Sunday, November 28, 2010
When told of actor Leslie Nielsen's death this Sunday night, a nation of comedy-lovers were in disbelief.
"Surely you can't be serious!" they pleaded with the doctor.
"Yes," said Dr. Surely. "And you're right, you have me mistaken with this man 'Serious.'"
Actor Leslie Nielsen, 84, died on November 28, 2010, at a hospital near his home in Fort Lauderdale. Though the cause of death has not yet been determined, doctors say that he was probably not gored to death by a unicorn. He is survived by a wife, two daughters, and Gloria Gaynor in a hit 1978 song.
About two days ago Nielsen was checked into the hospital with pnuemonia. When asked if they would have done anything differently, family members conceded that if they had to do it again, they would probably check him into a hospital that wasn't infested with pnuemonia.
Leslie William Nielsen was born on February 11, 1926, in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, North America, Earth, Solar System, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe. The nephew of Danish actor Jean Hersholt, Nielsen prepared to be an actor by studying at the Academy of Studio Arts in Toronto and at the Neighborhood Playhouse; unfortunately he studied biophysics at these institutions, so he didn't learn very much about acting.
In the late 1940s Nielsen began his career in radio, transitioning to television when he managed to escape the insides of the overlarge FM/AM machine that had mysteriously entrapped him. Nielsen found success on television, notably for his recurring roles on "Tales of Tomorrow" on ABC and "I Can't Hear What You're Saying to Me!" on DEF.
In 1956 he made his film debut in "Ransom!" for which he earned acclaim (the claim: "You stink at acting"). Nielsen stuck with it, though, and went on to thrive in two decades of dramatic and romantic roles, notably in "Forbidden Planet" (1956), "The Poseidon Adventure" (1972) and "We're Gonna Party Like It's" (1999). In the 1970s, as his hair turned a snowy-white, he began playing army generals, police captains, and Pong, a really fun table tennis game for the Atari system.
Though he found success in drama, Nielsen wanted more, and he also wanted some good pizza--not the fake kind you get at the grocery store, but the good kind, like they sell in New York. You know the stuff.
In 1980 Nielsen appeared in a comedy, "Airplane!" Though audiences were used to seeing him in dramatic roles, they were also used to seeing him on a big white screen in the dark where light is projected from behind them in the form of a moving picture, so the transition was not as difficult as feared. As Dr. Rumack, Nielsen won universal praise, as well as kudos from 20th Century Fox and Paramount. His line "Yes, I am serious; and don't call me Shirley," is still often quoted today, as well as another line of his from the film, "Hello."
Nielsen celebrated his newfound success by drinking a lot, berating Asian masseuses and wagging his genitals around in public--you know how those Hollywood types are. He continued to make comedies throughout the 80s, 90s, and 2000s, starring in "The Naked Gun" trilogy, "Spy Hard," and "2001: A Space Travesty," a movie whose title parodies the title of the well-known Stanley Kubrick film "Spartacus." Though "Spy Hard" and "2001" did not earn the rave reviews of his earlier work, they did at least earn techno reviews from some critics.
Despite questionable appearances in Scary Movie 3, Scary Movie 4, and Scary Movie: Knock at the Door, Leslie Nielsen will be remembered by a generation of comics and moviegoers as one of the funniest actors with one of the best deadpans in cinematic history; and it is certainly quite sad that, thirty years after his legendary pan, Nielsen had to die, too.
It seems as though there is something even more strange about Costanza's nipples than simply their appearance; it seems as though Costanza's nipples also launch angry ticks and cause his eyes to turn into Japanimation eyes or something:
From the venerable You're the Man Now Dog family of websites.
This has been Jason Gilbert with an update on the strangeness of George Costanza's nipples. Thank you for your time and conern.
Friday, November 26, 2010
George Costanza has really weird nipples.
Full disclosure: I've been turning this over in my head for a good five years now; every time I see this episode, the voice that says that Costanza's nipples look really strange has been getting louder and louder; and now I have come to what public intellectual Malcolm Gladwell calls a "tipping point" (further reading: "The Tipping Point," Malcolm Gladwell) in my thoughts. My decision:
Costanza's nipples look really, really weird.
I don't know what it is, exactly. They are hardly a different color from his skin, for one thing--they are almost more like slightly pinkish swollen continuations of the Costanza breast; maybe it's the oddly symmetrical pattern of chest hair that surrounds the nipples, a tessellation of chest growth if I've ever seen one. Maybe it's the odd, halfway-to-man-boob quality of the sagging, the slight shadows under the boob, the seeming total lack of teat on either side.
Whatever the cause, I think we can all agree that George Costanza has really, really weird nipples.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
MAN [AFTER SEX]: It’s like you got this shit re-upholstered or something. What the fuck happened?
Who, who the fuck got your pussy all re-upholstered?
KANYE'S EX: Yeezy re-upholstered my pussy.
Thank you so much for last night. You were absolutely amazing, taking me to sexual and emotional heights I never thought possible. Of course, I don't think I've ever been that drunk while screwing before--what was in those shots we were having? Whenever I asked you, you just kept screaming, "I CALL IT MALIBU-YAH! I CALL IT MALIBU-YAH!"
I get the feeling you didn't really know, either.
Anyway, even though the sex was great, I do have a minor concern. Did you, at some point in the night--I'm embarrassed to even ask, because it sounds so silly coming out of my mouth (but I feel as though I must)--Yeezy, at some point in the night, did you re-upholster my pussy?
I don't want you to think that I'm a prude or that I am against sexual experimentation: foodstuffs, hot wax, various lubricants, all are acceptable; but I have to draw the line somewhere, and I think the re-upholstery of my lady-parts is where I am drawing that line.
Given that my she-cave was never even upholstered in the first place, I'm wondering where you even got the idea to spruce it up at all. My only thought is that perhaps, in your excessive drunkenness, you mistook my vajayjay for an old barstool or badly-worn easy chair; however, this is so insulting to the aesthetics of my beaver that I hesitate to even consider it to be true.
So, I suppose we need to discuss how best I can un-upholster (downholster?) my pussy. The daisy-print slipcover you pulled over my honey cove is nice, but totally inappropriate for a vagina--it has to go. Ditto to the soft-cotton batting you saw necessary to supply my coochie with. Similarly, the vaginal wall re-fabricking you did, though tastefully and seamlessly completed (I can't even tell where or how it's attached!), also must be removed (I would do it myself, but I can't even tell where or how it's attached).
So, if you could, please get back to me with a time and a date when it would be convenient for you to return and strip my pussy if this upholstery, getting my pussy back to looking like a normal vagina and not like an East Tampa retirement community Barcalounger. And before you go getting ideas, let me assure you that this is in absolutely no way a come-on whatsoever and that, if this is your little trick for seeing a girl again, then try leaving your fucking belt next time. Thanks to you, my urine smells like hot glue, and every time I cross my legs, my peach pit emits the embarrassing squeal of vinyl rubbing against transparent sofa wrap.
Please write back soon.
Monday, November 22, 2010
She find pictures in my email
I sent this bitch a picture of my dick
I don't know what it is with females
But I'm not too good at that shit.
- from "Runaway"
Dear Mr. West,
I thought we had made a good deal of progress in your relationship therapy meetings when you decided that you were rehabilitated, which is why I was particularly disappointed to hear this song lyric.
If I can offer you one piece of advice I've learned through my dozens of years resolving couples disputes and in my studies and ongoing research as a leading couples therapist, it is this: the first step to ensuring the happiness of your partner is not sending other bitches a picture of your dick. This remains true not just at the beginning of a relationship, but at all times--not when you and your lover have a spat, not on Girl's Night Out, not even on your birthday is it acceptable to send a bitch a picture of your dick.
Numerous papers on the subject have been written, by relationship therapists from schools as disparate as the Gestalt, the Behavioral Therapists, and the Humanists, and all agree: sending a bitch a picture of your dick is harmful to a relationship's health.
Of course, you do have a point: that your girlfriend would go through your emails in the first place is troubling and an indication that latent trust issues certainly existed; that she found an email in which you sent a bitch a picture of your dick does not mitigate the invasion of privacy here.
At the end of the day, though, perhaps you were doing something that warranted her suspicion--for example, sending a bitch a picture of your dick.
If you have any questions about my strict "Don't send a bitch a picture of your dick" relationship policy, don't hesitate to write back, preferably without that My_Dick.jpg attachment from your last letter.
Peter Smith, LCSW
Board Certified Relationship Therapist
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
It's a sketch that's ripped straight from the headlines, and we look forward to starting an honest discussion with our fans (and detractors) about where this country is and where it is going.
Before our video goes virulently viral, I wanted to post on our blog to say a few words about an important issue that affects all of us who release videos online.
Specifically, I think it's high time we talked about how to spell "premiere."
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
There was no way out. Jack and I searched every inch of the chamber looking for any crack in the masonry or a grate that we could escape through, but the trap was too well constructed. As the walls continued to close in, I lit a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” said Jack.
“Now’s as good a time as any to start.” I took a deep drag and started coughing.
“If you don’t smoke, then why did you bring a pack of cigarettes with us?” I was going to answer, but all of a sudden I started coughing again, much harder.
“Stop fake coughing,” said Jack. “I can tell that it’s fake because I just heard you actually coughing.”
“Look at Doctor Cough over here,” I said, pretending that the cigarette was a microphone. “Where’d you get your degree, Cough State University? I don’t even think that’s a real university.”
“Cut it out,” said Jack, “I didn’t go to college. I’m sensitive about that. You know that.” I was having fun being a comedian, though, so I didn’t stop.
“What was your major? Coughing? That’s not a major with very practical real-world applications. I can’t imagine many grad schools would be interested in coughing majors. I think it would be difficult to interview.”
“Okay, fine. You’ve had your fun.”
“What kind of courses does Cough State University even offer? Coughing 101? Coughing 201? That’s a pretty narrow track to follow. That’s hardly a liberal arts education at all. You should be expanding your horizons during college, and it really doesn’t sound like you took that very seriously, Doctor.”
At this point, the pressing walls were making it really hard to take deep breaths. I had to angle my body and swivel my shoulders so that I wouldn’t be crushed right away. I’d been holding the cigarette like a microphone so long that it had burned down to the filter. I yelped as it burned my fingers, and the burning butt fell into my open mouth, making me cough like you wouldn’t believe. I guess the joke was on me!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Fry her up some of my famous huevos rancheros.
Urge her to take enrichment classes at her local community college.
Build a gazebo for her back yard. That's right, an entire gazebo.
Pay for the dim sum and the gelato.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Yo La Tacos
Daft Pumpkin Pie
Clap Your Hands Say Yogurt Dip
Édith Pilaf (reissue)
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
For those not in the know, the Eurovision song contest is, per Dr. Samuel Johnson, "an annual competition held among active member countries of the European Broadcasting Union" in which each country submits one videotaped performance of an original song into the competition. Then, after all songs have been aired, delegates from each member nation cast votes for their top choices, and one nation is crowned European Song Contest champion. This has been going since 1956; past winners who have had their Eurovision submissions turn into huge success stories include ABBA, Celine Dion, and the Notorious B.I.G.
What follows is not one of those success stories.
When I turned twelve, Grandpa sat me down to tell me the facts of life.
“You’re fat,” he said, spittle flying from his mouth. “And you’re ugly. You’re impossible to love. Your best bet is to get murdered soon, because you can’t get into Heaven if you take your own life.”
There was a quiet wisdom behind his words, the kind that you don’t find in books or movies or on TV or in newspapers or on the inside of your cat that you vivisected in your backyard because Grandpa told you he’d do it himself if you didn’t.
“I’m cold, Grandpa” I said, “The gravel hurts. Can we go inside?” Grandpa only laughed and pushed my head harder against the driveway.
“Gravel is good for you,” he yelled. “It’s nature’s salt. I put gravel in my food. I’ve been putting gravel in your food for weeks.” It was true. At first I had tried to pick out it, but every day each meal was more gravel and less food. That morning he served me a bowl of gravel with a corn flake on top. I ate the corn flake slowly, to savor it.
“Did you know I was in Korea?” asked Grandpa. He took his knee off of my back and sat down next to me Indian style. “The things I saw. The things I did. They would make your head spin.”
“Grandpa, why did you make me kill Boots?” Grandpa had stuffed my cat full of gravel and sown him back up and nailed him over my bed. He had said it was “a warning.”
Grandpa took the knife out of his boot and started stropping it on a strip of leather. After a long minute, he looked at me and shook his head. “That’s life, kid.”
I didn’t like those summers living with Grandpa, but it was better than the rest of the year, when Grandpa made me live outside.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Now, though I used to be a big television watcher, I do not watch much TV anymore, what with so much pornography now being available on the Internet. This means that I do not face the same crises as my parents apparently do each Monday ("Do we TiVo Gossip Girl and watch Two and a Half Men, or do we TiVo Two and a Half Men and watch Gossip Girl?"); this is a relief, as I live such a stressful life (today, for example, I realized around three P.M. that I had forgotten to apply deodorant that day; luckily, I had woken up at 2:30 and I never leave the house or see anyone that I know, so it wasn't a big deal).
What I wanted to highlight, however, was the reaction of my parents following tonight's episode of Two and a Half Men, a show that has come to represent a kind of inartistic, desperately un-hip mainstream comedy, due to its popularity, longevity, and unnerving amount of Jon Cryer boner jokes. Usually they find it pleasant enough, sometimes funny, up to hilarious; and I would say, at the risk of being forever banned from Williamsburg, that the show, in its earlier years, at least had some funny lines, most of which involved Charlie Sheen insulting Jon Cryer's tiny, ineffectual, befreckled wiener.
|Jon Cryer, shown here celebrating his Golden Globe |
win for Smallest Implied Wiener Size in a Comedy Series
"Creepy?" I asked my dad. I always turn to my father for a second opinion, as my mother tends to form a kooky opinions about things (for example, she has this idea in her head that I should get a career and financial independence--Okay, Tea Party candidate Rand Paul, am I right, you guys?)
"Yeah, it was pretty creepy," my dad agreed.
From what I've gathered about Two and a Half Men from begrudgingly watching it in hotel rooms and on long plane flights, the series follows a manic-depressive impotent who yearns for the life of his brother, an alcoholic sex addict. Also, the manic-depressive impotent once impregnated a woman who could not admit that she was a lesbian due to societal constraints. For one show to be especially creepy must have meant one of two things: A), that CBS accidentally aired a loop of the Club Silencio scene from Mulholland Drive, or B) Two and a Half Men must have been especially creepy this week.
Hopping on over to TV.com, I see that this week's episode is called "Springtime on a Stick" (not too high on the creepy scale, considering that the episode set to air in two weeks is entitled "Ow, Ow, Don't Stop"). According to my mother, the episode involved a divorced septuagenarian paying an immigrant to clean his home and also sleep with him three times per week, a fact which makes his ex-wife angry, so she gets in a bathtub with someone and is walked in on by her sons Jon Cryer and Charlie Sheen. Also, there are lots of Viagra jokes; though I believe that it is a network television rule that whenever any man with gray hair appears on screen with a woman that is not related to him under the age of 40, he has to make a joke about still being able to get an erection.
Having not seen the show, I cannot really remark on its creepiness, though on a scale of 1 to 10, it immediately acquires 3 points for involving Jon Cryer in a sexual situation and another 1 point for the way that the little boy (whose name is Angus T. Jones - 0.5 points) has grown up over the life of the sitcom.
Two: The reason(s) why this blog will have multiple contributors will become apparent, if all goes according to plan, within 12 hours.
Three: I am at my parent's home, in the retirement community, here for the free food. Last night my mother made a delicious chicken parm with soft shell noodles and the leftovers were plentiful.
Today I went to heat up a breast and some noodles for lunch when I remembered one of the great current downfalls of the home: all of our plates are lined with metal, so re-heating in a microwave is impossible. All we have are these little plastic cereal bowls, bought especially for reheating.
So I reheated the chicken parm, which was almost bigger than the bowl itself, and some of the noodles in the plastic cereal bowl, and when the dish was nice and hot I pulled it out and began to eat with knife and fork. Only, same as always, I was having an incredibly hard time cutting up the meat in such a tiny bowl and with no flat surface to create pressure to make the cuts. Another frustrating meal in which lots of spaghetti sauce gets on the placemats and table, right?
WRONG, because here's where ingenuity struck me:
What if, instead of eating the reheated chicken parm and noodles out of the cereal bowl, I transfered the contents of the bowl to another plate, one with enough surface area to accommodate my meal? And that's exactly, dear reader, what I did, carefully spooning out the pasta and chicken onto a much wider, dinner-sized plate, from the cereal bowl to the new, more suitable dining receptacle.
And THAT is today's big thing.
“I guess I just don’t know how to deal with loss.”
“No, yeah, me neither.” My date had been crying for most of dinner, and I was kind of getting sick of it. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we play the Shut Up Game?”
“What?” She looked hurt, but I think there was something in her that liked the idea.
“Yeah. It’s the game we don’t talk or make eye contact and eat our dinners.” To get her started, I took a handful of rigatoni and tried to push it into her mouth.
“Stop! Stop it!” My date screamed and slapped my hand away. Everyone in the restaurant turned to stare at us.
“She lost!” I yelled at the top of my voice, standing up on my chair. “She lost the Shut Up Game! Do you know what that means?!”
“PENALTY ROUND!” everyone in the restaurant cried, picking up the pepper grinders from their tables and surrounding my date. As they pinned her down on the table and just peppered the good gravy out of her, I laughed and laughed, throwing up clumps of pasta and rubbing the complimentary olive oil on myself in unbridled delight. The Penalty Round is my favorite round.
Would tonight be the night I got to second base?, I wondered.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
I recommend watching the entire 10 minutes, just so you can see Mariah actively break down and get tired of all this applause-and-smiling bullshit, as she goes from feigned enthusiasm to apathy to outright pubescent disdain for one's father. For those of you with "jobs" and "social lives," however, you can start in around 3:45 mark, when Mariah really turns into a member of The Sarcastic Clapping Family of Southhampton.
She starts out so wonderfully: smiling, hugging and kissing relatives, not glaring at her father as though wishing he were dead. And then, at about the 2 minute mark, she totally loses it. She's like a toddler who eats a lot of sugar and runs around the house screaming for a while before losing all energy and collapsing onto the floor; except, instead of going from hyper to comatose, she goes from seemingly congratulatory to visibly contemptuous.
Some in New York no doubt would like to see another Cuomo take over the Governor's office after Andrew, and it may well be Mariah's to take; but if she does not choose to enter politics, I am sure she has a terrific future ahead of her as a teenage girl in cell phone commercials who is tired of hearing her parents tell her how many text messages she sent in the last month.