Thursday, January 31, 2008


According to news reports, Britney Spears was taken from her home by ambulance and escorted to UCLA Medical Center to be placed on a mental evaluation hold. This is unfortunate as Psychiatry is not the answer to her problems. Psychiatry kills. What she needs is a visit to the Celebrity Centre. These people know how to handle the troubled rich with a proven, time-honored system of removing the source of their inner turmoil.

After initial auditing, during which they identify the fears that are causing inner unhappiness, they begin the first ritual cleansing by turning the person upside-down, holding them by the ankles, and shaking the loose change from their pockets. This is the first step along the way to becoming clear. This is called the “shake-down.”

Once the pockets have been emptied, the next step is to clear the mind by attaching the person to a large vacuum, called the e-sucker, which is designed to suck out all negative thoughts, particularly those having to do with ATM cards, pin numbers, bank account routing numbers, investment portfolios, stocks, bonds and cash reserves. This is referred to as “being hosed,” and has the effect of cleansing the person of the money that is one of the key components of the reactive mind and giving it to the people who are advanced enough along the spiritual path that they cannot be tainted. It is similar to the ritual of the sin-eater, the person who would take on by means of food and drink the sins of a deceased person, thus absolving his or her soul and allowing that person to rest in peace. Only in this case, the person is alive and instead of absolving their sins through food and drink, it is accomplished by sucking out all their cash and using it to buy real estate in high-end neighborhoods.

Once the body has been completely cleansed of its assets, it is time to cleanse the mind, which is done with megadoses of vitamins, 24-hour saunas, and a visit to their business manager for the ritual firing and signing over control of their careers, financial portfolio, and future earnings and putting all those new contracts in a ceremonial cotton sack. This is referred to as “fleecing.”

Then and only then can they begin the final step on the path to true happiness, which is mind transition during which the old mind is reamed, steamed, and dry cleaned, and replaced by a prescribed list of aphorisms, stock sayings, and secret acronyms. This is known as becoming brain-dead. The brain dead can always be recognized by a smug, self-satisfied, shit-eating grin.

Once the person has been shaken down, hosed, fleeced, and brain deadened, they are ready to begin a healthier life. (Just look at Nancy Cartwright. She just divested herself of 10 million dollars. And she’s smiling. Now, that is one healthy person.) No longer plagued by original thought, discursive reasoning, or any financial assets whatsoever, they have become the kind of person who is so right in the mind that when they drive past an automobile accident, they know they are the only one in the world who can help. That is because they will be driving a combination ambulance and tow truck, and will have been trained as an insurance adjuster and EMT technician. Similarly, the people at the Celebrity Centre are the only ones who can truly help Britney. One can only hope she realizes that in time, before those butchers at UCLA completely destroy her life.

Monday, January 21, 2008


1) “CHUCK NORRIS…” This is a national election. The fate of the nation and the world hang on the outcome. Chuck Norris is, only in the loosest possible sense of the word, an “actor,” and now appears in infomercials wearing some fruit-colored hairpiece, selling exercise equipment with Christie Brinkley, when he’s not out barnstorming for Jesus. Why do his opinions carry any weight anywhere outside of his own candy-colored head?

2) THINKS… He’s not an historian. A scholar. A political reporter. A keen observer of the world scene. A writer for any reputable publication. A present or former office holder. He doesn’t even mean anything in legitimate show business. So, who gives a shit what Chuck Norris thinks? Any sentence that begins with the words “Chuck Norris thinks” should be aborted before it grows to term.

3) …MCCAIN MAY BE TOO OLD FOR THE WHITE HOUSE. McCain is not too old for the White House. McCain is too crazy for the White House. He sold his soul to W., who only loaned his soul to Jesus for his tenure in the White House. A year from today, W. will buy it back with the cash he’s socked away and rededicate his life to Jack Daniels.

4) But, having been stuck with a sentence that begins: “Chuck Norris thinks,” one wonders what else he thinks. Well, for starters, he thinks Creationism is real, and Bible study and prayer belong in public schools. Theocracy, anyone? The United Parishes of America?

5) Sure, we live in the political age of the celebrity endorsement. Obama got Oprah, but when he speaks, he speaks. He doesn’t hand off the mike to Oprah for her opinions on other candidates or, more importantly, on the state of the nation.

6) If Huckabee’s platform is so weak that all he could get was someone from the bottom of the D List as backup, what does that say about his candidacy? Couldn’t he even attract even a C List celeb? No Christian comics? Country singers? AA graduates? He held his born again fat pants upside down and shook them out for celebrity spare change and the biggest coin that dropped out was Chuck Norris?

7) Yet, Huck did attach himself to Chuck Norris? And not just for convenience. But because Chuck represents his beliefs. What does this say about his political judgment?

8) If Chuck Norris really is in tune with the candidate’s beliefs… If it is indeed “The Huckabee Campaign, starring Chuck Norris” or “The Pastor Huck and Chuck Show,” I’m sure it plays to his base, but why would he think it would have any resonance for those Americans who went beyond high school and actually experience an original thought every now and then? What does this say about Huck’s opinion of the rest of the country that we’d be swayed by the apple-haired Total Gym guy?

9)Just because the born again segment of the population has scored some political clout, why does their endorsement suddenly become the litmus test for a candidacy? Why do we allow narrow-mindedness, and intellectual rigidity masquerading as religion define who we are as a people? Sure we got fooled, and fooled again, but is anyone really in the mood at this point for a trip further back into the intellectual dark ages?

10) I don’t care how much weight he lost, or that he plays the bass. It’s fucking embarrassing.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008


The judges sit at their table. Paula squirms, playfully. Bored, Simon coquettishly chews on his pencil. Randy’s just ready for business. The door opens and the next contestant enters. It’s Hitler, wearing the traditional military outfit, stormtrooper boots, and Nazi hat. Simon secretly rolls his eyes for Randy’s benefit. Randy hides his smile. Paula quietly chides them both to be polite, as Hitler plants himself center stage.

Paula: Hi. I love your outfit. What’s your name?
Hitler: Adolf Hitler. I am from Germany and will be singing Deutschland Uber Alles. It means Germany Above All.
Randy: Interesting. Whenever you’re ready…

Hitler clears his throat, composes himself, then begins to sing in a deep baritone. He’s wildly out of key. At times, he seems possessed, as his eyes roll back in his head.

Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,
Über alles in der Welt,
Wenn es stets zu Schutz und Trutze
Brüderlich zusammenhält,
Von der Maas bis an die Memel,
Von der Etsch bis an den Belt -
Deutschland, Deutschland über--

Simon (cuts him off; dismissive): Thank you!

Hitler stops singing, realizing he’s been cut off. Hoping it was because they loved him and had heard enough to send him to Hollywood, he stands and faces the judges, who trade glances to see who goes first.

Paula: Well, first off, I have to say that I applaud your patriotism. Everyone should be so proud of their country to come on television dressed in their native costume and sing their national anthem. She’s done. She looks to Simon, who’s still coquettishly chewing his pencil. He defers to Randy.

Randy: Fine. Ok, Dawg, check it out. First off, mad props for the outfit. The English fox hunt boots with the whole military joint. It’s working for you. But I gotta keep it real -- your song choice -- maybe not right for what we’re doing. And it was a little pitchy in spots. Simon?

Simon: “I’m sorry, but I have to be honest, I haven’t the slightest idea what I just saw. The costume is absurd, like something out of some cheesy World War II movie. And the moustache (pronounced mous-tache) is just ridiculous. It’s like you couldn’t decide whether to go clean shaven or with the full mous-tache so you landed on some inane compromise that looks like a Velcro square you’d put on the dash of your car to hold your driving glasses. In all it was an absolute abomination. And the song choice was not only misguided, it wasn’t even out of key because it never landed in any particular key to begin with. I’m sorry but for me it’s more than a “no,” it’s a “not while I’m alive.”

Randy: Sorry, dawg.
Paula shakes her head sadly. “Sorry.”

A beat. Hitler stands there and takes it in. A lone tear falls down his face and his lower lip begins to quiver.

Hitler: I could sing another song.
Randy: No!
Hitler: It’s “Mandy.”
Paula: You’re very sweet.
Randy: Thanks for coming in.
Hitler: I rehearsed it.
Simon: (emphatic) Thank you!
Hitler: I really believe I’m the next American Idol.
Simon: Look, this is a singing competition (pronounced com-petition.) Maybe you should see if someone’s trying to put together a Teutonic version of the Village People.

A beat. Hitler’s frozen, not knowing how to retreat with dignity. He bites his lower lip, then turns and exits, reaching for the wrong door. He pulls on the locked door.

Simon (bored): The one on the left!

Hitler gets the correct door and exits. Outside the audition room, Ryan and the cameras are waiting. Hitler enters.

Ryan: Hmm. Looks like it didn’t go too well.

Hitler’s sadness suddenly turns to rage, as he launches into an invective-laced tirade.

Hitler: They’re assholes! They’re all assholes! (The word “asshole” is bleeped twice and the area around his mouth is digitally altered so we don’t see him mouth the word.) I am so perfect for this show! I am the greatest singer the world has ever known! (TO CAMERA) Fuck you, Simon! (The “fuck” is bleeped. And his extended middle finger is digitally covered.) You haven’t heard the last of me! I’ll be back! I’ll be more famous than all of them! The hills of Europe will be alive with the sound of my music! I will conquer America! Like The Beatles! And The Dave Clark Five! I will be more popular than Jesus! And Kelly Clarkson! The future belongs to me! I am the truth! I am the light! I am the way! I will lead a new world order! KSW!

Hitler gets on the escalator and rides down. As he disappears, we hear a deep, off-key baritone singing in a German accent: “Oh, Mandy! Well, you came and you gave without taking! But I sent you away, oh Mandy….”

Ryan turns to camera, whistles, rolls his eyes and makes twirly circles with his index finger by his head in the universal sign for “crazy.”

Back inside the audition room, the judges try to stifle their laughter.

Paula: He was sweet.
Randy: He was bad. Bad song choice.
Paula: I know. But he got up there in front of us and that took courage.
Simon rolls his eyes and chews on his pencil, coquettishly.
Simon: Sweetheart, he was insane. I swear, I don’t know where they dig these people up. Who’s next?

Sunday, January 13, 2008


The LA Times ran a piece today about the impending return of ratings Godzilla American Idol, a show that is a network executive’s wet dream, in that it capitalizes on an hour of television in a way no conventional comedy or drama ever could, while stomping to death everything in its path. Unfortunately, not just for the other networks, but for society at large, there is one sad side effect of American Idol: It may be popular. But it’s dumb. Contrived. Manufactured. And fake. Beginning with the freak show auditions right through the false drama, cell phone voting, product integration, tours, and recording contracts (until the “winners” stop selling records), all in what is amusingly referred to with some degree of perverse pride as “a singing competition.” It isn’t. In reality, it’s a perpetual motion/cross promotion machine that sells music and advertising, as well as the network itself.

Not that it’s hateful in and of itself, but it’s symptomatic of a cynical corporate mentality that governs television, which is centered solely on making money. It’s about programming. Broadcasting is dead. Once upon a time, networks felt a sense of responsibility to serve the public interest instead of serving themselves at the advertiser trough. No longer. That is the real sub prime crisis -- network prime time television -- which is, in most cases, definitely sub prime.

Though it’s hardly just American Idol. There’s Deal Or No Deal, where people who’ve never seen 8 bucks in the same location suddenly go apeshit slamming down the pellet bar so they can scream “NO DEAL!” as they reject $85,000. You’d think the prospect of being able to afford dental work, an extra month of Nutrisystem, and a GED would be enticement enough to take the money and run. But no. They came to Hollywood to scream “NO DEAL!” on national television and, dammit, they’re going to do it. Then there’s Celebrity Apprentice, Survivor, Dancing With The Stars, Amazing Race, The Biggest Loser. If there’s a brain cell lurking anywhere in these shows, I guarantee it’s cowering in a corner, fearing for its life.

And adjacent are the gossip shows, with their worship of skeletal Britney-types who all look like they haven’t thrown up a good meal in days. And then there’s the breaking news coverage of Britney herself, melting down in public like a Hershey bar on the sidewalk, as we’re fed the daily details of her fate and that of her youngins. You wish there’d be at least one loved one close enough to her to take this poor entertainment unit somewhere to heal, instead of calling Dr. Phil, syndicated life coach, who obviously came a-runnin’ to Cedars as fast as a child molester heads for the schoolyard at recess. My dream is that one day we will come together as a society, as a nation. Black and white, young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, and hold hands coast to coast in a sign of national unity and say “we don’t give a shit!” Then and only then will things change.

Which brings me around to the WGA strike and the idea that, as horny as network executives are to dispose of writers, they can’t. They need them. Even if they don’t think they do, they do. Even if they think they can turn prime time television into a reality/game show/singing/ dancing/skating/weight loss competition carnival, they can’t. Because they live in the same world. They breathe the same air. They are affected by the same elections. Stupid people don’t just vote for who wins Idol. They vote for President as well. And if those who run the networks keep putting on brain crap just for ratings and annual profitability the net result will be the dumbing down of their own world. You dumb down the audience. You dumb down the electorate. More gossip, game shows and reality, and less real news, news analysis, and original, scripted programming will result in the intellectual fouling of their own nest. Shitting where they eat. Which is something intelligent creatures tend not to do.

Eventually, there’ll be one box in the house. The GoogleBox, or MicrosoftMachine, or whatever it ends up being called. All kinds of entertainment and news will flow through it and we’ll have nothing but choice in what we watch and when we watch it. It will revolutionize the nature of our media experience, but it won’t change the nature of the human experience. Whether it’s world events or personal lives, people will still need to communicate about the experience of being alive and will need something to come out of the box that’s more intelligent than American Idol.

That’s why they need writers.

Friday, January 11, 2008


In the early 80s I worked in a small New York ad agency. The company didn’t have many big clients but we were real agency-adjacent in that McCann Erickson, the agency for Coca Cola, was in the next building. This was at the time that Pepsi was running their campaign with Michael Jackson, though I can’t remember if it was pre- or post- hair on fire. In either case it was working at branding Pepsi as a drink for young people. And that’s when Coke announced it was changing their double secret formula, scrapping the original product, and introducing “New Coke.” (New Coke? Anyone?)

As a lifetime Coke drinker I was pissed. But more than that, I knew it was all marketing horseshit. No company the size of Coca Cola is going to capriciously change the single most popular and recognizable brand in the world, a product worth untold billions, simply because they think the taste needs to be tweaked. It would never happen and was nothing but a marketing ploy in the cola wars. What better way to get people to focus on your product than to tell them you’re going to take it away? But people bought it.

The campaign was huge. Old Coke was gone. New Coke was in. The product itself was a little sweeter, like Pepsi. And it sucked. But it worked. People talked about it. Most reacted to having their Coke taken away the way people in the 80s reacted to having their coke taken away. And in short order, in response to great customer outcry, the company re-introduced the old, trusted Coke, as Classic Coke, which would happily co-exist on the shelves with New Coke, giving Americans what we love most of all – choice in our brand of flavored sugar water.

I think the same thing is going on in the Clinton campaign as they try to digest the lessons of Iowa and New Hampshire. For a moment in Iowa, Obama was looking like Pepsi. But if the pundits are correct (and how could they not be?) that her getting choked up humanized her to women, then the Lachrymosa Express will roll into South Carolina and beyond, adjusting the brand to incorporate the new message. Hair, makeup and wardrobe softer. Language more human, as she reaches out to people as a regular person. New and Improved Hillary. They’ll stock the pond with extras under 25. No one over 35 in sight. They’ll hit the new buzz words like “ready for change,” which somehow means “I’ve been been part of the system long enough to know how it works but not so influenced by it that I won’t try to change it” thus presenting herself as Old Coke and New Coke simultaneously. It’s target marketing -- sizing up a particular demographic in each state and adjusting the candidate’s behavior accordingly. Like, maybe if they wanted to appeal to men in South Carolina, she could unintentionally grab her balls at a Nascar rally. And they’ll continue to hit the “Obama is inexperienced” button, which will be this year’s “flip-flopper.”

Not that any of this changes the actual person. It changes the candidate and how she’s presented. She is who she is. Smart. Crafty. Capable. Experienced, more or less. She could do the job in a second and I think wants the job more than she wants her next breath. Whatever it takes. Which is fine. Thinking you’re good enough to be president requires some degree of ambition. Being tough enough to handle all the shit thrown at you in a campaign means you can actually handle the pressures of the office. And being soft enough to cry means…actually I don’t know what the fuck it means. She aches like a woman but she breaks like a little girl?

Meanwhile, Obama’s neck must be killing him from how hard the brakes were slammed on his march into history. Still, that didn’t seem to affect the speech he delivered. You could almost feel him picking up oration speed as he rounded the final turn and hit overdrive, going from mere speech to JFK/MLK proportions while the crowd chanted O-bam-A! I don’t like chanting. Group mentality makes me nervous, like it’s a tune-up for a riot, unless it’s the bottom of the 9th at Yankee Stadium. But still, I see why they chant. This guy can inspire. And after seven years of Nixon-level depression, it’s refreshing, like when the Santa Anas blow in L.A. allowing us to momentarily suck in the illusion of fresh air.

Still, at the end of the day, I’ll support the Democratic nominee, and hope that the Republicans continue to implode. Let them eat each other like their plane crashed in the Andes. Let them try to stay on message. They can’t. Because there is no message.

Rudy sits out another primary, instead choosing to wait in Miami, polishing up his Ich Bein Ein Hebrew speech. Or maybe he’ll go with the Emancipation 9/11 “One quarter of a score and sixteen months ago…”

Romney walks around aimlessly, thinking: “I can’t be losing! I look more like a president than any of these guys! My fucking hair is more presidential!”

Huckabee thinks that he can win by playing to his base. Maybe someone has to tell him that doesn’t mean sitting around thumping out Mustang Sally on his Fender, which I think is really not a guitar but a lightning rod to Jesus. He’s simply holding it up toward Heaven, awaiting further instructions from the Lord.

Thompson makes a speech like he doesn’t know if he’s waiting for applause, or for someone to yell “cut!”

And McCain thinks Americans will be happy to stay in Iraq for 1000 years. Sure. Trot out that message to a war-weary electorate, and see how it plays.

New York Mayor Bloomberg is still mulling over a run for the presidency as an independent. I’d sum up his chances in four words: too little, too late. (Though he, Kucinich, and Ron Paul could form a three-man hoop squad and challenge kids at local elementary schools, like in White Men Can't Jump.)

Maybe running all these losers is the GOP’s way of playing for time as scientists at the Rove Institute continue their efforts on the Reagan Resurrection. Could work. He’ll look as good and will be equally coherent.

Monday, January 7, 2008


Whether it’s politics, sports or show business, the media basically knows three stories: They great! They’re done! They’re back! And during an election cycle we’re fed all three. Over and over. Until we gag.

First it’s the initial hype. Discovering a star, and heralding him or her as the next Messiah. The greatest new thing the world has ever seen! They’re in the papers! They’re on Oprah! They’re everywhere and we love them so! Remember Obamamania? “He’s new. He’s smart. He’s photo-licious and tele-lovable. The It-guy.”

But wait… He’s played out. He burned brightly then fizzled. His freshness a momentary delight, like a dessert snuck before dinner, but not a well-rounded meal. Cute. Smart. But can’t win. Because once built up, we shoot for the tear down. Like a child with building blocks. That’s the next story. The over-hyped phenom. The public meltdown. The rebel yell. The illicit affair. The plagiarized story. The DUI. The string of box office flops. We like the cocky upstart, rising from humble beginnings. Then the moment they begin to enjoy their new status, we need to kneecap them back to humility. Maybe we get bored easily. Or always need a new thrill. Or we’re fickle and stupid because we’re fed a steady diet of media hype and surface bullshit instead of actual substance. Like with movie stars. Or candidates.

Remember Hillary The Frontrunner? The shoo-in “experience” candidate? Problem is she became a shoo-in too early and tried to keep her lead with a rope-a-dope strategy. Don’t say anything right. Just don’t say anything wrong. But say it with conviction. Or at least try to without speech-ifying. Which she did. Like she was channeling FDR. But maybe it didn’t matter, because we get bored with winners if we have to spend too much time being told they’re winners before the contest. Like a horserace, when one horse pulls away from the pack, all we want is for some also-ran to come charging on the outside.

That’s the third story: the comeback. The Phoenix-like rise from the ashes. We love our comebacks.
They’re our way of re-loving the winners who lost, but it’s ok ‘cause they’re now winners again. Hillary’s no longer the frontrunner because Obama surged from the outside. Even though he was deemed someone who couldn’t win, now that he’s taken Iowa he’s polling like someone who could win. Because he did win. Which makes him a winner. And we like winners. We’ll vote for winners to win and believe they can win. But only once they’ve won. As long as they don’t act like winners for too long. But before they melt down. It’s a narrow window.

So now Hillary has to be remade into a winner, via the new magic word: “change.” In a world that wants “change,” “experience” looks out of touch. Frankly, if she were going to change anything, I’d vote for the pantsuits. Is there no other outfit for a powerful, intelligent woman other than the pantsuit or the Margaret Thatcher tweed? Maybe a Sari. Indira Gandhi pulled it off. Either way, the tactic is to repeat the word “change” over and over with the additional mention of “young people.” Obviously, the electorate is so dumb that if you simply take a bright, shiny word like “change” and wave it in front of young people’s faces long enough, they will eventually fall under your sway. Still, it sounds odd when she talks about her history of “making change.” Like she worked the counter at the 99 Cents store.

But with all the change and experience and poll leaders and surges, for me it still boils down to one simple fact: The Republicans are the party of Satan and must be defeated at all costs or the world will blow up. Personally I don’t trust anyone who wakes up in the morning with enough of an ego-woody to think they deserve to be President, but if it’s Obama--fine. I like him. If he isn’t the brightest, classiest, most sincere, compassionate candidate to come down the road in 16 years, he’s doing the damnedest impression of one I’ve ever seen. He speaks, and actually says things. And seems to understand and care about the things he says. Hillary’s got experience. So did Biden, Richardson, and Dodd. And they had actual experience instead of declared experience. Just no momentum or charisma.

Still, given that Obama’s surging, Hillary could still make a comeback if we get bored with his surge and begin to feel more safe with the experience thing than the change thing. Although if she did re-surge, there might still be time to get sick of her experience and re-desire change, at which point Edwards may surge ahead as the new, young, intelligent guy with the real experience to facilitate change. Or maybe aliens will land and pick someone, in which case, next January Kucinich will be on an apple box in D.C. taking the oath of office. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Thursday, January 3, 2008


Every year before New Year’s, Pat Robertson caucuses privately with God and returns to give His message to the staffs of the Christian Broadcasting Network and Regent University. This year, according to Pat, God said He’s going to turn 250 million Chinese into Christians. Well, actually, I also just spoke to God and He says He never said that. And He’s a little pissed:

God: “Get it straight. I never spoke to Pat Roberson. Never. Not once. Pat Robertson is a deranged, blackhearted, greedy old bastard. He’s a poser. A fake. And seriously fucking nuts. I mean, where does this mofo get off claiming he goes to the shitter and comes back five minutes later with a message from Me saying I’m going to turn a quarter of a country’s population into Christians? Water into wine? Chinese into Christians? Just like that? Why? They’re fine the way they are. How about if I turn 250 million Christians into Chinese? How about that?

This asshole has been misquoting me for years and I’m sick of it. Really. I’m done. I mean, think, people! If I were going to pick a messenger to interpret Me, do you really think I’d pick some megalomaniacal, money hungry dipshit in a bad suit? And that stupid, fucking smile. I wouldn’t buy a side of fries from this asshole, let alone a way of life.

I speak through the wind. Through nature. Through the poor. Through love, however it expresses itself. Through kindness, compassion and selflessness. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to call Al Gore. Like what he’s been up to lately. My only message to the world is live and let live and be kind to other creatures. All religions are simply roads to Me. To suggest otherwise is the worst kind of arrogance and cultural chauvinism. Frankly, if all I had to go by was this schmuck’s take on life, I’d be an atheist, too. By the way, loved the Hitchens’ book. Very amusing. A little sketchy on the scholarship in parts but I dug the passion and wit. Gotta love the Brits when they get a few whiskeys and a ciggy in ‘em.

So, please, go forth and deliver My word to the multitudes. Pat Robertson DOES NOT speak for Me. I’d come down and deliver the message myself but I’m too busy roasting Jerry Falwell over an open firepit. Our version of a luau, only with a real pig. Actually, the only reason he’s up here at all is that we’ve had to evacuate Hell, as we’ve contracted with Disney to renovate it into a theme park called InfernoDisney. We’ve got a urine-filled wave pool (is there any other kind?), a Christian Rock version of “It’s a Small World” on a continuous loop, only five octaves higher, and 2 million TV channels with nothing but game shows and reality which, it seems, you’re working on down there as well. But the construction is taking forever. You try dealing with those Disney lawyers. But soon as it’s done you can tell Pat I will be voting his ass off the island pronto. Oh, and I’m sending Hitler back to Earth for a while. He’s pissing off everyone here and it seems he made a deal to write an Op Ed column for the Times.”

Tuesday, January 1, 2008


THE MINIMUM BASIC INTELLIGENCE ACT Beginning in 2008 there will be new minimum basic intelligence requirements for being referred to as a celebrity. Being a semi- or no-talent brain dead publicity ho with a Platinum card (or his or her significant other) will no longer be permitted. The new laws will be enacted with a 10-question IQ spot quiz, like a Breathalizer. Those scoring less than 65% will be forced to return to life as ordinary citizens, shopping at Ross and carrying only a Discover card, and their images will no longer register either on film or digitally. Those unaware that the Earth is round and that Jesus didn’t create it will be chemically reduced back into essential matter and rematerialized as house plants.

THE PROTECTION OF MARRIAGE ACT Performers will now be prohibited from marrying for at least 6 months after the wrap of a movie or concert tour. The on-set or world tour hook-up high will no longer be grounds for stating “we’re in love.” This will be replaced by a legal cooling off period in which said performers will have to return to normal life not as their characters, and actually get to know each other as people, having sex in one another’s homes, instead of in trailers, dressing rooms, or exotic island getaways. Upon satisfying that requirement, they will be allowed to marry, but not in Vegas, and must wait two years before procreating or adopting a foreign baby.

THE NORMAL NAME LAW. It will no longer be legal to give your child a name that normal people don’t consider a name, just so you can play “I named my child Quixote Lugnut. I am truly an iconoclast.” All baby names will have to be cleared with a national board of review and while child names cannot be forcibly changed retroactively, it will be now be legal for little Quixote to go to court at age 18, change his name to Steve, then come home and kick mommy’s ass sideways.

THE PHOTO OP REFUGEE VISIT BAN Empty-handed photo op celebrity visits to refugees of war-torn countries will be against the law. Dinner party rules will now apply: You want to visit—you have to bring. A box of cookies tied with string, a pup tent, a bag of rice, a cheesecake – something. If all you’ve got is a horde of photographers and a pouty “I care so deeply about your plight” expression, you will not be granted a visa. Additionally, all visits will be for a minimum of 3 months.

THE JOLIE PROHIBITION American actors will be legally banned from playing foreigners in movies, having been decreed to be linguistically retarded with no ear for foreign dialects. Also forbidden will be the use of pasty English makeup or third world bronzer. Thus, Angelina Jolie will be not be allowed to play Benazir Bhutto in the biopic and the role must be given to one of those emaciated British chicks.

THE TRANSFER OF POWERS ACT A political sidebar. Given the heinous human rights violations of the past 7 years, a new tradition will be started in 2009. Instead of taking the oath of office, the ceremony for transferring power will begin with the new democratically elected president kicking the previous office holder in the nuts, followed by a titty twister and head butt, then grabbing the former leader by the scruff of the neck and waistband and tossing him out of the oval office, followed by the ceremonial miming of the washing of the hands, the exhortation “and stay out!” and door slam. Once returned to life as an ordinary citizen, other ordinary citizens will have to legal right to perform that same ritual on the former president at will in what will be referred to as the law’s “Deserved Asskicking” rider.