and touch u naked and put my thing in u. Ur so pretty," the predatory shade said. "U like Mike's Hard Lemonade, right?"

"Shuh shuh she was talking to me," the child managed to stutter.

Just as quickly as it began, it was over. Jenni's soul tried to make sense of it all by speaking out loud.

"Huh. I wonder what that meant?" Jenni's soul pondered, "An oddly genderless child...a grown-ups' beverage in crowd-pleasing flavors...a talking shadow that shaped like a guy who wants to fuck kids...hmmm. This one's a puzzler."

Back in the physical world, Jenni read a story about Miss America bravely luring internet predators as part of her "internet safety for children" platform.

"I know what I must do," Jenni and her soul said, at the exact same time.

"You owe me a Coke," Jenni and her soul said, at the exact same time.

Two Cokes later, it was ON.

To be continued...

R.I.P. Sanjaya's American Idol Career

January 16, 2007 - April 18, 2007

R.I.P. Don Ho and Some Other Guys

Hawaiian entertainer Don Ho died of a heart attack on Saturday, despite having pacemaker surgery last September. A star of music and TV, Ho was known for crooning "Tiny Bubbles," a song that, as it turns out, doesn't happen to be about farting in a bathtub. The song will never quite sound as classy without Ho.

And sadly, with Ho's passing also comes the end of me being able to use the word "Ho" so indiscriminately without referencing Don Imus.

Don Ho
Singer/Entertainer

August 13, 1930 - April 14, 2007Don Ho has gone on to the big luau in the sky.
Rest assured, he won't be buried with an apple in his mouth.

They say that death comes in threes, so as an added bonus (if there's such thing as a death bonus), here are two extra recent dead guy tributes!

Kurt Vonnegut
Author
November 11, 1922 - April 11, 2007Insert Cliffs Notes version of some sort of snarky yet literary remark here.

Johnny Hart
"B.C." Cartoonist/"The Wizard of Id" Co-creator
February 18, 1931 - April 7, 2007

If you're to believe the Geico cavemen ads, cavemen would
probably forego comics like "B.C." for Kurt Vonnegut.
Freakin' nerds in loincloths...

A Grinding Halt

Quentin Tarantino is doing an autograph signing right now at the Virgin Megastore at the end of our street, and the line of fans is going around the block. I wonder if all those people in line are the same folks who didn't bother to see his new film Grindhouse, which he codirected with Robert Rodriguez (currently, no one's waiting in line for him, wherever he is).


The Z-grade homage to 1970s drive-in schlock had everything you'd want to see on the big screen... Fast cars! Melting genitalia! The living dead! Open sores! A jar full of testicles! Zombies feasting on Fergie's lovely lady lumps and declaring that she really is Fergalicious!


Last weekend, the film underperformed, bowing in fourth place with only $11.6 million. Even if you were to multiply its box office receipts by two for each of Grindhouse's movies, the double feature would've barely taken the top spot.


Maybe the film was too squarely aimed at movie geeks, and viewers didn't want Tarantino and Rodriguez schooling them in a precious crash-course on Retro Exploitation Flicks 101. The only way the film could've been any more self-indulgent would be if Kevin Smith had joined the party and contributed a segment. I'm sure he would've, but I think there was a "Hot Donuts" sign lit up at a Krispy Kreme somewhere. He's fat.

But here's the real skinny: maybe movie fans would just prefer to see Nicolas Cage or Tim Allen on a motorcycle instead of Rose McGowan. Apparently, that's a double feature that people would line up around the block to see.

DNA Tests Conclusive: Howard K. Stern Is a Jackass

In what could've been the best paternity episode of Maury ever, the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby was finally revealed today. After dozens of random potential fathers admitted to sleeping with Anna Nicole some time around January 2006 when the baby was conceived, it was Larry Birkhead who won the title of being the dude who managed to knock up the chick who slept with over a dozen guys in the span of a month. Way to go, bottom feeder! So much for my previous theory that Anna Nicole had an incestuous affair with her own son. That totally would've made an awesome Maury episode.

Howard K. Stern changed this baby's diapers for nothing.

Saladgate - An Official Hands in the Air Boycott

We at Hands in the Air HQ like ourselves some take-out. We're busy people and at least two of us work late more often than not these days, so we partake in a fair bit of delivered food. And like everyone, we have our favorite haunts and eateries. But something has happened that has crossed one local restaurant off of our favorites list forever--in permanent marker--then tore up the list, burned it, ate it, shit it back out, peed on it and buried the ashes on each continent. This is the tale of Saladgate--behold and despair.

Jason at dinner. Not pictured: Salad.

It was down to Jason and myself this evening, because Jenni is working late--y'know, on the stroll. I decided to order from a local Brazilian place called Bossa Nova. I like it because it's named after my favorite button on a musical keyboard. I ordered an appetizer, a sandwich and some fries. I ordered Jason some pasta and a fateful dinner salad. I placed the order by phone and all of the items were read back to me. The food showed up about 45 minutes later and I paid the delivery guy--left him a good tip, too.

A couple of minutes later, I'm going through the bag with the food, and I notice there's no dinner salad. I tell Jason what's up and I call them, expecting that they'll send one out and Jason will just have to wait a little while to eat his leafy greens. I call, and my call gets handed to the manager. "All right," I think in that cocksure way I tend to--not really, I just wanted to use the word "cocksure." Anyway, the manager starts talking and informs me that I got one salad, and if I want another one, I need to pay for it. Fair enough, but that implies that I indeed got the ONE salad I ordered and, checking the receipt, was definitely charged $3.49 for. I inform the manager that he's misunderstanding me--I don't want an additional salad, I just want the one I ordered and was charged for.

He tells me to look at the receipt. Guessing his next question, I inform him that I was indeed charged for the veggie side-dish. But he KNOWS that. No, he's curious if there's an ink mark on the receipt over the salad entry. There is, just like there is for the other items I ordered. He then informs me that that is difinitive proof of some things. 1) I got the salad I ordered. Apparently by marking the receipt by each item, that magically, unequivocally forces the marked item to reside within the confines of the attached bag. 2) I'm a thieving liar who desparately wants to rip him off for $3.49-worth of dinner salad. And 3) If I want "another" salad, they'll have to charge me. Obviously, I've had enough of this guy's bullshit and I hang up on him. I tell Jason what's up and he tries to reason with them just as I did, but he got the same result.

Jason put those a-holes on notice over the phone that we would no longer be frequenting their establishment as we do not enjoy 1) getting charged for stuff we didn't get and 2) basically being told we're lying salad thieves. I'm not sure what kind of mocking, dickish retort that restaraunteur replied with, but I'm sure it would stifle in his throat knowing that we are not just boycotting on our behalf, no no, we're invoking a full-on Hands in the Air Official Boycott. If you live in the Los Angeles area and say you're a friend of HITA or freedom or democracy or salads, you will NOT order ANYTHING from Bossa Nova until Jason is given his salad. Until that day, we will be maintaining a solemn vigil in our sidebar, informing you, the decent, honest, hard-working, salad-eating people of the world how long it's taking for the REAL salad thieves to give us what is rightfully ours.


P.S. - I tried to leave feedback on their official webpage and got an error that wasn't even in English. I didn't even use profanity, the fuckers.

Can We Get Back to Anna Nicole Yet?

Out magazine has been making some headlines over the past couple of days for their "bold" decision to run models holding cut-outs of Jodie Foster and Anderson Cooper on their cover for a feature called "The Glass Closet." I'd encourage you to read it because, while I don't agree with everything it has to say, it's at the least well written. I'll quickly summarize in saying that the article is about those celebrities, like Foster and Cooper, who "we" all know to be gay, but won't come out and admit it, why, and why they should. This point is hammered home by the cover image, which I'll say is ballsy in a "they can't possibly sue because it'll either make them look homophobic or even more gay" way. For a magazine for gay people, a pretty persecuted group the world over, this surprisingly smacks of voyeurism and intolerance.

Anderson Cooper and Jodie Foster just doin' what comes naturally. Or, not. Whichever. It's really none of our bidness. But, it looks kind of hot in toy form. I'm just saying.

Quick--someone asks if you're gay or not. What do you do? You might say "no," since it could happen to be both true and socially acceptable pretty much anywhere. But the correct answer is "none of your goddamn business," because it's not. For a town with its fair share of gay people and even more people who claim to be tolerant of gay people, Hollywood and the tabloid industry it sustains sure seems awfully interested in who is and who isn't. My question is, "why"? I would certainly count myself as a gay-friendly person, but I also feel that inquisitive urge to know when some A, B, C or Z-list star is caught in a gay bar. My point is that's an urge we should be fighting, because it's disrespectful. It's none of our goddamn business.

I also don't get what the magazine and the author of the article hopes will happen should someone like Jodie Foster or Anderson Cooper come out of the closet. Do they think that gay-bashers and other people intolerant of homosexuality will suddenly be like, "shit, the guy who reads the news on CNN is a queer? Maybe they ain't so bad!" No. The people who really hate gays refer to people like Jodie Foster or Anderson Cooper as "filthy, Hollywood liberals." They EXPECT them to be gay, because to them, anyone living within 300 miles of an ocean is a devil-worshipping sodomite. They don't relate to Jodie Foster. Shit, homegirl hasn't made a good movie since Silence of the Lambs. Have you seen Contact? That shit's boring even in the heartland.

If you want to blow some gay-haters' minds, put a fatty with a Rush Limbaugh cut-out over his face on your cover. There's some circumstantial evidence for his gayness, because no 100% straight man is this attracted to Mary Lynn Rajskub, I don't care how much 24/geek cred she has. Or what about Pat Robertson? He claims to love God a whole lot, and I'll bet if you ask him, God's a dude.

Is it that they think gay people will suddenly feel assured that they have more "spokespeople" for their lifestyle? I'm sorry--being a white, heterosexual male in America, I don't know shit about being persecuted, but I know that if I was, I wouldn't want a movie star or a cable news personality to be my figureheads. They're people with lives--go find poster children someplace else. It's not their jobs to inspire or lead anyone, so Out needs to stop acting like they're entitled to it. Lots of gay people face intolerance every day. Lots of gay people face losing their jobs, their friends and their families if they come out. Are these people any less inspiring because they don't risk losing a multi-picture deal or an exclusive cable contract? Because that seems to be what Out is saying.

I don't know if Jodie Foster or Anderson Cooper are gay, and I kinda don't care. If someday they come out of their "glass closets," good for them. If they're fine where they're at, that's just as good. Sometimes not caring how someone else chooses to live their life is about as tolerant as we human beings get. But I do know that, for now, people like Jodie Foster and Anderson Cooper aren't allowing themselves to be pressured by a hungry media and our insatiable, sick curiosity. They're saying, albeit in a much more subdued, polite manner, their personal lives are none of our goddamn business. That's pretty inspiring, too.

My Favorite Spartan

Special thanks to Brad B. for letting us borrow his King Leonidas figure. That Spartan is tough to find in stores.

Up Your Nose with Keith Richards' Dad

In the live-fast/die-young industry of music, there are only a few infamous acts of excess that truly qualify as being "rock-n-roll": Led Zeppelin violating a groupie with a mudshark; Ozzy Osbourne biting the head off a bat; Sting getting tantric with 14 straight hours of boinking; Phil Collins relieving a dry spell with a month-long session of nonstop masturbation; Enya and Celine Dion shooting Oates "just to see a man die" while Hall looked on in horror.

OK, so maybe some of those incidents never really happened (Phil Collins didn't limit himself to just a mere 30 days of vigorous self-pleasuring), but Keith Richards' latest revelation also turned out to be a big wankfest. On Monday, it was reported that the Rolling Stones guitarist mixed some cocaine with his late father's cremated remains so he could snort a noseful of dad and smack. Yesterday, Richards said he was just joking.

A junkie tries to score a kilo of dead guy from Keith Richards.
Yes, that's Keith on the right and not the aforementioned "dead guy."

So it was all a lie. With his admission, Richards instantly loses his rock-n-roll cred, and it has simultaneously put the kibosh on our up-and-coming side business of pushing baggies of dead guy ashes and manufacturing urn-bongs. That would've totally rawked.

Sure, Dad. I Swear.

The other day I got an email from my father, full of family news and all that. It was so nice, 'til I got to the end. And then...ugh. Lemme just show you:

Hi, Sweetheart--how have you and the guys been?
(personal stuff excised)
Let me know all about you and the guys. All the latest gossip.
Love, Dad
Your blogs are great, just cut down the swearing, you can write above that.

We all have parents, and we all know how they can be. But my Dad isn't usually such a priss. I dunno, it was unexpected. Usually my parents are kind of realistic about the type of person I am. It's not like I've changed much...ever.

So I wrote back.

Dad,

Write above that? Uh, no thanks. That's an embarassingly "Bill Cosby" sentiment but you know, it would mean more if you didn't ever ever ever swear yourself. But um, you do. So. How 'bout you leave the writing and entertaining to me, and I'll leave the selling cars to you.

Look at that. Whole paragraph without swearing. And it SUCKED. You are getting old and weird on me. Stop it. If you start wearing Bill Cosby sweaters, then I'll probably disown you.

Anyway, I'm glad you had a good time at Momo's birthday, and that your health is ok. I've been mostly supergood myself on the health front, eating salads and vegetables and stuff so I can get knocked up and get you people another grandbaby. That too blue for ya? Huh?

There's nothing really going on here, I have been working a whole lot, and you know, cussing every other word. I got a new boss I like, and I'm working on more game development, which is great, but I also have to do some of my old stuff, which isn't any fun. I got you a t-shirt, but it's only an XL. Pretty big one tho. I'll try to send it. If my cussing doesn't get me kicked out of the post office, that is.

The boys are ok, Jason is working a lot, maybe even more than I am. He is such a hard worker. Steve's office is moving but that's about it. He's a hard worker, too. We're a very hardworking bunch. We did a ton of cleaning and all that. Except for our rooms which are as dirty as our mouths. The place looks good.

I hate my couch and want a new tv, too. We're looking for a new place to live, so we can spread out. We need a couple of rooms for our toys and video games. And, all those cuss words take up a lot of space.

I think I might post this on the blog. Because it's squeaky motherfucking clean.

Oh applesauce, I messed it up.
Jenni

P.S. I really am going to post this on the blog. I'll edit your letter. That will get us both something, I'll get an easy post and you'll get a mostly clean post. Thanks, Dad!!!

He replied. I'll spare you the details, save these few--quite ironically, my Dad's reply includes (Da da DUH!) cusswords. The evidence:

"a couple fu---, screw ups"
"These as---- gentlemen would give it to you in the as----"
"they can kiss my Mexican ass"
"take the damn pills "

Yeah. I got on my total high horse for my reply, and again, I'll take out the personal details:

Think of how much better your response would have been if you just could have used the cusswords. We both know which words you meant there. So, what was saved with the dashes? Do you see how these words are necessary and useful? How they add meaning, punctuation, emotional heft, gravity and style to what you're trying to express? Plus, they drive right to the point and everyone knows exactly what you mean--so many other words are so easily misinterpreted.

Yeah, you can write without them, and usually when I'm getting paid to write, I do without, but for my own stuff, why would I want to limit myself? Maybe as an interesting challenge, if those words were something I didn't think I could do without.

But honestly, I can turn it on and off since I've had to write clean so often. My personal voice happens to include the dirty words I grew up hearing daily. It's me. It's honest.

(personal bloody details excised)

On that up note, I'll say goodbye, and thanks for being a sport about being on the blog.

Jenni

Yeah, I think we've all learned an important lesson here--old people are fucking weird. Parents, doubly so.


(For non-dorks, the image above is of Helena Wayne, the Huntress, who also happens to be the daughter of Batman and Catwoman. She so feels my pain.)