Shame (2011)

Shame received rave reviews when it was released in late 2011. As is usually the case with movies critics love, it didn't make much money. But it had a great buzz about it, so I decided to watch it last night. I even learned a couple of things from it.

First. Michael Fassbender has a huge cock. There's really no way of not noticing that, given that it makes several appearances in just the first seven minutes of the film. My more inexperienced female readers should avoid Shame at all costs because das Fassbender putz will frighten you directly into lesbianism and I imagine that most of you can't pull off the haircut.

That fucker is more like something you'd see in a Japanese monster movie and, make no mistake, one day it will destroy Tokyo. I'm above average in the pants, and I was more than just intimidated by it. I was shamed.

I also learned that society's moral character is rapidly disintegrating. Things that never used to be problems are suddenly things that make life almost worthless. It's disgusting and inane. I was hoping that Shame would mock this phenomenon, but it seems to affirm it.

Fassbender plays Brandon and Brandon has a very needy wang, indeed. Luckily, he works in the advertising industry, so he can sit around watching internet porn in his office all day and go to the can to jerk off whenever the mood strikes him. He also fucks practically everyone who crosses his path, except one particularly cute black chick, I assume because he has a racist penis, like John Mayer's. And yes, I'm as disturbed by the visual as you probably are.

Apparently gaining that much carnal gratification makes one very sad, although that's hardly been my experience. Maybe I'm a sexual anomaly  but I hardly ever feel like weeping after I cum. Sure, there was that one time, but in fairness, I was pretty drunk, on coke and had just fucked for six hours. The tears just proved that I wasn't completely dehydrated, which was a relief! Brandon, on the other hand, seems depressed by poontang all the time.  Just when you start to think he might be homo, he gets blown in a gay bar and that doesn't cheer him up, either.

Brandon has a sister named Sissy, whose reason for existing I can't figure out unless it's to annoy me. But she looks reasonably good naked, so Brandon's boss fucks her in his apartment while Brandon jogs to Madison Square Garden, where no one touches his no-no places.

At one point, Brandon gets his ass kicked for hitting on a skinhead's girl, but then he gets suck-started in the gay bar and bangs two comely whores; an Asian and a blonde, which you would think would make him feel better. Instead, he just keeps fucking crying all the time.

Presumably because her brother is such a weepy shithead, Sissy tries to off herself and fails. Brandon cries yet again. God knows how he gets laid with an attitude like that. Oh right, he has an enormous wang. But to watch they guy, you'd think that he's allergic to vagina for all the supposed pain it causes him.

Shame begins with Brandon on the subway, flirting with a smoking hot married redhead. It ends with them flirting again, although this time she looks even hotter. We're left to think that this is some kind of condemnation instead of rightly concluding that Brandon is just a self-pitying dick. And he's not even self-pitying in a witty and adorable way, like me.

I just want to point out to the ladies out there that not all guys with massive muffbusters are like Brandon. Most of us are more than happy to ruin you for all other men, and sometimes we won't even clear out your bar while doing it.

For you to think otherwise would be, well, a shame.

The only way I can get the mess of Shame out of my head, and I suspect that the same applies for you, is ten solid hours of Kate Upton's titties doing the bouncy-bouncy. I'm reluctant to call myself a hero, but I might just be the greatest hero of all.

Thoughts on Thoughts About Django Unchained

Since I'm dating again, I've been to see a lot of movies over the last few months. I've been meaning to write about them, but I'm awfully lazy. You can deal. Or not. Whatever.

Django Unchained is a flick that I can't pass up writing about because it does the one thing I look for most most in life: It reaffirms my faith in human stupidity. The things in modern society that make people almost reflexively dumb have always been my favorite and always will be. That's, as the kids say, just how I roll.

When I heard that Quentin Tarantino's next project would be a spaghetti western set in the antebellum slavery era, I knew that the world's worst people would be set of into fits of apoplectic shitheadery. The buzz in the week or so prior to the movie's release confirmed that. All the right people were getting powerfully indignant, which made Django Unchained a "must see" for me.

Much has been written about Django Unchained and almost all of it misses the point. Instead of critiquing the film like a normal human being would, every half-wit in Christendom has used it to espouse their own moronic political perspectives, which goes a long way in proving that people who see politics in everything should probably be buried alive.

I chose to focus on Ari Melber's thoughts in the Atlantic, if only because he managed to stuff so much stupid into such a small space. Once you read the whole thing, you won't be at all surprised to learn that Melber's primary gig is writing for The Nation.

The problems begin with the script. The n-word is not a bug here. It's a feature. It is the connective tissue of the screenplay. It is the epithet setting the opening scene. It is the relentless insult that follows Django, played with abiding intensity by Jamie Foxx, from slavery to freedom. And it is the recurring personification of the antebellum South's racist hierarchy, as white and black characters alike say they've never seen a (black man) on a horse.

That alone will leave many people cold, even if audiences recall the n-word's ostentatious use in classics like Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, and, most chillingly, as the trigger of the climactic hostage scene in True Romance, when Dennis Hopper used the word to bait Christopher Walken into a rash murder.

Tarantino, of course, has long argued that his dialogue simply reflects reality. (The Gangsta Rapper Defense.) It is one thing to reflect a tragedy, however, and another to revel in it. And that tick goes way beyond the rhetoric in this movie.

It's difficult to be properly outraged by Django Unchained without citing Tarantino's liberal use of the "n-word." For that reason, that's the main thrust of the criticism against it. Besides which, just using the phrase "the n-word" automatically makes readers use the word "nigger" in their own heads. Editors of course know this, which is why they like devoting as many column inches to using "the n-word" as they can possibly get away with.

Look, if Django Unchained was set in a modern Connecticut country club, you'd probably be right to condemn using the word 109 times in 165 minutes. But it's set in the pre-Civil War American South, where not using it would probably be noteworthy. I get that the fact that people used to speak that way raises endless hackles in people's liberal sensitivities, but that doesn't change the fact that people actually did speak that way.

Melber then goes on to opine about Tarantino's almost tantric levels of violence.

While Django Unchained presents a morally stark universe, where people do and say evil things with no remorse, it also luxuriates in the license that such evil provides.

We are invited to cheer on the slavish killing of men and women, black and white, because they are implicated in an evil institution.

The comparisons to Inglourious Basterds here are unavoidable. Who could begrudge an uprising for freedom, or a squadron of Jewish soldiers seeking justice against Nazis?

Initially, Inglourious Basterds faced a suspicion that the Nazis were used for the same reason they figure prominently in so many video games—they make for "easy" killing. (Many popular American video games are premised on gruesome Nazi hunting, such as Wolfenstein, Battlefield 1942, and the Call of Duty franchise, which has sold over 100 million copies.) In other words, if you want to peddle violence, just find people worth killing.

Back in Germany, however, Tarantino found a way to dodge that bullet.

In a memorable twist, Inglorious Bastards ultimately presented the banality—and even plasticity—of evil. As a villain, Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz) turned out to be just a sick operator, not an ideologue. He would do the bidding of anyone in power. That is why Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) famously carved a swastika into Landa's forehead. If Landa wasn't branded with his identity, he would have easily discarded it, and become something else.

Ah yes, where would we be without including the confusing mush of liberal views about violence in a movie review? I'd have been disappointed if our pal Ari didn't go there.

Liberals are strange people when it comes to the use of violence. Stopping the genocide of Saddam Hussein was morally wrong, but we apparently can't put an end to Bashar Assad's by force quickly enough. That Mr. Melber seems to oppose glorying in the murder of even Nazis tells you everything you need to know about where his head is at.

Also, the Landa character in Inglorious Basterds was much more common in Nazi Germany than Melber would have you believe. Most of those who carried out the Hitler's unspeakable evil, even those in the SS, weren't ideological. They were opportunistically evil.

Liberals don't seem to understand this, but history teaches us that humans are far more likely to be Hans Landa than they are, say, Mohandas Gandhi. While we properly celebrate the Gandhis among us (when of course we aren't shooting them to death,) we shouldn't ever shirk from branding the Landas, if only as a reminder of what most of us could be at any given moment.

His depiction of that in Inglorious Basterds proved that Christoph Waltz is the greatest underappreciated actor of his generation. All too often, movies fall down in presenting evil as wild-eyed and unknowable, which it isn't. Far too often, evil is bureaucratic and entirely too civilized. The reality of Hans Landa, much like Gus Fring on Breaking Bad, is much more chilling than the marauding psychopaths presented in popular media.

Outside of the Great Liberals Parlours, where shitheads and cowards run free, evil isn't often reasoned with or debated away. It is instead taken out with violence, but only because that is the only language evil understands.

Django is fighting for his life against slavery, torture, rape, and murder, arming him with a moral clearance to go on a killing spree that would make those video game manufacturers blush. This is one freed slave against an army— "Slavery Scarface," as The Daily Show writer Travon Free put it. The spectacle is more like pornographic violence than a dénouement, and even if the corpses are not total innocents, the nation's tolerance for wanton, mass shootings is quite low right now.

Oh good, a Sandy Hook reference. Life just isn't going to life for the next three months unless we collectively absolve Adam Lanza of his sins by blaming everything around us for them. Supposed intellectuals on both the left and right can't bring themselves to admit that having readily available artillery around the mentally ill usually has less than ideal consequences, so they have to think of clever ways to inhibit everybody's freedom, starting with Quentin Tarantino's.

Besides, who in the fuck is Ari Melber to be deciding what "the nation's tolerance" for anything is right now. Tarantino isn't exactly celebrated for filming tea parties. His flicks are orgies of cartoonish violence. If indeed the nation's tolerance for that is quite low, Django Unchained would have failed at the box office, which it hasn't. In fact, the R-rated film is running closely behind Anne Hathaway as a singing French whore, which I'll remind you she came up with new and exciting ways of promoting. Is an R-rated gorefest that clocks in at nearly three hours ever going to defeat the glorious promise of Anne's transformative cooter? I would suggest to you that it is not. But with a domestic box office gross of over $68 million in a week, it appears that Django Unchained is being tolerated just fine.

And it should be. Django Unchained is a superb flick with a great cast. Despite everything else that you may or may not like about him, Tarantino makes incredibly interesting casting choices and makes them work. God knows that he's done more with Samuel L. Jackson than any other three directors Jackson has worked with in the last twenty years.

As I mentioned earlier, if Hollywood had any decency or brains, Christoph Waltz would be in every movie, including porn. The fact that he's not the biggest star in the world is all the evidence I need that society is well and truly fucking doomed. He is what all actors should be, which is all the more impressive when you consider that English is his third language.

Every decade or so, Jamie Foxx has to prove that he can do something worthwhile before sadly returning to make unwatchable shit for a huge paycheck. The last time he did that was in Ray. While his Django isn't nearly as impressive as his performance as Ray Charles, it's still better than anything he's done since then.

I spent endless years avoiding Leonardo DiCaprio as thoroughly as I could. I gave him a chance when he played the late, great Jim Carroll in The Basketball Diaries, and he fucked it up horribly. But he impressed me far more than I thought possible in J. Edgar and he did it again in Django Unchained. Also, I'm wondering if I get away with having a beard like Calvin Candie's. It rocks you like a goddamned hurricane.

Then there's Kerry Washington, who I've spent the last eight months, since the premiere of Scandal, trying to figure out how to devote my life more fully to. Not only is she a damn fine actress, she might very well be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She's certainly healthy competition for Aishwarya Rai, who appears to have dropped off of the face of the earth. Given the limitations of her role, I understand why Tarantino didn't use her more in Django, but that doesn't make me any less sad.

Even Don Johnson was impressive. Don Johnson, I say! While I'm at it, I'd respectfully ask you all to refer to me only as Big Daddy from here on out. On second thought, maybe I'll wait until I get a white suit and a bolo tie. And I know that some of you will understand better than others why I should be called Big Daddy, but it'll be fun for the rest of you to figure out. One at a time. Or in groups. I'll leave that for you to decide.

In the last several years, movies have mostly sucked. Practically everything out there is a sequel, a reboot, a comic book movie, a friggin' cartoon or all four. The world needs more writer-directors like Quentin Tarantino, if only because very few other people are producing anything that's original and worthwhile.

Say what what you will about it, and I happen to think it's an incredible movie, but Django Unchained is certainly an original. If anybody that didn't have Tarantino's track record went to a studio with the idea of building a spaghetti western around slavery, it never would have been made because it looks dumb on paper and seems almost guaranteed to lose a ton of money. Modern studios aren't exactly famous for celebrating originality, which is too bad.  But if Hollywood is only going to let Quentin Tarantino make movies like Django Unchained, he should make more of them.

If I were to find fault with the movie at all, it would be length. A good editor could have cut it down to two hours and twenty minutes of cinematic majesty. The last half hour alone could have been cut down by a third without anyone noticing. As a nearly three hour movie, the length will also cut into the box office, since theatres can't run as many showings in a day as they can with a standard length film. But that would be the only fault I find in Django Unchained.

I'm not going to lie to you, even if it was a lesser film, I'd still love it because it so upsets loathsome race-hustling assholes like Spike Lee and Tavis Smiley. Neither of those dickheads actually come out and say so (and neither has actually done anything crazy, like see it,) but I suspect that if a black director made Django Unchained exactly the same way Tarantino did, they would be demanding a fucking parade for it and insisting that it be shown in grade schools. Their problem with the movie isn't so much the depiction of slavery as much as it is that Tarantino is insufficiently dusky.

Look, I'd get it if you see Django Unchained and don't like it. Tarantino flicks certainly aren't for everybody. You probably didn't take your mom to Reservoir Dogs for Mother's Day and you shouldn't give her a ticket to Django Unchained for her birthday, either. I'm not going on a hunger strike for you to love Tarantino generally or this film in particular.

What I take issue with is the fact that nobody who is criticising Django Unchained is criticising it as a movie. Idiots everywhere are using it as nothing more than a vehicle to talk about how wonderful they are and to make semi-retarded political statements, often without going to the trouble of actually seeing it. Morons are making it political because they're compelled to make everything political. And people who make everything political are universally stupid.

The irony in that is that Quentin Tarantino's movies are stylistic throwbacks to the 60s and 70s, an era when absolutely everything wasn't inherently political.

Anne Hathaway and the Greatest Premiere of All

Before I saw a bootlegged copy of The Dark Knight Rises this summer, I had never seen an Anne Hathaway film. And in all honesty, seeing her in a tight leather body suit was one of the few things about that goddamn stupid Batman movie that didn't annoy the shit out of me. If I was armed and had to wait hours for a midnight screening of that dreck, I'd have probably started blasting at stuff twenty minutes in, too. There may not be much I admire about James Holmes, but I'm not going to quibble with his film criticism.

Just because I've never financially supported her career shouldn't be taken to mean that I don't dig Hathaway in a big, bad way. Because I do. There's just something about her that make my powerful loins boil, churn and yearn to be free.

She has a banging little body that she isn't shy about showing off and a really cute face. Some folks might think it's a flaw, but I love the fact that she has a huge mouth and applies lipstick in a way that makes me think of the Joker. That's not kinky, is it?

There's this porn star named Stoya who looks a lot like Anne (second link NSFW,) but she was thoroughly ruined by Marylin Manson, which disturbs me endlessly. So when I find myself celebrating her cinematic oeuvre with only one hand free, I like to pretend that it's Ms. Hathaway taking comically large men in her dumper. If you ever wondered how versatile a gentleman I am, wonder no more!

I'm rambling again, aren't I? Sadly, that happens sometimes.

Not only have I not read Les Miserables or seen the musical, I don't even know what it's about. I'm told it's about something French, but I'm of the unshakable opinion that everything I need to know about France is in Last Tango in Paris.

That being the case, I made the conscious decision to ignore everything about Les Miserables until the film died and went straight to hell. When Hugh Jackman was on 60 Minutes this past Sunday, I fell asleep in protest. Sure, there have been more demonstrative protests throughout history, but mine was just as effective, in it's own way.

Well, ignoring the dopey francophile spectacle may have been unwise on my part. Thankfully, the Goddamned Liberal Media was there to pick up what I missed.

Actress Anne Hathaway gave fans and photographers an eyeful on Monday after accidentally flashing her genitals as she arrived at the New York premiere of Les Miserables.

The newlywed was climbing out of her chauffeured car outside Manhattan's Ziegfeld Theatre when the slit in her gothic black dress revealed she had chosen to attend the screening without underwear.

As you know, I'm not a religious man. But there are things that are drilled into you as a child that you just can't shake, which is why even atheists scream "Oh God" when we're fucking. Anyhow, since before I could even walk, my parents wouldn't stop warning me that panties were a tool of Satan, and that no woman that wore them was a woman I should be with.

And you know what? They weren't wrong! In the research that I've compiled since the first grade, I've definitively concluded that the best women all go commando. That's just the natural order of things, and may the circle of life be unbroken.

Of course, Anne suggests that she's mortified by this, but not really.

Actress Anne Hathaway was "devastated" when she suffered a wardrobe malfunction and accidentally exposed her genitals at the New York premiere of her latest movie Les Miserables on Monday.

That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. But I'm internationally famous for being a "glass half-full" guy. So I just look at it as her having two premieres for the price of one. One for her movie and one for her cute little cooter! More people should look on the bright side of life, like I do.

Anne Hathaway, in doing just that, along with quite properly eschewing unmentionables, proves that she's the perfect woman!

She told Sischy, "I was getting out of the car and my dress was so tight that I didn't realize it until I saw all the photographers' flashes. It was devastating. They saw everything. I might as well have lifted up my skirt for them."

Despite her upset, editors at New York Post gossip column Page Six report that Hathaway later laughed off the incident after discovering the explicit photos had gone viral on the Internet, adding, "And I just thought, 'OK, where's the comedy?' It has hit. It has landed. A bomb has gone off. I think what I am going to do is whatever my next appearance is... I'm going to step out of the car in a blanket. You've got to laugh at it."

That's the spirit! And don't worry, Anne. You can always lift your skirt for the paparazzo at the opening of your next movie that I probably won't see!

Actually, that brings up a serious concern. The nature of show business is such that you always have top your last performance. And I'm not such a miserable bastard that I'd refuse aid to a damsel in obvious distress. As a Caring Person, I'm all about helping!

That's why I'm suggesting that Anne Hathaway arrive at her next premiere completely naked on a pogo stick.

Now that the idea's out there in the ether, I just hope that Lindsay Lohan doesn't steal it.


UPDATED: So Anne was apparently on the Today show this morning to briefly discuss our entirely reasonable preoccupation with her crotch. Unfortunately, all we learned is that Matt Lauer is a remarkably shitty journalist.

Visit NBCNews.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

How could Lauer let her get away with nonsense like this?

“It was obviously an unfortunate incident. I think — it kind of made me sad on two accounts. One, I was very sad that we live in an age when someone takes a picture of another person in a vulnerable moment and rather than delete it and do the decent thing, sells it. And I’m sorry that we live in a culture that commodifies sexuality of unwilling participants. Which brings us back to Les Mis because that is what my character is. She is someone forced to sell sex… So, yeah, let’s get back to Les Mis.”

Obviously, I should have conducted the interview because there's no way that I'd let a moronic statement like stand without a follow-up. I would start with this;

Me as Matt Lauer: Yeah, the commodification of sexuality is pretty sad. Hey, haven't you been in something like 15 movies and broken your funbags out in something like 12 of them?

Anne:  That's ... that's different. That's art and this is little more than my personal exploitation for a voyeuristic culture, and ..."

Me as Matt Lauer: Of course. Art! How could I forget?

Lemme get this straight, Sugar Tits, you went commando in high-cut dress knowing that you'd be getting out of an SUV in front of hundreds of photographers. Didn't you sunconsciously know that no one wants to see a flick about a singing French whore unless they got to check out the .. merchandise first?

Anne: I don't think that's appropriate. The audience understands the art!

Me as Matt Lauer: Of course they do. That's why Michael Bay is rich. Did your mother drink when she was pregnant?

Anne Hathaway pussy pic loving stolen from What Would Tyler Durden Do

Ben Affleck Was Hated, Feels Much Better Now

I saw Argo a few weeks ago, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. I usually go to historical flicks because I like being angry. Christ, you should've heard me holler like a maniac at the inaccuracies in Olver Stone's Nixon when I saw that in a crowded theatre.

But Argo was not just pretty awesome, it was more of less true to the history. Sure, a bunch of Canadians got pissy about how the movie underplayed the contribution of our ambassador, but Canadians don't have much of an idea about Hollywood works, which is weird when you consider how Canadians actually dominate Hollywood. The fact is that there isn't going to be a long line of investors saying "You only want $30 million to make a movie about a Canadian diplomat? But we wanted to give you $60 million!"

I'd recommend it heartily to you, in large part because I wasn't really aware that Ben Affleck could actually do something before. That, in and of itself, was pretty compelling. Sure, I'd seen him in a bunch of Kevin Smith vehicles, but I thought that I only like him because I dig Smith so much.

Turns out that I was wrong. He can act and direct and all kinds of neat shit. And now Young Ben has returned to being the Toast of Tinseltown! Lookie, he's even one of GQ's Men of the Year!

This is ideal for Mr. Affleck, in so far as it allows him to publicly ruminate about the years - and, as I remember it, there were a lot of them - when shitting on Ben Affleck was the national past time. I think it may have been bigger than baseball, but there could have been a baseball strike during that era. Not being gay, I don't follow baseball.

I remember the years that everyone hated Ben Affleck as something of a personal Golden Age. If, I reckoned, you can't look down upon someone who's handsome, rich and successful - being paid beyond the limits of human imagination for projects that go right in the toilet - exactly who are you supposed to look down on? That's an especially important question when, like me, you've generally failed at life and look forward only to the auto-erotic asphyxiation mishap that finally puts you out of your endless misery.

What happens when looking down on Ben Affleck is all you've got?

Well, for one thing, it brings you the closest thing to joy that you're likely ever going to find. So that's something.

But F.Scott Fitzgerald proved what a drunkard and an all around fool he was when he said that "There are no second acts in American lives." Richard Nixon died a respected statesman and Affleck just made a movie that could very well win an Oscar. America is all about second acts and always has been, which leads me to believe that Fitzgerald was a pickled foreigner, likely smuggled in directly from Ireland and never given the opportunity to sober the fuck up.

Verily, this is the Age of Affleck. And Affleck wants to use his time to bitch about my Golden Age, when everybody properly hated him.

I read two particularly blunt examples out loud to Affleck. One is: At the risk of generalizing, there may not be a person on the planet who is more socially acceptable to hate. The other: It is fashionable at the moment to loathe Ben Affleck. To be honest, the guy makes it easy.
 

"It's as mean-spirited a thing as it is kind of permissible to say in an editorial capacity," Affleck says in response to the second. That one comes from The Boston Globe. "My hometown paper."

Looking back, whatever Affleck's real or perceived shortcomings, the viciousness of what was said about him now looks like a kind of collective lunacy. "At the time, I knew on some level, 'This is insane,' " he says. No one on the planet was more socially acceptable to hate? Really? "What was that guy's name who killed his wife and dumped her off the side of a boat?" He supplies the answer himself. "Peterson. I remember thinking he actually gets slightly better treatment than I do in the press. At least they had to say 'alleged killer.' Unfortunately there's an aspect of that that's like one of those fights you see on YouTube where one of them falls down and then a bunch of people who were standing around come over and kick the person. They don't know them, they have no involvement in the fight, but they recognize a moment that they can get a free shot in, and for some people it's just too much to resist. And that was definitely me at that point. I was the guy. I was the designated person to loathe."

I don't want to piss on guy's perfectly well-deserved parade - and Argo really is a fantastic movie - but there are a few things I'd like to point out regarding Affleck's comparison of himself to Scott Peterson.

1. The Constitution demanded that Scott Perterson be given the presumption of innocence for his crimes. That's not true of whether Ben Affleck made nearly a dozen shitty movies in a row.
2. Peterson's crimes and subsequent trial didn't waste as much time, money and public attention as Affleck's career did at that point.
3. Peterson's murder of his wife and unborn child were horrific, but still sexier than Gigli.
4. Everybody knew Peterson did it, but even that was more suspenseful than Daredevil.
5. Peterson's TV trial was a single static shot, yet still provided more compelling visuals that Pearl Harbor.
6. If nothing else, Scott Peterson is still paying for his crimes.

The Girls in John McCain's Life

I try not to write very much about John McCain anymore because I get very, very sad when I do.

Those of you who have been long-term readers might remember that I couldn't have been more supportive of McCain for the better part of a decade. I wanted him to be the Republican nominee - and president - in the summer of '07, when everybody else was writing his obituary. For years, the only living politician I held in higher esteem than John McCain was President George H.W. Bush.

One of the reasons that I revered him was for his strength of character. But that strength seems to have left him forever. I understood that he had to placate the fuckhead Republican base during the '08 primaries. Really, I did. But their distrust of him meant that he couldn't tack to the centre during the general, which - as Mitt Romney is soon going to find out - is lethal in politics.

The reasons for McCain's are many for they are legion. But it's everything that happened after election day that made him a fallen hero.

Not quite a month after losing a very winnable election, Senator McCain announced that he would be running for reelection to the Senate. Republicans being Republicans, this took a strange and deeply disheartening turn.

Barack Obama came within 8 points of beating McCain in his home state, which is something that people have tended to forget. The mass GOP freak-out over the McCain-Kennedy immigration reform bill - which President Bush himself sponsored - cost them heavily amoung Hispanics. As you might have noticed, there are all kinds of Hispanics in Arizona, what with having been formerly part of Mexico, and all.

But Tea Party fever had overtaken both America and common sense. And John McCain was being challenged by a disc jockey shithead who had once been voted among the very sleaziest folks to have ever darken the corridors of Congress. So McCain did the expedient thing. Specifically, he shot a commercial with a closet-case of a sheriff with an illegal immigrant lover and whose jurisdiction was a hundred miles from the border. McCain implored Sheriff Fabulous to "complete the danged fence", as if local sheriffs had anything to do with international borders.

And that's where he lost me forever. If McCain was so fucking a-scared of an electoral prison-punk like J.D Hayworth, there's absolutely no reason to believe that he'd be able to stand up to an actual serious adversary, like Vladimir Putin. When I saw John McCain simper like a little fucking girl before a half-witted scumbag like Hayworth, I knew that the right guy probably won two years earlier. The man who was tortured by the animalistic Vietnamese and still told them to go fuck themselves died a long time ago. In his stead stands exactly the kind of guy that would endorse Mitt Romney.  The Tea Party crowd is always going to loathe McCain, but in sucking up to them, he lost the respect of everyone else.

On the other hand, I'm endlessly fascinated with the women in his life. His wife Cindy, remains one of the hottest political spouses in all of democracy (although no democratic politician will have a wife as smoking hot as Queen Rania of Jordan or Princess Dalal bint Saud bin Abdul Aziz of Saudi Arabia. Never let it be said that being a despot doesn't have some advantages.)

As I've mentioned before, I'm a big fan of McCain's daughter, Meghan.

Firstly, I think that she's generally right about the state of Republican politics. It astounds me that so many of those retards think that they can continue winning national elections with a diminishing share of Hispanics, homos and broads. It's as if those shitheads don't know anything about demographics and seriously believe that old white men are going to be a plurality of the vote forever.

A lot of "conservatives" like to berate Meghan for not being the most articulate girl in the world, but these are usually the very same people who idolize Sarah Palin  and Michele Bachmann, two chicks that can't let three sentences pass their pretty little cocksuckers without something clinically insane spilling out. It makes me almost not to want to fuck them. Almost.

But Meghan has enormous, beautiful tits, is very young, and agrees with almost everything I've been saying since she was in high school. And that impresses me to no end. As a matter of fact, I'd suggest that all the girls out there have giant tits and agree with everything I say. And for Christ's sake, stop being over forty and spouting crazy shit every time you're on camera, okay? It's annoying and a lesser man than I probably couldn't keep his cock hard through it. Not everyone's as superhuman as I am, y'know?

Anyhow, here's Meghan talking about my favorite subject: Her funbags.

 

Tittygate, as I like to call it was huge deal on the internet, and the conservative blogosphere, in particular. This is largely because the conservative blogosphere is almost entirely a humourless, sexless place that wouldn't know Joy if it slowly nibbled on the head of it's cock while looking up at it with fawn-like eyes and calling it "Daddy." This is why we need Wonder Woman to resume blogging soonest!

Social conservatives have caught up with the sexual revolution, but only to the point where they're Gloria Steinem; tsk-tsking every hot piece of ass or guy that likes to put his almost mystically big wonderputz into the above. This is why they're arguing nonsensical horseshit, like contraception, which the rest of the fucking country settled in 1965. They're worse than assholes, they're killjoys. And who in the fuck wants to vote for that when the the economy sucks and their mortage is underwater?

Anyone that wants to send Meghan McCain to thereapy for having giant jugs and a nice big ass is out of their fucking minds. And they all tend to be Republican bloggers that tend to be mortally afraid of a tight young vagina.

Which, I guess, brings me to Sarah Palin, who tends to bring comfort to these sexless retards.

As you might have heard, HBO ran their adaptation of Game Change this weekend. I read the book, and thought that the Republican outrage to the alleged Palin-bashing in it was hilarious. Anyone who actually took the time to read it themselves would know that John Heilemann and Mark Halperin really portrayed John Edwards as History's Greatest Monster. Moreover, most of the intial news accounts of the book focused on that savage saga.

All things being equal, it would've been a much better movie if it was about Edwards.  It would've been a fantastic comedy. "I have a mistress while I'm running for president. Okay, now I'm losing and my mistress is knocked up. Can I be someone's vice-president? Shit, now the bastard girl is born. Attorney General?"

Something tells me that if that was the movie, Republicans wouldn't be pissing and moaning about Hollywood Jews so much. Instead, it's about Sarah Palin being an emotionally retarded half-wit, so the moron outrage machine gets cranked up once again.

The most interesting response to Game Change happened to be Palin's own. She made a big show of going on Fox News and declaring that movie was a non-issue that she intended to ignore. Then this came from her political action committee, which she fully controls and even bears her name;



So, during the time that her PAC ad refuting the movie had to be in production, Palin was pretending that she didn't care about the movie. Which makes her a liar, an idiot. a figurehead for her own PAC, or all three; thereby reinforcing the narrative of the movie.

Shit, if HBO really wanted to fuck Sarah Palin over, they would've adapted her own first book "Nothing Is My Fault Ever! Tales of How Nicole Wallace is a Bitch!" You might know it as Going Rogue. If you're a "personal responsibility conservative", which I am. Going Rogue is far more damaging to the cause than Game Change could ever be.

Speaking of Nicole Wallace, she was on This Week with George Stehoanopolousexpalidocious yeasterday, and in it, I saw one of the most remarkable fucking exchanges ever!

STEPHANOPOULOS: Well, the Palin campaign didn't like it. How true to life?

WALLACE: Well, true enough to make me squirm. But, you know, look, this isn't a movie about campaign staff, and this isn't even really a movie about McCain and Palin. This is a movie about the vast gray area in which 99 percent of our politics actually takes place. And I think that what gets boiled down or sometimes the fights or the instant analysis or the black and white, who's up and who's down.

But the truth is -- and I think everyone around this table has had some experience in their political careers -- where you're just feeling your way through a very gray area and you're doing your best. And this campaign was certainly one of those instances for me.

STEPHANOPOULOS: No question. And, you know, there has been a bit of a backlash, Mary, but there are a lot of points in that movie that's very sympathetic to Sarah Palin.

MATALIN: Mark Halperin, who's the co-author of the book, but -- came down to teach James' class in Tulane and said it was not in total, but large sympathetic. The movie is not that. A lifelong Democrat called me and said "Game Change" is a channel change for me. So it's not RJ Cutler, Pennebaker, "The War Room" or "A Perfect Candidate." It's just a fictional movie. And to that end, it's meaningless, other than I like your hair in the movie, Nicolle.

Waitafuckingminute! Really? Mary Matalin - who I generally like - gets to say that a movie is "fictional" even though one of the people sitting across the goddamned table from her just said that it was "true enough to make me squirm."?

Nicole Wallace isn't the only real-life being played off as fictional in the Republican bubble machine, so is Steve Schmidt, who was McCain's chief strategist and instrumental in picking Palin in the first fucking place.



And then there's this.

“I think it was very accurate,” Schmidt said Monday on MSNBC’s “Morning Joe.” “For all of us in the campaign, it really rang true. It gave you a little bit of PTSD at times. It did for me. But, look, I think it’s a story of when cynicism and idealism collide. When you have to do things necessary to win, to try to get in office to do the great things you want to do for the country and I think it showed a process of vetting that was debilitated by secrecy, that was compartmentalized, that failed, that led to a result that was reckless for the country.”

(...)

“I think the notion of Sarah Palin being President of the United States is something that frightens me, frankly. And I played a part in that. And played a part in that because we were fueled by ambition to win.”

Okay, given the disparity of views here, it's important to consider who would have a motive to lie.

I think that everyone can agree that Sarah Palin has a motive to resist being portrayed as a borderline personality and possible moron. And I don't think that John McCain would like to be remembered as the 72-year-old cancer net that played chicken with the country.

But if Steve Schmidt and Nicole Wallace are telling the truth, they're destroying their careers in politics. And since neither of them were hired by big-time campaigns or the White House because of their stupidity, it's safe to assume that they know that. Smart people with an interest in a future career would lie, wouldn't they?

And please don't tell me they did it for the money. The millions that both of them would make in future campaigns far exceeds the few hundred grand (at best) that they would make as consultants on an HBO movie.

Of course, I don't expect any of that to puncture the Republican fantasy bubble that they so happily live in. But I do expect that it's what's going to ruin them. Ultimately, a conservatism that isn't grounded in reality isn't conservatism at all.

Some Girls Live in Texas '78

In pretty much every sense of the word, the Rolling Stones were at a crossroads in 1978. After three grindingly mediocre albums (1973's Goats Head Soup, 1974's It's Only Rock n' Roll and 1976's Black and Blue, all of which admittedly had a few great songs on them, as even the worst Stones records tend to), they were widely derided by the emerging punk movement as bloated comic charactures of what masterpieces like Exile on Main St, railed against.

Worse, the punks weren't exactly wrong. The Rolling Stones had become complacent and decadent in the ugliest sense of the word. Largely because Keith Richards' increasing heroin addiction and the fact that the band now lived in different countries, the spent the period from 1972 to '78 coasting on their reputations.

It didn't help that their live shows kept adding musicians like Billy Preston, Ollie Brown and progressively larger horn sections. The Stones brought the Vegas "revue" pheonmoenon to rock that finally collapsed under its own weight on Guns N' Roses Use Your Illusion tour, which seemed to have horns, keyboards, chick singers, a massuse, three dwarves and a charterd accountant on stage with Axl, Slash and Duff. And that nearly bankrupted GN'R, which is why that fucking tour seemed to go on forever, and ultimately destroyed the band.

Then there was Keef's misunderstand with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police over the 22 grams of heroin that they found on his person in Toronto's Habour Castle Hilton in March of 1977, which threatened the very existence of the Rolling Stones.

22 grams is a lot of smack to have on you at any given time, especially if you're only supposed to be in town for less than a week. The Mounties developed an interesting theory around this; that zillonaire rock star Keith Richards made music as a hobby, but his real passion was selling junk. They charged him with possession with intent to distribute, which carries a sentence of seven years to life in Canada.

In doing so, they overlooked  the fact that even the dumbest junkie musicians aren't that dumb. Even though they need to get high, they obviously can't afford to be caught with smack at a border crossing. So they get other people to do it for them. Because the potential for one source getting nabbed was so great, folks like Keef would have multiple supplies coming to him in a city. However, sometimes none of the sources would get nabbed, which is what basically happened at the Harbour Castle.

If the Rolling Stones were broken up by Canuck justice, they were threatened with irrelevence by groups like the Sex Pistols and the Clash. It was under these clouds that the Stones decamped for Paris to record what would become their "New York" album, Some Girls.

With the exception of the incomparable Sugar Blue on harmonica, "guest musicians" were almost completely absent from the Some Girls sessions.  It was the five Stones, along with regular keyboardists Ian Stewart and ex-Faces Ian McLagan, and that was pretty much it. Having said that, Sugar Blue is impossibly good, and should've joined the Stones full time. The harmonica he plays, especially on "Miss You" sounds almost nothing like a harmonica, which is a pretty rudimentary instrument. Sugar's parts are played live with a saxophone to this day.

The Stones always had a weird dynamic with guest musicians. Instead of the guests complimenting the band, the band tended to support the guests. If you listen to Black and Blue - with standout exceptions like "Hand of Fate" - it sounded more like a Billy Preston album of the era than a proper Stones album. And that's not necessarily bad. Billy Preston was fucking dynamite in the 70's. But it wasn't really the Rolling Stones. That's also true of "It's Only Rock n' Roll" with is structurally David Bowie meets the Faces, which makes sense since Bowie and Ron Wood wrote it with Mick Jagger. Keith Richards doesn't even play on the recorded version of the song.

Some Girls was destined to be the last great album of great "new" Rolling Stones songs (1981's Tattoo You was almost as good, but it was mostly a hodgpodge of outtakes from Goats Head Soup through 1980's Emotional Rescue sessions. Jagger finished and cleaned up Tattoo You pretty much on his own in the studio.) Unlike every subsequent record of new songs, there isn't a bad fucking tune on Some Girls. Sure, some of them are better than others, but none of them actually suck. The Stones hadn't done that since Exile on Main St., and they'd never do it again.

Last week, the Stones decided to cash in on Some Girls yet again. To understand this, you need to understand the peculiar business position the Rolling Stones are in. In 1971, they started their own record company, which would license their albums to a major distributor, but the Stones own the masters. That means if you sign the Rolling Stones, you don't just get the next three records that no one but me will buy. You get everything from Sticky Fingers onward, and the Stones catalogue still sells a fuck-ton of units in an era where no one is dumb enough to actually pay for music.That's why there have been at least three "remastered" editions of those records in the last 25 years.

Maybe later in the week I'll write about the reissue, which is way better than last years reissue of Exile. The hidden treasure this week is the brand-spanking-fucking new Some Girls Live in Texas '78 BluRay and DVD. Unlike last year's home video release of the 1974 movie of the '72 Exile tour, Ladies and Gentlemen, The Rolling Stones - which is well worth picking up - Some Girls Live in Texas has never before been seen by the public.

And Live in Texas, 78 is rocks the gawdamn casbah, teenagers. From 1989's Steel Wheels tours - which comprises most of the band's live concert home video releases (there have been five, six if you include Martin Scorcesse's feature film, Shine a Light) onward, there were almost as many people on stage as there were in the audience. Of them all, the only one that comes close is the Paris theatre show on the Four Flicks box set, and that's because so many rare and cool songs and covers  were on it) comes close. Because Jagger was so concerned with recreating the records on stage from '89 forward, he ressurected the "Stones Revue" idea of the '75 tour, but more bloated and without anyone as fucking hip as Billy Preston with them. Live in Texas '78 is just the five Stones, with Stewart and McLagan on keys.

More importantly, the Some Girls tour was the last time the Rolling Stones exclusively played arenas and theatres. Forever afterward, they played your local enormodome. While the Stones are better at it than almost anyone else, pretty much all rock music sucks in a sports stadium, especially outdoor stadiums. And domes are even worse. When a band plays outside, the music goes everywhere but your ears. And when there's there's a steel dome involved, it bounces all over the fucking place.

Worse still, when you play in a place for 30,000 to 120,000 assholes, you had goddamned well better play the 22 songs that everybody hears on the radio 13 times a day. And God help you if you play too many songs from your new record.

Some Girls Live in Texas, '78 doesn't do that. This show had seven (then) new songs - ('When The Whip Comes Down',   'Beast Of Burden',  'Miss You',  'Just My Imagination (Running Away With Me)',  'Shattered' ,'Respectable' and 'Far Away Eyes')  in a row. The only band I know of that's done that lately with a new record was the Foo Fighters, and they only did it in clubs before Wasting Light was released. I'll grant you that the Stones haven't made an album with that many great new songs to play in a row subsequent to Some Girls - after all, no one's chanting for, say, a suite from Dirty Work or Undercover - but it's a ballsy move, nonetheless.

What stands out on Live in Texas is the paucity of the "Greatest Hits." Yes, "Honky Tonk Woman", "Tumbling Dice", "Happy", "Brown Sugar" and "Jumpin' Jack Flash" are all here, and "Miss You" and "Beast of Burden" eould later become part of "The Big 22", but there's no "(I Can't No) Satisfaction", "Sympathy for the Devil" or "Street Fighting Man" to be found here. In fact only two orignial songs pre-date Exile on Main St., which would be unthinkable for the Stones to do now.

Instead you get two Chuck Berry covers - and you just can't go wrong with a Chuck Berry song - the brilliant "Star Star" from Goats Head Soup and the classic Robert Johnson blues "Love in Vain."

If you want a giant "hits" set, Some Girls Live in Texas, 78 likely isn't for you. Nor are you going to get all of the fucking fireworks, fire and confetti that the Stones have employed since '89. There isn't even a giant video screen behind the band. But if makes you feel better, Mick does spend a good deal of the show in a douchey red leather disco cap, a punk t-shirt with an obscured swaatika, and really odd pants and shoes. That's about all the spectacle you're going to get.

But if you want to see a fantastic band fighting for their fucking lives, then you have to buy Some Girls Live in Texas, 78.



Editor's note: The audio on the actual Live in Texas Bluray/DVD/BitTorrent is much, much louder than it is on the YouTube clip above.

The Assassination of Yogi Bear By The Coward BooBoo

This is brilliant!



Lovingly stolen from What Would Tyler Durden Do

Anne Hathaway and the Death of Journalism

It isn't just cable news that's completely worthless, just mostly. Increasingly, news magazines are competing with cable to be a totally knowledge-free environment. The way things are progressing, I figure that it'll be nearly impossible to learn anything at all in about four months.

I've been telling you good folks for years that pretty girls with perfect jugs have an almost mystical power to make everyone around them drooling-on-themselves stupid. However, since I'm only a pretty girl on dress-up day, I can really prove that. But Anne Hathaway can, and does, turning Newsweek's Jennie Yabroff into a dribbling idiot. It's a pretty impressive thing to see, actually.

Ms. Yabroff was supposed to be reviewing Hathaway's new film, Love and Other Drugs, a romantic comedy co-starring Jake Gyllenhaal. Instead, she wound up reviewing Anne's titties. And shockingly, they didn't get two thumbs up.

If I read Yabroff's column right - and there's no way to know if I did because it's so mind-numbingly wrong - gratuitous nudity distracts from the films generally and Love and Other Drugs more specifically. The title of the review is actually "Who Wants to See Anne Hathaway's Breasts?" The url reads "Anne Hathaway's Breasts Are Way Distracting."

Who in the fuck thinks that way? Jennie overlooks the unarguable fact that most movies are unapologetic shit. The only thing that could ever hope to redeem them are a healthy set of nice knockers. I've never actually seen an Anne Hathaway film, but I'm pretty sure that I'd hate them. On the hand, if there was a better than even chance that I'd see a lot of pink, I'd make them profitable all by myself.

Ms. Yabroff, seemingly wanting us to know that she went to college, says that nudity is "a self-congratulatory indication of European-style seriousness, an interruption of the narrative to remind the audience we are watching A Work of Art." Of course, she couldn't be more wrong. Excessive nudity is also a way to prevent the audience from getting violent after they've realized that they've just spent $30 bucks to see a steaming heap of dung. Magnificent milkbags have a way of calming potentially explosive situations, but if Love and Other Drugs is half as bad as it think it is, I'd have to see Anne's asshole to prevent me from mowing down the concession stands and beaheading an usher. I'm just that serious a student of the arts.

Good Christ, is Newsweek in such sorry shape that they're publishing anything that gets turned in? Did all of their editors commit suicide or is Jennie Yabroff blackmailing someone at the Washington Post Company? It turns out that Meacham was right to flee when he did.


If your local school sucks, you can home-school your kids. But how exactly do you replace journalism now that self-important half-wits have taken over?

Christina Hendricks & The Lonely Death of a Dream

Most of you don't know this about me, but I've always been an aspiring screenwriter. The reason you might not know that is that the studios are are conspiring against me, refusing to put any of my scripts into production. They usually say that there should never be a bukkake scene in a romantic comedy, and each of my scripts have about twelve. Haven't those idiots ever heard of an "emotional climax" before? No wonder Hollywood sucks so bad.

Anyhow, my latest screenplay is about an up-and-coming actress that designers won't make clothes for, on account of her having such gigantically beautiful hooters. After so many years of designing for 12-year-old boys and heroin addicts, the actresses' rocking knockers confuse and frighten them because all designers are homosexuals.

But the actress has been facing down adversity all of her life and refuses to be defeated by the Velvet Mafia, 12-year-old boys and heroin addicts. So she makes all of her public appearances naked. This, shockingly, makes her an even bigger star since everyone loves a woman with huge cans and nipples the size of dessert trays. We also learn that she's completely waxed, except for a tiny crimson landing strip on her mons venus.

The actress triumphs, the designers suddenly sexually desire women, and we all learn an important lesson about the power of courage. Then the entire cast masturbates in her face.

It's called It Rubs the Lotion in Its Skin and it actually brought a tear to my agent's eye.

I'm convinced that my film would be the Greatest Story Ever Told, win multiple Oscars, and teach us all to love one another. Unfortunately, it'll never be made, so the planet will continue to be plagued by poverty, war and intolerance. And it'll all be Christina Hendricks' fault.

You see, girls with red hair, giant cans and big, fat asses are my muse. They always have been, actually. And no woman has redder hair, bigger tits and a more deliciously fat ass than Mad Men's Christina Hendrick's. No one else can play the lead in my movie, unless I made the character Hispanic and talked Salma Hayek into doing it, but I'm exceptionally lazy.

Ms. Hendricks has such a perfect body that it's almost impossible to notice that her head is about eleven percent too small for her body. But even that works, since the teeniness of her cranium would make the penises look bigger in the climatic bukkake scene. The script is nothing short of a love letter to her, and to do it without her giant jugs would be a desecration of my dream.

Tragically, Christina is categorically refusing to do nude scenes, and 100% of her role in It Rubs the Lotion in Its Skin would require her being as bare-assed as the day she was born. Oh, and to have about a dozen newly reformed homosexual designers jerk off in her face.

“Christina is riding the crest of a wave right now and the offers are flooding in,” says a source close to the star.

“She would love to do more movies and is in the process of considering projects to tie in with the show’s hiatus. She has noticed though that a good number of roles she’s being offered require her to go nude.

“Clearly everyone wants to see more of Christina but she doesn’t want to be over exposed in the wrong way.”

Clearly, Christina doesn't know what's she's talking about. Or she secretly hates art. Take your pick. Doesn't she know that full-frontal nudity is absolutely the best way of being over-exposed? Sasha Grey and Jenna Jameson became big stars that way, although I'm sure that their enthusiasm to rub the lotion in their skin had a lot to do with that, also.

You know, this is hardly new. Artists like myself have been relentlessly confounded and persecuted throughout history by tyrants of every description. Imagine if Rubashov's executioner in Arthur Koestler's Darkness at Noon was a size 14 and a 38 DDD cup, and you'd have a pretty good idea how I'm feeling right now. I'm lonely without words, yet still overwhelmed by the need to beat off until the tendons in my right wrist snap, crackle and pop. It's sad beyond description, bur I'll persevere. I always do.

But this isn't only about me. Just mostly. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't deeply concerned about Christina's fate as well. Not only could It Rubs the Lotion in Its Skin make her the most revered actor in the history of the English speaking peoples, her refusal to get naked and be slathered with DNA might result in no man ever loving her. Nobody likes a cock-tease, as everybody knows.

Besides, a hearty helping of jizz keeps a woman's skin looking young. There's a reason that my last five girlfriends look like they're no older than seven. It's like there a time machine in my scrotum.

This is a horrible setback and I just don't know how my dream can ever recover from it. Why is it that the things we love the most are the things that end up destroying us, as Mr. Hands learned the hard way?

Why is there no justice - or, at the very least, art appreciation - in this world?

American Idol Gave Who What Now?

I'm actually pretty proud that I've never seen a single episode of American Idol. I practically put on a lab coat and invented wasting time, but whenever I feel like actively making myself stupid, I put on Fox News, instead. Watching American Idol to discover music is a lot like discovering your sexuality by slamming your genitals in a car door.

I'm also on the record as being a loud proponent of capitalism. Sure, I have my problems with it, but I would imagine that everyone that isn't Donald Trump does. But the fact is that there are few better ways of going from nowhere to the top in less time, based solely n your god-given talents and ability to fuck your way to the top, which is how I did it.

I became somewhat less enamoured with the system when the U.S government actually gave it the ability to print their own money in 1999 and they fucked it up, destroying the planet's economy in the process, two years ago today. When the rich went to the taxpayer to keep them in grey popoun and classy whores, I viewed them with the same suspicion that I view your average sex offender. There are just some things that you should only give people one chance on.

Those two topics, in a roundabout way, bring me to Jennifer Lopez, whose lack of talent at much of anything actually physically intimidates me. This is a woman, remember, who's greatest career was dropping Ben fucking Affleck to marry a guy who might have died in 1986.



Remember that? I know, I've tried forgetting it, too. It's horrifying, and regret getting in your personal space with it. But, like the Holocaust, some things should never be forgotten.

It also provides an important context to this story.

Kara DioGuardi out — Jennifer Lopez back in.

A month after the singer-actress’s initial deal with American Idol fell apart — thanks, in part, to demands that had gotten “out of hand,” according to a source — Lopez will after all be joining the judging panel for the show’s upcoming 10th season, sources tell PEOPLE.

Lopez’s $12 million contract, which was first reported by Deadline.com, comes two weeks after DioGuardi confirmed she was leaving the show, following in the footsteps of both Simon Cowell and new judge Ellen DeGeneres.

According to the report, Lopez was hoping for movie and TV development deals to accompany and even larger Idol salary as well as input about her new co-judges, but Fox made no commitments and she settled for a cool $12.

“She’s very excited,” a source close to Lopez says of the final deal.

You know what? I'd be fucking excited, too! Jennifer's last movie, The Back-Up Plan, opened to less favorable reviews and lower box office than your average snuff-movie, including gay ones. Oh, and she was dropped by Sony Music in an atmosphere where anyone who's willing to hum off-key for nickles can get signed to a multi-year, 360 deal.

Yes, that Jennifer Lopez is getting $12,000,000 a year to tell American Idol contestants how to be stars.

I don't like the fact that Aerosmith's Steven Tyler is going to be a judge as well, but I can understand it. Even though Aerosmith hasn't been fun or interesting in years, they are massively fucking successful to this day. Despite not putting out a bad album of original material in nine years, they do great concert business every year, including this one.

Tyler has survived in show business for forty fucking years. Lopez is hanging on by her fingernails after what, fifteen? But am I hearing about Steven Tyler signing a $12 million deal? No, actually, I'm not. Oh, and American Idol still exists.

American Idol has been shedding viewers like crabs for years, and Jennifer Lopez has neither a movie career that you average gay porno star doesn't, or a record deal. This is the entertainment equivalent of AIG saying, "Subprime mortages? Why not?"

Music is dead, capitalism is dangerously off course, and these are the signs that the Apocalypse of Western Civilization is well upon us.

Everything I Need To Know About Lindsay Lohan I Learned From The Nixon Tapes

It shouldn't surprise anyone who reads this blog regularly that Richard Milhous Nixon is my favorite president of my lifetime. He was probably the smartest, and far away the most interesting.

Even those of my readers most married to novels should pick up a good Nixon biography because that story has everything they could ever look for. The life of Nixon was positively Shakespearean. It's a pattern of a rise, a fall, a resurrection, a further fall and another resurrection that couldn't be more compelling. I haven't read over sixty books on Nixon and Watergate for no reason at all. Also, while that alone hasn't gotten me laid, it certainly hasn't hurt.

Nixon's life and presidency were certainly complex. A man who based his life on fighting communism also established relations with China and detente with the Soviet Union, both of which inarguably furthered the end of the Cold war. A politician whose bedrock, hard-nosed conservatism elevated him to the presidency also created the Environmental Protection Agency, expanded funding for PBS and made affirmative action the law of the land.

But as the late William Safire wrote in his memoir, Before the Fall: An Inside View of the Pre-Watergate White House, there will always be "those damned tapes."

Those damn tapes will forever cloud everything that Richard Nixon ever did.

The fact that Nixon was recorded telling H.R Haldeman and Charles Colson to "get the Jew cocksuckers" that funded both his political enemies and the presidential campaigns of Hubert Humphrey and George McGovern tend to overshadow the fact that Nixon appointed more Jews to higher positions than every president before him, including to the posts of chairman of the Federal Reserve and secretary of state. Despite his private rhetoric about the inferiority of "the negro", Nixon's Philadelphia plan brought more blacks and other minorities into the trades than most other presidents, before or since.

The tapes, while irrefutable evidence of a presidency run amok, they also tend to obscure the record of an otherwise fine admistration. Yes, there was obstruction of justice and conspiracy to commit to perjury in the Oval Office, but there were all kinds of other things going on, too. But those things tend to be forgotten in the sensationalism of presidential wrongdoing and the uttering of unwarranted and paranoid slurs. There's an overall record that can and should be reviewed by everyone. What you find might surprise you.

Those damned tapes pervert everything. From February 1971 to July 1973, Nixon created 3,700 hours of tapes. Unlike presidents Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson,; Nixon had a voice-activated system that recorded everything, as opposed to what other presidents wanted recorded.

Imagine of you recorded everything you said over two-and-a-half years was recorded, and only the absolute worst things you said were released in dribs and drabs over four decades. I can't think that your reputation would hold a golden sheen, particularly fifteen years after you were too dead to defend it.

That's what I think is happening to Lindsay Lohan. Her reputation in history is being ruined before our our eyes because we just don't give a fuck what the facts are. And that's travesty of journalism generally and the blogosphere in particular.

While Lindsay have has admitted to a couple of unfortunate incidents of drunk-driving, she has never been convicted of cocaine possession, or even tested positive for it while under court-ordered monitoring. Any suggestion to the contrary is an outrageous lie.

Of course, La Lohan has been photographed with cocaine, or things that could be cocaine, any number of times. But that does nothing to prove that she's an abuser of the substance, especially since she lives in Hollywood, where the passage of cocaine is accepted as a common greeting of sorts.

My own belief is that is that Lindsay has taken just enough coke for a girl that age and is that fucking hot. If you're a 24 year old redhead with huge cans, I think you know what I mean. It just is it what it is. Moreover, it is what it should be. Young girls with big tits who haven't taken a lot of cocaine just haven't lived enough yet. And no man will likely ever love them.

But no one has ever thought about all the times that Lindsay hasn't been photographed with cocaine. And that's time after time after time after time, Goddamnit.

The unfair and unfounded allegations against Lindsay Lohan really distract from how spectacular her tits really are. They're huge and beautiful, in ways that the laws of both God and man demand.

Life is unfair enough, isn' it?

Heidi Montag is Dishonest and Delusional

I can't say that I've wanted to sodomize many decapitated corpses in my life but, for a few brief months, I was willing to make an exception for Heidi Montag. Unfortunately, she's such a worthless waste of fucking skin that she had to ruin even that for me. To say that I resent this is a monumental understatement.



I'm blessed to be old enough to have gone through most of my life not knowing who Ms. Montag and her bizarrely asexual husband, Spencer Pratt were. Not being a a maven of scripted "reality" TV, I have never seen The Hills, and that seemed to make everyone happy. I wouldn't go go so far as to say that it was a beautiful life, but it was enough for me.



All that I really knew about Ms. Montag and Mr. Pratt was that they were vapid television personalities who were rewarded far beyond their actual worth, and whose support for John McCain's presidential campaign embarrassed me even more than even John McCain and Sarah Pailn already had.



Whenever I saw Heidi, I struck by how obnoxiously ordinary the woman was. As a connoisseur of women, I can tell you that that I've had about a dozen regular commenters over the years that I would I would step on Heidi's face to have sex with. However, the Goddamned Liberal Media insisted that that she was something other than someone other than a treadmill to run over on my way to more fetching women, which undermined my faith in the human condition itself.



Is that brutal and wrong? Surely it is. But as Donald Rumsfeld said, "it is what it is." To paraphrase the second-longest tenured secretary of defense, you don't think with the penis you want, you think with the penis you have. Am I ashamed of that? Not really, but I encourage your delusion that I'm a better man than I really am.



Then, almost out of the blue, things had changed. Heidi had twelve serious and painful plastic surgeries, which made her among the most fascinating people alive today. Her breaks exploded with a new and wonderful fakeness that couldn't be ignored by any rational man, and her back was scooped in a way that made her previously ordinary ass look delectable. Her rather unfortunate skull remained, but a man can't ask for everything, now can he. All in all, the transformation was a hearty testament to the miracles of modern medicine.



Almost immediately thereafter, Montag petitioned the courts to end her entirely contrived reality show marriage. And then the story broke that her ex-husband is shopping a fuck tape featuring Heidi both before and after her Frankenstein-like transformation. Included for your viewing pleasure is a lesbo tryst with Playboy playmate Karissa Shannon, because if there's one thing everyone should see before we die, it's Heidi Montag eating out a playmate's ass as Spencer Pratt operates the camera, weeping and masturbating furiously.



Heidi is pretending to be outraged at the pending release of the tape, and not doing a particularly good job of it. For that matter, so is Karissa Shannon.



Of course, this is the most contrived scandal in human history, one that's built entirely on a bedrock of lying and other tomfoolery. You see, if you don't want your fuck tape to be sold in the United States, it isn't. Not only is the unauthourized release of such material a serious tort, there are federal criminal laws that cover such an eventuality, as What Would Tyler Durden Do reminds us.



USC 2257 makes it virtually impossible for celebrities to be outraged over the release of their private moments for fun and profit. If you don't sign the release and provide documentation proving your age, your fuck tape never sees the light of day. Period. Steve Hirsch and the folks at Vivid aren't stupid, and probably aren't inclined to spend 10 years in the federal pokey, just so you can see Hedi Montag fucking ... especially before her plastic surgery. Montag's shame, like the rest of her, is entirely manufactured.



Now Heidi is upping ante in her bid to convince me that she's history's greatest monster. She's openly musing about having her transcendental DDD breast implants removed because of some ridiculous desire to "live an everyday life."

This means that she's either deliriously dumb or blindingly dishonest. Women don't get big, fake jugs to live an everyday life, and the assertion that they do is spectacularly silly. They do it so men will love them, which we almost always do. Most people toil, save and sacrifice to buy a house. Huge faux cans is the single most effective way of circumventing that nonsense, all of which is even less fun than it sounds.

An "everyday life", as just about everyone reading this knows, is a giant pain in the ass and best avoided. Having your tight little body surgically enhanced is the perfect way of avoiding that. You and your awesome new cans will enjoy a very nice home for free, and all you'll have to do is get sodomized regularly and occasionally have one of your girlfriends come over to help you polish the knob of the poor bastard that made it all possible. Why in the fuck would Heidi Montag want an "everyday life" when she currently enjoys the perfect life? Her argument is so surreal that it's actually making me dizzy, and just after I got rid of my fainting couch.

Sure, I'm almost certain that she's lying. But there's also the possibility that she isn't. Women do things that confound and anger rational people all the time. Some actually refuse to get giant new jugs or have their friends help them blow me. It's an outrage that I don't think I'll ever understand, but it is what it is.

In that case, I don't think that the government has any option but to deport Heidi Montag to Iran and have her stoned to death. The mullahs might be reluctant to take her, but that's nothing a few hundred grams of weapons-grade uranium can't fix.

Ultimately, that's why you folks read me so regularly. I have all the answers to life's problems.