Watch this Movie.

by Blaine Fridley

In 2004, amidst the American cacophony of jingoistic Toby Keith singles, Hummer advertisements, Bill O'Reilly "winning" another argument by simply yelling louder than his guest and the rumble of turf-hungry machinery clearing the way for 4th-tier suburban townhome developments ("oooh, let's move here, honey! We'll have a 65-mile commute but THREE Noodles & Companies!") some of the brightest folks in urban planning and energy consumption came together in a film called "The End of Suburbia" to make a very important announcement, loudly and clearly: The American way of life is on life support.

But like just about everybody else, I didn't hear it. I was far too busy soliciting hookers on Grand Theft Auto and wondering if Seth would choose Anna or Summer (O.C. reference. -10 hetero points) to care about nano-details such as the rapid, unyielding demise of everything I've ever known. Nope. Not when-"Hey, look! It's Janet Jackson's titty!"

OK. Fast-forward to the year 2008 and one of history's greatest innovations, Netflix [for more information on how you can use product placement to increase sales, contact the DoF at diaryoffools@hotmail.com]. Found "The End of Suburbia", moved it to the top of my queue (just ahead of "You Got Served 2"), waited a few days for it to arrive in my mailbox and then popped it in.

75 minutes later, the message was clear. The development of American suburbia was/is a grossly inept and short-sided investment of our country's post W.W. II economic windfall. The reason being it's growth is all dependent on a resource in steady decline: oil.

Throughout the span of the film, a collection of highly educated minds (including Matt Simmons(!), chairman and CEO of the HUGE oil-industry investment bank, Simmons & Company, and also an associate/friend of Dick Cheney and George Dubs) paint a bleak portrait of our country's economic and social well-being if we continue to live in our cozy bubble of collective denial and fail to put the pinch on our current rate of oil consumption.

"The End of Suburbia" is the violent shake our country needs to snap out of our oil-drunk malaise. Hopefully, we'll soon start taking steps to heed it.

In England Verbal Assault is Considered a Crime . . . . Wait, what?

By: Lucy Parker

Verbal assault is considered a crime in England. This fact interests me in four ways, 1) Christian Bale of “Batman” was arrested this past week for allegedly committing this “crime”, 2) I extremely enjoyed that film, 3) I obsessively read celebrity gossip sites, 4) and most important, you can actually get arrested for verbal assault somewhere?

Now maybe I find this so diametrically opposed to what I think fits into the array of arrest able offenses because I am an American. I mean where would America be without verbal assault? How about the Declaration of Independence? That’s a fine piece of American verbal assault. Take that King George. I won’t even begin to list other examples, not only because there are far too many, but because I think I find this arrest even more so diametrically opposed to my American beliefs because the “assault” took place within the confines of a family fight.

While I am not certain of what level of importance other countries place on the family unit and what is normal for their daily family life; I am pretty certain, what one could be arrested for in England, labeled as verbal assault, is called Sunday morning in America. I mean I got into an actual physical altercation with my sister the day after Thanksgiving as our mother put up the family Christmas tree. We literally had to be pulled apart. It was a heartwarming typical American scene; I think Norman Rockwell actually depicted something similar.

(Come to think of it, that actually could have been an arrest able offense.)

There are a few basic characteristics that are attributed to the American Family: the husband, the wife, 2.5 kids, a house with a white picket fence, and an abundance of verbal battery. I literally do not know one person who has not had an all out explicative ridden shouting battle with another family member. This is normally not a highly discussed or advertised aspect of American family life, but it is definitely the most common.

Could you imagine if people actually could get arrested for verbal assault in America? I don’t know the arrest rates for this offense in England or to what extent they even enforce it, or what is even technically considered verbal assault. Would the normal run of the mill mid-fight phrase “I’m going to bitch slap you” get you arrested? Or does it take more, what does it actually take to get arrested for this? One time my own mother said she was going to stuff my father’s head into an apple sauce jar. Does that count?

Could you imagine sitting down to watch an episode of “Cops” and the local police department responds to a verbal assault call? I don’t know about you, but I would be pissed. When I watch a show displaying crimes I want it to be good. When the cops respond to a call it better be because some shirtless dude found out his hooker was actually a tranny while they were doing lines of blow on an illegal immigrant in the back parking lot of a 7/11. Anything else is crap.

What is the worst Christian Bale could have actually said to get him arrested for verbal assault? It has been reported that before the argument occurred Bale’s sister was asking him for money. It has also been reported that Bale’s mom works as a part-time clown. A clown you say? Now, I’m no comic book expert but wouldn’t the Joker be considered some sort of clown? And, Christian Bale is the man who plays Batman? I really want to see the police report on this one.

Job opportunities for former "Cats" make-up artists must be few and far between...

We all know Tiger Woods is legendary for his unflappable demeanor on the golf course, but this HAD to unnerve him for at least a couple of holes:

photo courtesy of espn.com

He probably played out the remaining holes of this round deathly afraid of an encounter like this:

Tiger: {opens car door, struggles to shove comically oversized winnings check into passenger seat} {talking to himself} Hrrrmmph!...ehck...motherfucking...christ!... I wish they'd...mmMMPH... just give me a regular goddman-sized...fuuuuck...check for once. Ah. There we go. {sits down behind the wheel, starts car and reaches up to adjust rear view mirror, which terrifyingly reveals 2 tubby, middle-aged men sitting in his backseat, faces painted like tigers. One is dressed in a tiger-striped jumpsuit.}

Tiger Superfan #1 and #2: {in unison} RRRROOOAAARRRRRRR!!

Tiger: AAAAAAHHHHH!!! who--- who the FUCK!! {reaches under his seat for nunchucks}

TSF #1 and #2: {laughing like people who've been slammed in the back of the head with a shovel every hour on the hour for the last 30 years} Uh-huh-huh-huh-huh {in unison} Hi, Tiger!

Tiger: Sweetjesuscuntfuck! Get the fuck outta my car you psychos! Who the fuck ARE you?

TSF #1 and #2: {continue to laugh like people who've been slammed in the back of the head with a shovel every hour on the hour for the last 30 years}

Tiger: Look you fucknutties...Don't mess with me! I DO have nunchucks...I know I shoulda had the cops detain you when I saw you on the course.

TSF# 1: We're your biggest fans, Tiger! RRRROOAAARRRRRR!!!!!

Tiger: AAHHHH! Stop doing that!

TSF #2: Yeah, we're your biggest fans, Tiger...

Tiger: Well...great...that's great...

TSF #2: Yeah, Steve's mom painted our faces and everything.

Tiger: Steve's mom? Jesus. Look, you guys need to get out of --- {"Eye of the Tiger" starts playing} --- I...I think that's your cellphone.

TSF #1: Oh, yeah...that's mine. You get it? "Eye of the Tiger"? Get it, Tiger?

Tiger: Yeah, right. I get it. Look, are you gonna answer that? I hate that fucking song.

TSF #1: Answer? No, it's just my wife calling...

Tiger: Your wife?! You're married? Who the fuck would ma--

TSF #1: --it's our anniversary today. But she understands that it falls on the same day as your birthday, so she's not mad. Here, we made you a cake...

Tiger: Oh. Wow. Hey, that's...where did you just pull that out of? Nevermind. Don't answer that. OK, look, if I take the cake will you guys get the hell out of my car and never, never, EVER come near me again?

TSF #2: Never? No...no, I'm sorry, Mr. Woods. We can't do that. We're your biggest fans.

TSF #1: Yeah, we can't do that Mr. Woods. We actually came here to take you home with us.

TSF #2: Yeah...we're catchin' us a Tiger. RROOOOAAARRRRRR!

Tiger: What?! Home with you? Wait...wait...what the fuck is THAT?!!

{Tiger Superfan #1 pulls out a tranquilizer gun and points it at Tiger. Just then a ninja throwing star flies through the open car window and cleanly severs the heads of TSF #1 and TSF #2. Tiger looks up to see a man dressed in all black approaching. The man removes his mask, revealing his face.}

Tiger: Arnold Palmer?

Arnold Palmer: That's right, kid. You OK?

Tiger: I am now. How did you know I was in trouble?

Arnold Palmer: Well, I was watching the tournament on my 80" plasma while having my balls washed and prostate massaged by Beasley, my man servant, when I noticed those crazy catfucks following you on the 14th hole. I figured that couldn't end well. So, I fueled up my jet and got here as soon as I could.

Tiger: Jet? But wait, don't you live on this golf course?

Arnold: Well, yes. To be honest, I wanted to make a quick stop in Tijuana first to get some, uh, medicine for my arthritis. And a tranny whore. They have the best tranny whores.

Tiger: Well, gee Mr. Palmer. I'm sure glad you made it in time.

Arnold: Me too, Tiger. Me too. Now how 'bout a Fresca?


{FIN}

Your Headlines for July 28th, 2008

Latest from the DoF Newswire:

Heath Ledger's Ghost "Seriously Pissed" About "Dark Knight" Oscar Buzz
Says: "Oh, great. Thanks a lot, you assholes. That oughta bump up my paycheck for the next movie. Oh, wait...No it won't. Seriously, fuck you guys."

Cheney No Longer Even Pretending to Give a Shit Anymore
"Undisclosed locations" reportedly well known to call girls, coke dealers, and pizza delivery guys

Hipster Fuck Enjoys Tiny Sweater, Horn-Rims, Ironic Haircut
"I'm different," insists total douche between sips of Pabst Blue Ribbon

What do you say when someone sends you this email?

by barry metropolis

The following email was received by a friend of mine from one of his colleagues. He asked me, "What do you say when someone sends you this email?" Needless to say, I didn't know what to tell him.

Friends,

Below is a letter published in the Richmond Times Dispatch, July 7, 2008, by a former Cuban refugee. (Check it out on their website.) This can be fodder for you to persuade those who are unhappy with our current administration to think twice about voting for Barak Hussein Obama for President. History repeats itself.

Beware Charismatic Men Who Preach 'Change'

Editor, Times-Dispatch:

Each year I get to celebrate Independence Day twice. On June 30 I celebrate my independence day and on July 4 I celebrate America's. This year is special, because it marks the 40th anniversary of my independence.

On June 30, 1968, I escaped Communist Cuba and a few months later I was in the United States to stay. That I happened to arrive in Richmond on Thanksgiving Day is just part of the story, but I digress.

I've thought a lot about the anniversary this year. The election-year rhetoric has made me think a lot about Cuba and what transpired there. In the late 1950s, most Cubans thought Cuba needed a change, and they were right. So when a young leader came along, every Cuban was at least receptive.

When the young leader spoke eloquently and passionately and denounced the old system, the press fell in love with him. They never questioned who his friends were or what he really believed in. When he said he would help the farmers and the poor and bring free medical care and education to all, everyone followed. When he said he would bring justice and equality to all, everyone said "Praise the Lord." And when the young leader said, "I will be for change and I'll bring you change," everyone yelled, "Viva Fidel!"

But nobody asked about the change, so by the time the executioner's guns went silent the people's guns had been taken away. By the time everyone was equal, they were equally poor, hungry, and oppressed. By the time everyone received their free education it was worth nothing. By the time the press noticed, it was too late, because they were now working for him. By the time the change was finally implemented Cuba had been knocked down a couple of notches to Third-World status. By the time the change was over more than a million people had taken to boats, rafts, and inner tubes. You can call those who made it ashore anywhere else in the world the most fortunate Cubans. And now I'm back to the beginning of my story.

Luckily, we would never fall in America for a young leader who promised change without asking, what change? How will you carry it out? What will it cost America?

Would we?

Manuel Alvarez Jr. Sandy Hook.


Hoooh-kay, so, where to begin? First of all, no one cares that you celebrate Independence Day twice, you crap sandwich.

More importantly, how Mr. Alvarez can link these "similarities" to eventual doom for America is unfathomable. I mean, I know he may not have been around this country for 9th grade civics, but we have these three branches of government, a system of checks and balances, and ....uhhh.... what's that last thing? Oh yeah, the goddamn U.S. Constitution. However much abuse, misuse, and sheer ignorance is thrown around Washington and the rest of the country, I still go to bed every night feeling certain that my country will be a representative democracy when I wake up.

After perusing the Richmond Times-Dispatch (actual name of the paper) for a while--mostly the Letters to the Editor section--I realized where all these out-of-touch voters who elect retarded men are coming from. Seriously, put down the Busch Heavy and the Copenhagen Fine Cut and read a newspaper. Our country relies on a well-informed citizenry to function properly. No wonder we're all floating on urinal cake right now.

Mr. Alvarez doesn't piss me off the most, though. He was just voicing his worries because some fear-mongering Virginian legislator is probably whispering those sweet nothings into his ear, so we can't expect him to know any better (even though he should). No, the big asshole in this whole equation is my buddy's colleague. Talk about an awkward position to put everyone on your mass-email list in. Have some fucking consideration! And invoking "Hussein"? What's in a name anyway, you rabble-rousing son of a bitch? Are you going to start hatin' on Muhammad Ali for having an Islamic name? Or are you going to stop bringing your car to Timmy's Tire and Lube because Timothy McVeigh shares the same name? Give me a break...

But if Mr. Alvarez is right... if Barack Obama is elected to our nation's highest power... if he does turn into an oppressive, cigar-puffing dictator... I know where I'm going:

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity, part VIII

The year is 2008.

A man runs for president of the United States of America.

He publicly claims to be computer illiterate.

Seriously, John? Now, I'm really, really HOPING he's just doing a self-deprecating, common man bit here - something along the line of Michelle Obama's "my husband doesn't pick up his dirty socks/he's a slobby pig like the rest of the men in this country" statement a while back - but dude, this would be the wrong thing to be self-deprecating about. As leader of the Free World, you should at least have an intermediate-level understanding of Microsoft Office. You can't even get a $7/hr office temp job without that.

Though, something tells me there's a solid chance he's being serious about this. Whenever I see him on the news, I can totally envision the clock on his top-loading BetaMax player perpetually blinking 12:00.

Maybe his comb-over got in the way

From Politico.com:

Syndicated columnist Robert D. Novak was cited by police after he hit a pedestrian with his black Corvette in downtown Washington, D.C., on Wednesday morning. A Politico reporter saw Novak in the front of a police car with a citation in his hand; a WJLA-TV crew and reporter saw Novak as well. The pedestrian, a 66-year-old man who was not further identified by authorities, was treated at George Washington University Hospital for minor injuries, according to D.C. Fire and EMS.

Novak was later released by police and drove away from the scene.“I didn’t know I hit him. ... I feel terrible,” a shaken Novak told reporters from Politico and WJLA as he was returning to his car. "He's not dead, that's the main thing." Novak said he was a block away from 18th and K streets Northwest, where the accident occurred, when a bicyclist stopped him and said he had hit someone. He said he was cited for failing to yield the right of way.

The bicyclist was David Bono, a partner at Harkins Cunningham, who was on his usual bike commute to work at 1700 K St. N.W. when he witnessed the accident.

As he traveled east on K Street, crossing 18th, Bono said "a black Corvette convertible with top closed plows into the guy. The guy is sort of splayed into the windshield.” Bono said that the pedestrian, who was crossing the street on a "Walk" signal and was in the crosswalk, rolled off the windshield and that Novak then made a right into the service lane of K Street. “This car is speeding away. What’s going through my mind is, you just can’t hit a pedestrian and drive away,” Bono said.

He said he chased Novak half a block down K Street, finally caught up with him and then put his bike in front of the car to block it and called 911. Traffic immediately backed up, horns blaring, until commuters behind Novak backed up so he could pull over.Bono said that throughout, Novak "keeps trying to get away. He keeps trying to go.” He said he vaguely recognized the longtime political reporter and columnist as a news personality but could not precisely place him. Finally, Bono said, Novak put his head out the window of his car and motioned him over. Bono said he told him that you can't hit a pedestrian and just drive away. He quoted Novak as responding: “I didn’t see him there.”

A concierge at 1700 K Street said that she saw a bicyclist yelling and walked outside to see what the commotion was about.

"This guy hit somebody and he won't stop so I'm going to stay here until the police come," Aleta Petty quoted Bono as saying, as he stood in K Street, blocking traffic.
D.C. police confirmed that there was an accident at 18th and K streets NW at approximately 10 a.m. involving a black Corvette convertible and that the driver was a white male.

The intersection is in the hub of Washington’s business district and is filled with pedestrians who work in the law firms and lobby shops that line the corridor. Novak, 77, has earned a reputation around the capital as an aggressive driver, easily identified in his convertible sports car.

In 2001, he cursed at a pedestrian on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 13th streets Northwest for allegedly jaywalking. “’Learn to read the signs, [bodily orifice]!’ Novak snapped before speeding away,” according to an item in The Washington Post’s Reliable Source column. Novak explained to the paper: "He was crossing on the red light. I really hate jaywalkers. I despise them. Since I don't run the country, all I can do is yell at 'em. The other option is to run 'em over, but as a compassionate conservative, I would never do that." Two years later, the same column reported that Novak had gone to a racing school in Florida. "I've wanted to be a racecar driver all my life, and anyone who has watched me drive can tell you that,” Novak said.

So an eyewitness account states the victim was "splayed into the windshield" and Mr. Novak responds with "I didn't see him there"?!

Yeah, TOTALLY see where you're coming from with this one, Robby. I can't tell you how many times I've pulled into my garage after my evening commute and ended up having to scrape lifeless bodies off my hood and out of my wheel wells. "Hmm, that's weird," I say to myself. "I don't remember running these people over."

DUDE!

You're telling me he didn't notice THIS?

OK, a couple of things before I let this go.

Novak is quoted in the story as saying, "Well, he's not dead. That's the main thing." No! The "main thing" is you're an insufferable prick who wasted a poor old pedestrian with your Corvette, then tried to run away AND THEN tried to claim you didn't realize a 66 year-old man was temporarily hitching a ride on your hood.

Secondly, did you guys notice the hilarious censor job by the Politico.com writers when quoting Novak from that 2001 incident with a jaywalker?

"Learn to read the signs, [bodily orifice]," Novak snapped.

Robert Novak, you are indeed a bodily orifice.

The DoF Definitive Guide to Bicycle Commuting

A Metropolis/Fridley Joint


With rising gas prices blah blah blah blah, people are parking their cars and trading them in for two wheels, a set of pedals and a seriously bruised taint. But hey, beats paying $100/week to choke the Earth, drown the polar bears and send more soldiers across the ocean to meet a pointless demise just because they wanted money for school, and possibly, a free "Army of One" t-shirt. (Seriously though, how many lead stories do we have to withstand concerning how high gas prices are before people, oh, I don't know... fucking shut the hell up and ADAPT! A-hem. Sorry about that. I digress.)


For those of you new to the ever-growing bike brigade, DoF scribes and fellow bike commuters (not to mention owners of some seriously cut quads) Blaine Fridley and Barry Metropolis are here to make your transition from steering wheel and spacious trunk to handle bars and a milk crate a seamless and satisfying one with an invaluable list of biking DOs and DON'Ts for you to print off, laminate and wear around your neck.


THE DOs and DON'Ts of BICYCLE COMMUTING


DO use 7-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong as inspiration during particularly tough rides.

DON'T tell everyone in the office that like Lance, you ride with one testicle. Though, unlike Lance, your missing gonad is not a battle scar from a heroic, inspiring battle against cancer, but a result of a 4th of July parlour trick gone horribly awry, when you bet your cousin $5 you could shoot an M-80 out of your ass. You did not win.




DO wear the appropriate moisture-wicking clothing during your ride, as to avoid the pungent SwAsS (aka: swass, aka: Sweaty Ass Syndrome). It makes for a long, embarrassing workday. Trust us.

DON'T pedal down to REI and purchase the GORE Bike Wear(TM) 57% Polyamide, 23% Elastane, 20% Polyester, full-body, color coordinating biking suit...

...but DO chuckle to yourself when you pass one of these douche bags on the road, knowing full well that he is compensating for his small penis...and one 'nad.




DO become familiar with hand signals and the various "rules of the road", remembering that if you're riding in the street, you must adhere to the same basic traffic laws as automobiles.

DON'T forget to always wipe from front to back. This has nothing to do with biking, but is a good lesson to remember nonetheless.


DO know that Rad is one kick-ass movie.

DON'T ever forget that shit.





DO invest in some basic bicycle hardware supplies, like a wrench of some sort, some WD-40, and perhaps a spare tire tube or two if you're feeling ambitious. (Even if you don't end up using all these maintenance tools, you ball is guaranteed to get larger if you have them somewhere in you vicinity.) Remember, your bicycle is - in its basic form - a piece of machinery, just like your body. And like your body, your bike will need to be cleaned, lubed and ridden regularly.



DON'T get discouraged about flat tires, hemorrhoids and other miscellaneous mishaps. Think of it as a sacrifice for the planet and your pocketbook. Certainly, don't begin driving your car everywhere because chances are some little Asian lady will accidentally smash into you whilst pulling out of your parking lot*.

*based on truelife events. Not a stereotype. Well, it is. But damn it all, it happened. What am I supposed to do?








DO feel free to use your new bike commute as a way to bag some new poon.

Ex: "What's up, hot chick? The name's Metropolis. Sagittarius. Bike 12 miles a day."

DON'T attempt above with a severe case of SwAsS.












DO properly lock your bike at all times when it's not in use.

DON'T ever sleep on Francis Buxton, that fat, over-privelaged neighbor of yours. He desperately wants your bike. And that conniving tub of goo will totally take it, too.

Diary of Fools Nut-Punch of the Week: July 21st-25th, 2008.

By Merton Sussex, Sesquipedalian Narcissist

It's that time again, ladies and fellows. Well, actually, it's well PAST that time once again, but your ol' pal Uncle Merton broke his ankle kicking a cluster of undesirables in their collective vitals, so I had to lay up and recoup for a stretch. I know, I know...If I spent half as much time and effort actually WRITING these things as I do making excuses for why they're absent a week or two, they'd bloody well get done. Are we done, here? Then let's get to this week's...


This Week's deserving contenders:



Steven Page

It's rare that I use this space to virtually punish those who have annoyed me personally (I usually try to nominate people who deserve the groin-trauma by thinking on a more global-impact scale), but this one I'm taking harder than most.

Steven Page is a singer/songwriter/guitarist, and is one of the primary creative forces behind the Canadian pop group Barenaked Ladies. For twenty years, these guys have been crafting catchy but well-written pop music that puts most of the rest of the genre to shame. Their albums are a great mix of bouncy, radio-friendly hits and just-as-good but perhaps more thought-provoking deep cuts that never feel like filler. They put on legendary live shows that are full of pomp and production, with the sort of rampant humor and unchecked improvisation that lets you know that they're having just as much fun as the audience. Even their music videos are entertaining. No matter what, they've been reliably bright, clever, and entertaining. Imagine the quirkiness of They Might Be Giants or Sparks mixed with Beatle-like songcraft and immediate accessibility, and you're close. Geeky, sure, and often maligned by critics, but they've got a devoted fan base who respond to their smarter-than-the-average-bear compositions. Admittedly, I'm a fan.

Still, fan or not, I'm not gonna cut him a lot of slack today. Because it's always a letdown when your heroes disappoint you. Last week, Steven Page and two female companions were arrested in New York state, and charged with cocaine possession.



D'oh.

Police stopped by Page's girlfriend's apartment when they noticed a car door open and unattended acoss the street. They ran the plate, discovered the car belonged to her, and walked over to the address on the registration. The cops knocked on the door, and when they looked in the window to see if someone was coming, they saw Page and his girlfriend throw a towel over something on the table. After getting in, they lifted the towel, and saw both cocaine, and the paraphernalia they were using to snort it. Bus. Ted. After that, they searched Page's car, and found more coke in there.

I know what you're thinking: "So?" Sure, famous musicians get arrested for drugs on a near-constant basis. It hardly even makes the news anymore. We read that Keith Richards, Steven Tyler, Scott Weiland, or last edition's lucky Nut-Punch recipient Amy Winehouse got arrested again, and we yawn. That's called Tuesday. Drugs and musicians go as far back as peanut butter and jelly, but tend to be found together slightly more often.

But Barenaked Ladies have always sort of held themselves to a different standard. For two decades, they've been as squeaky-clean as Jennifer Aniston's bleached-pink little asshole. Even in the MUSIC world, full of drugs, groupies, and all of the depravity that causes kids to pick up guitars hoping they can someday partake in the bacchinalia, these guys have stayed above it. Every one of them is a father. They're Canadian, for chrissakes. I don't know that I could have been more shocked and let down if I'd read that "Weird Al" Yankovic was pinched for running a cock-fighting ring in his basement.

The worst part? They've just released one of the better albums of their career. It's called "Snacktime!" And it's a children's record. It was a deliberate attempt on the part of the band to both give something back to their children, but also to prove to their critics that they weren't getting too old to squeeze out some more of the fun, bubbly goof-pop that defined their early career. Ooh. Timing.

Even so, as good as the record is, and it is good...They've understandably run into a bit of a promotional snag. Hard to pimp an album for kids when one of the best-known members of the band is awaiting trial on charges of narcotics possession. In fact, Barenaked Ladies were forced to cancel an upcoming appearance at the Disney Music Block Party on Long Island in order to spare the Mouse House the awkwardness of having an accused felon singing to children about their numbers and letters.

Barenaked Ladies bassist Jim Creeggan is recently on record as saying he hopes the whole mess "just goes away," but I'm torn. On the one hand, I feel that if you can't pay the fiddler, don't dance. Just because you're rich and/or famous doesn't mean the laws don't apply to you. On the other, he is essential to the continued existence of one of my favorite bands. Not to mention that, even though *I* don't use drugs, I've never really been that uptight if other people want to. That's their choice, so the fairness of the laws has always been a little squidgy to me. Still, they ARE the laws. And fair or not, they're on the books. So, obviously, there's no winning here. Even if he beats the charges, he'll still always be under a cloud. Because, given their disproportionate proclivities and backgrounds, this one drug arrest is equal to about twenty drug arrests for a used-up douchebag like, say, Pete Doherty. It just carries more weight, so it deserves harsher scrutiny. Hey, I don't MAKE the rules, pal.

Oh, and if convicted, he faces up to 5 1/2 years in prison. That's about three albums and two tours worth of lost income for the rest of the band, and just as many the fans will be robbed of. I'd be surprised if either wants to wait.




Jesse Jackson

I'm really not sure how or when Jesse Jackson got appointed the de facto figurehead leader of the entire American black community, but based on his conduct as of late, I think it's probably time for a redress of grievances.

For years, it's been the same story: Anytime the African-American community has gotten handed a large-scale shit sandwich, The Good Reverend is there (more often than not toting along his faithful lapdog Al Sharpton) to wag both finger and tongue at The Man for his conscious or subconscious oppression. If Don Imus calls a group of women's college basketball players "nappy-headed hos", or if Michael "Kramer" Richards calls a couple of hecklers "dirty niggers", Jackson takes it upon himself to be the the emissary that acts on behalf of the entire community to collect the inevitable half-assed apology; the implication being that once their representative is properly sucked up to, the entire group as a whole should apparently consider themselves appropriately placated, and subsequently let it go. Sometimes, the gripe is a legitimate one. Other times, it's just so much lip service and inappropriate playing of the race card. But either way, Jesse has pretty much been there to let all and sundry know that racism is something up with which he and his brothers and sisters will not put.

That is, until recently. Turns out, Jackson may be something of a racist himself.

A bit of background:

Since the dawn of electronic communication, politicians, celebrities, and other prominent public figures have consistently failed to understand a basic rule: If there is a microphone or a camera in your vicinity, assume it is preserving your every move for posterity, and conduct yourself accordingly. Failure to adhere to this basic maxim often results in seriously hilarious things happening, though...So I'm not complaining. Whether it's Ronald Reagan stepping up to the podium to announce the imminent destruction of the Soviet Union, or Dubya leaning over to Tony Blair during the G8 Summit to express his eloquent feelings on the nature of the relationship between Syria and Hezbollah, the result of ignorant media gaffes has largely been fodder for amusement.

Then came this little nugget:



My goodness. I simply cannot imagine what would have happened to any of the rest of us had we publicly expressed an interest in forcibly castrating a sitting Senator and Presidential candidate, but I imagine it involves a little visit from some humorless men in dark suits. Maybe a little waterboarding.

But that's not all. I'm sure you're wondering where the hot, spicy racism part comes in. Well, here ya go:



Granted, this is Faux News talking, so you have to take everything they say with a grain of salt the size of your own head...But in light of everything else, it's really not surprising.

Look, it's pretty apparent to any thinking person that most of Jackson's little outburst was probably borne of intense jealousy. After all...Jackson's the one who marched with Dr. King. He's the one who founded Rainbow/PUSH. He's the one who ran twice himself. Jesse Jackson is ultra-salty at Barack Obama because he still figures HE should have been the first black Democratic Presidential nominee, if not president outright. So, rather than take solace in the fact that he had some hand in helping to kick open a few of the doors that Obama was then able to go through, he'd rather have a little hissy fit that someone else got there first. Rather than just be happy that the civil rights he so valiantly fought for have advanced to the point that we've created a social and political climate where a black man has not only secured the nomination, but will probably also (given the rampant GOP fuckups the last eight years) secure the White House...He'd rather cross his arms and pout that it wasn't HIM. JESUS, what a fucking baby. As it turns out, he was evidently never as interested in helping black people as a whole as he was in helping himself.

The whole ugly scenario leads one to the conclusion that maybe he wouldn't be so eager to lop off Barack Obama's testicles if he'd man up and sprout a pair himself.



Laura Ingraham

Ordinarily, this tight-assed bitch would qualify just on the above picture. She's sitting there looking like nothing so much as your disapproving, stick-up-the-ass High School Guidance Counselor, wearing a Connecticut hairdo and smugly smirking down her sharp, mile-long nose in front of the Fox News logo. That and that alone ought to make any thinking person want to punch her in her stupid neck.

Me? I aim lower.

Laura Ingraham is a conservative talk-radio pundit in the same vein as your Limbaughs and Hannitys. Again, intrinsically reprehensible. She's the permanent fill-in host for Bill O'Reilly when he's too busy loofah-ing to make it to his show. But that's STILL not why she's here this week. She's "written" a handful of books decrying the horrid, horrid effects of liberalism on American culture. And that's not why I'm lining her up for the nut-knock, either.

Ingraham is here largely due to the same reason Jackson is: She neglected to assume the camera was actually rolling.

Much like her bestest buddy Bill O'Reilly (and his massive meltdown on his old show, "Inside Edition"), Ingraham isn't exactly warm and cuddly to those she works with. Video has recently surfaced of her on her defunct Fox News program "Just In" where she's shown berating her staff, openly decrying their incompetence, and generally making an absolute asshole of herself to everyone around her. Highlights include:

A) Completely ignoring her hair and makeup person even as they wield a hot curling iron.
B) Expecting the staff to read her mind about how she prefers her cues.
C) Being told that bending the facts is just "the Fox way of doing things."
D) Being more of a slave to her teleprompter than Ron Burgundy.
E) Bitching about how a "Hispanic-looking man" keeps popping up on said prompter.
F) Threatening to nail a door on the set shut if people don't stop committing the cardinal sin of opening it.
G) Insisting that nobody come in her ear. And no...I'm not making that up.

Don't believe me? Here. Watch it for yourself:



Isn't she DELIGHTFUL? I'm not sure if it's the cold, soulless shark-like eyes, the mannish jaw she could slice cheese with, or the complete and utter disregard for the feelings and well-being of every single other person in her immediate sphere, but in terms of attitude and sex appeal, she's right up there with Ann "The Man" Coulter (and her Adam's Apple) in the contest for right wing Prom Queen. Seriously...Where do the Republicans dig up these hatchet-faced cunts? At least Michelle Malkin has a wet, fuckable little mouth if you turn the sound down. Not that she'd ever shut up long enough for you to be able to properly shove your cock into it.

Ultimately, though...it matters not how off-putting she is to look at. I described Ingraham's show as "defunct" earlier because it's no longer on the air. In fact, the ratings were so laughably abysmal that "Just In" got pulled after only three weeks, after which she was forced to pack herself and her terminal radio face back to the audio-only airwaves. Apparently, there are some things even Fox won't put up with.

And the winner is:



Jesse Fucking Jackson.

Ingraham comes in dead last. Sure, she's an icy bitch who hates herself, her life, and everything around her. But she's a Conservative talk radio host. Being a heartless, detestable gasbag who makes everyone miserable is sort of the job description. And Page comes in a distant second, because regardless of how I feel about being disappointed in him, the rest of the world will just see another musician who got busted for drugs. He tarnished his reputation, sure...

But not as grandly nor as ironically as Jackson, who proved himself to be just as racist as the attitudes he's purported to fight for decades. He hasn't just been hoisted by his own petard, he's been anally impaled by it, and will no doubt be hung out to dry in front of NAACP headquarters. And rightly motherfucking so. Too bad the Good Reverend didn't remember that to people who believe as he does, pride is one of the deadlier of the seven sins. If anyone should pass on buying into the hypocritical bullshit, it's him. He has no right to hold anyone else to a higher standard than he's willing to exemplify himself. In one fell swoop, he's set his cause back twenty years.

I mean, come on. If a guy like Jesse Jackson gets caught on tape referring to an entire group of people who look up to him as "niggers," what the hell hope do the rest of us have? And for THAT, he's gonna get it in the baby-factory.

Saddle up, Jesse, 'cause this is gonna hurt. Not as much as cutting 'em OFF...But hey. I'll take what I can get.

Creepy Droid Babies, Part II

Thanks to DoF reader (and creator of the totally awesome blog http://randomchatlogs.wordpress.com/) Bad Egg for taking us even deeper into the creeptacular subculture of "Reborn Baby" enthusiasts.

If you missed Friday's post on this truly disturbing hobby, read about it here. (CLICK)

WARNING:
THE FOLLOWING YOUTUBE CLIPS MAY BE SEVERELY UNSETTLING. DO NOT WATCH UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF MUSHROOMS.









I'm...so...scared.

The only way you could possibly make this shit any more terrifying would be to set a video montage of these baby doll cadavers to the voice of Celine Dion. And fuck it all if they didn't think of that too.

Things I'd rather do...

,Ladies and...OK lets be honest; Blaine's wife and Gentlemen. I present to you a sonnet to how my brain operates. Since I rarely give a shit about what I want to do, while keeping a real-time scoreboard of what I would hate doing, it's only right I burden you with my mental filth.

Since everyone is talking about 'The Dark Knight' these days, lets shed a little light on the other little movie that opened this week: Mamma Mia.

Now let's kick it into a dark well forever.

Understandably, Reno is treading on no new ground as a man hating on musicals, and any movie starring the human vadge-magnet Meryl Streep is a quick pass on its own. The real crescent kick to the kidneys is the fact the movie/play is set to the music of Abba.

Fucking Abba.

Again, not burning fresh a forest here. I get it, women like to sing/dance, most have an overall warm sensation to co-habitation, have a strange fear/attraction to Meryl Streep (she's the same bitch in every movie, you do see that right?) I see the mental bottom line scribble that assembled this lowest common denomonator drivel.

(Jesus, just look at her piercing through the souls of every woman alive here--->)

But let's look at what we have combined here in this little concoction of fuck-hate:

• Musical
• Meryl Streep
• ABBA
• all set to a sappy marriage film.

Deep breath Gruber. Deep breath.

Ok, so here's the gauntlet. It's easy to say I'd rather die/ I'd rather write a 300 word essay on what gunmetal tastes like post trigger-pull. But really, what would I rather do than watch this conglomerate of everything that is wrong with unoriginal marketing to the female demographic.

In a scale of justice, with the ABBAtastic Mamma Mia on one end, these are some of the heavy choices that still don't quite tip the arm to that darkside which forces me to watch this fun-loving romp (that is probably what movies would look like if the Nazis would have won.)

You don't fool anyone, Sweden.

1. I would rather spend a four-hour car ride with the two Coreys on the way to their couples therapist, with the addition that we had to stop every five miles so they could smoke another fat bowl of Meth. And it'd have to be a comically small bench-seat pickup truck
2. I'd rather move to Little Rock Arkansas painted purple with a tattoo that says "Bloods and Crips are for fags. Grimace street gangsta for life." on my face.
3. Watch the entire Jeff Fahey movie catalogue, including the off-shoot Lawnmower Man sequels he may or may not have starred in.
   
4. Masturbate with gasoline then get into a match fight.
5. Buy a bag full of puppies and skin them alive with my teeth in front of a daycare.
   
6. Eviscerate my genitals. They'd be useless if I was forced to watch this movie anyhow. It'd just be beating myself to the punch.
7. Fist fight Billy Idol. I don't know how, but he's like 60 and looks 30. I'm pretty sure he's either a robot or drinks the blood of the sacred feminine. Either way I'd usually try to not fight that person. Would if it meant no Mamma Mia.
8. Force feed myself a triple dose of Cialis until priapism kicks in, then have someone lather me with cheese cake and unleash a hungry Star Jones on me. Substitute Rosie O'Donnell if you'd like. Fuck, throw 'em both in. If that gets me out of this film. Ok.
9. Work at my current job for my whole life (awww, sad).
10. Wake up and find out, in typical Hollywood fashion that I had a Kazoo-like guardian angel. But in a WB network circa 1995 twist, that angel is a talking version of Britney Spear's crooked vagina.
    

Surprisingly, I'm still unmarried.


Reno

Awww, look at that. Isn't that the cutest little...what? It's not real? That's the fucking creepiest thing I've ever seen.

If you concentrate hard enough, you can actually smell the cat urine and Carlos Rossi while reading this story. (CLICK)

"Made and collected by an online community of enthusiasts…"

Read: "Moo-moo wearing, obese shut-ins with 39 cats and an extensive collection of Precious Moments® figurines."

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity, part VII

Soviet-era bread line? Queue for Rock of Love post-show STD testing?

Nope.

These people are waiting in line for...

...the NEW iPhone!

The very same iPhone, I might add, that will be available tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

Yes, humanity's finest took the day off from sniffing Steve Jobs' taint to camp out in front of Apple stores nationwide last month to declare to the world "Hey World, I just don't have that much to live for!"

And for their woefully skewed priorities, the people of the Steve Jobs Taint-Sniffing Army were rewarded with that intoxicating feeling of consumer culture superiority that comes with being the "first". A feeling that presumably expired a week later, when normal people walked through the doors of their local AT&T Wireless to purchase the very same phone over their lunch break. In 15 minutes.

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity Archives:
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V

Please visit: Humor-Blogs.com

Hey, New Yorker. Could you dumb it down a little, please?

The New Yorker accuses Barack Obama of being a flag burning, Bin Laden loving, jihadist with a millitant terrorist wife!

In all my days, I've never seen a more irresponsible, malice-filled piece of journalism. I just can't believe that a world-reknown, well-respected publication of this caliber would stoop to this sort of-what? What's that? Satire, you say? Oh.

Dumbasses.

So the New Yorker should just give up satire because Billy Joe the Champion Hog Caller/Klansman from Red State City, Missouri won't understand it, thereby hindering Obama's chance to win the presidency?

Umm...guess what, a-holes? I don't think these people were prospective Obama voters anyway. ----------->>>>

Please visit: Humor-Blogs.com

Your Headlines for July 14th, 2008

Latest from the DoF Newswire:

Man awakes from terrifying "naked at work dream"; finds self disrobed, in cubicle

VH1 debuts Scott Baio is 47 and a Deadbeat Dad

Craigslist posting reveals Minnesota Twins looking for power hitter