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Tuesday, August 30, 2011

100 Songs I Hate: 12-13

12. "You Are My Sunshine"

What kind of sicko sings "You Are My Sunshine" to somebody? You've got to be one depraved pervert to think this little ditty is anything but a sick, sad slog through severe manic depression. "You are my sunshine, my ONLY sunshine?" That's a lot to put on somebody. "You are the one thing in all of existence that makes me think that suicide, maybe, isn't the answer," the singer is saying. Who wants to be some depressive freak's "only sunshine?" Not me, sister! And how about this line: "You'll never know, dear, how much I love you." How come he/she is never going to know? Why don't you simply explain it to him/her that he/she is very special to you and you love him/her very much? Is it so hard to open up to an individual you claimed only seconds earlier was the only thing that could possibly "make [you] happy when skies are gray?" And the songs final plea of "please, don't take my sunshine away" is the co-dependent cherry on top of the crazynut sundae. "You Are My Sunshine" is all kinds of sick and twisted, man.

A note on this particular version: Took you long enough to settle on a tune, Miss Shelby. Sheesh! Did you practice at all before turning the camera on? Shoddy work, Miss Shelby. Shoddy work indeed.

On second thought: Listen, this song undeniably sucks, but this kid rocked it pretty hard:

Suck it, Miss Shelby!

13. "Underpuppy" (Eden Wood)

I know, I know, I know. She's a defenseless toddler. What could possibly provoke a 32-year-old man with a daughter of his own to attack poor, widdle Eden Wood?

Listen, jerks, I didn't attack Rebecca Black when "Friday" became inescapable and I have no intention of smearing Eden Wood's good name? I may have said something shitty about Black's parents, so if I may: Eden Wood's mom is gross. All pageant parents are at least 75% gross. It comes with gluing fake lashes to your baby's eyelids and training them like a seal to blow kisses and shake their diaper-clad butts at a panel of mentally-damaged judges. The whole kiddy pageant thing is gross and weird and wrong. So, yes, I don't like Eden Wood's mom.

And why does every reality "star" feel the need to parlay whatever minor amount of notoriety they've accidentally achieved into endorsement deals and badly recorded pop singles? Eden Wood needs a singing career now? Why can't she just run around a playground, eat a plate of tator tots, and zone out in front of Nick Jr. for eight hours like every other 5-year-old kid in America? Is Eden too good for that?

And who is this song for exactly? It's one-minute and twenty-six seconds of Eden Wood calling out her haters. A toddler has haters? There is a shadowy conspiracy trying to keep Eden Wood down? And how exactly is Wood the "underpuppy?" I've seen her multiple times on TLC's Toddlers & Tiaras and she sweeps the competition every time for some reason. She's the last little girl who should ever be considered an underdog.

On second thought: "Underpuppy" is pretty bad, but this live, slowed-down version of Eden's "hit" "song" "Cutie Patootie" is pure comedy gold:

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Monday, August 29, 2011

Movie Penguin Monday: #12. Dead and Buried (1981)

[We've locked up the Movie Penguin Vault (for now), so it's time for some BRAND NEW REVIEWS! How excited are you? Wait, don't tell me. Let me guess. Um. Super excited? No, no, no, wait. Super duper excited? That's probably it. Anyway, here's an ALL-NEW MOVIE PENGUIN MONDAY REVIEW! Enjoy it, weirdo.]

I'm pretty sick of vampires. There. I said it. Sure, I still watch True Blood, but that's because I'm loyal to a fault. And this season's been pretty good. But still. For awhile there you couldn't swing a dead cat--or any other dead pet for that matter...why does it always have to be dead cats people want to swing around?--without smacking some vampire property in it's pasty, sparkled face. Twilight. Vampire Diaries. The aforementioned True Blood. That thing on ABC about vampires living in a cul-de-sac or something. I may have dreamed that one. That webseries I had a hand in for a short time. And all the vampire books. And Hot Topic. And that vampire who ran for governor of Minnesota. And those vampires that moved in across the street last week (That's a story for another day, my friends. Sheesh! The noises coming out of that place at 3 AM. It's enough to wake the dead.). So, anyway, vampires.

America needed something new, another supernatural creature to fall in love with. Mtv went "werewolf," after "awkward teenager with a big dick" didn't work. Everyone else went zombie. People love zombies. They shuffle around. They moan. The eat the flesh of the living. So, yeah, suddenly zombies were everywhere. And almost as suddenly, I stopped caring.

Question: Is there a young adult novel series about a hateful adolescent girl who falls in love with a dreamy zombie--a dreamy zombie who has turned his back on eating brains--and plays baseball with his zombie family somewhere in the Pacific Northwest? I want to read it if there is.
The zombie genre, while much beloved by nerd and non-nerd alike, is generally pretty static. Sure, you can make your zombies run fast or vary the way they transport the zombie disease to their victims, but what else can you do? They're still shuffling--or brisk jogging--corpses with a veracious appetite and very little to say. You can tell people your zombie story is metaphor for the sorry state of the government or the war in Afghanistan or a reflection on racism, but what isn't? Zombies, like vampires, are in need of an overhaul. Or maybe I just need a break. I could tell myself this is the last year I watch True Blood, but think of all the shots of Anna Paquin's nipples I'll miss. Seriously. Think about Paquin's nipples for a second. Take a few seconds.

[SPOILERS AHEAD for those of you who care about that stuff.]

Gary Sherman's Dead and Buried is ultimately a zombie story, but here's the kicker: they don't know they're zombies and neither do we until deep into the film. This makes the film both novel and utterly nonsensical. It's best not to reflect on Dead and Buried too much after the credits roll. Doing so will do nothing but lower your already kinda low opinion of this little known fright film that is actually full of potential.

The film is set in idyllic Potter's Bluff, a small New England town home to all sorts of good old boys, eccentric oldsters, and buxom ladies. In fact, George "Freddie" LaMoyne, a visiting photographer, meets one of these buxom ladies on the beach one afternoon while snapping pics of various beachy falderal. They engage in some playful banter, and before you know it, the sexy blond has her blouse off and the moment has become a Penthouse letter. George, anxious to close the deal and get down with a little afternoon delight, moves in for a snog and is instantly surrounded by camera and shovel-wielding maniacs, who tie him to a post, cover him liberally in gasoline and set him ablaze. "Welcome to Potter's Bluff," the women who sets George alight sneers. This is our first clue that things are a little off in good old Potter's Bluff.
It's up to Sheriff Dan Gillis to find those responsible for this horrible murder attempt--oh yeah, George survives for a little while longer--though we already know who they are: Dan's fellow Potter's Bluffians. Creepy! The woman who set George on fire is the woman who serves Dan his coffee at the Potter's Bluff cafe! His deputy, played by a young Robert Englund, is one of the camera-wielding psychopaths that documented George's assault! Dan is surrounded by murderers and they are nowhere near the end of their killing spree.

Shortly after George is dispatched by a needle in the brain--administered by the sexy beach blonde now dressed as a nurse--a drunken vagrant is viciously beaten to death. When a lost family on vacation asks for directions at the Potter's Bluff Cafe, they are pursued and drowned in their station wagon. An unfortunate teenage hitchhiker has her skull caved in with a large rock. The bodies are piling up and Dan doesn't know what to do.
Dead and Buried successfully builds tension for most of it's running time. The mystery of why this is happening and who is behind it is intriguing. Unfortunately, when the answers are revealed, they're a little dumb.

We get our first clue when Dan discovers a book on witchcraft in his wife's panty drawer. "What's this?" he asks, having earlier in the film suspecting his wife of having an affair with George, the burned up photographer. "Oh, I'm teaching my class about witchcraft and voodoo," she says matter-of-factly. Makes sense. Later, Dan spies on Janet while she gives her lesson on voodoo. As intelligent movie watchers, we now understand what is going on in Potter's Bluff. Someone is reanimating corpses and controlling them. "The way to control them, "Janet tells her class, "is to hide their hearts from them." Really? By the way, she says this to the little boy who was drowned with his mother and father a few scenes earlier. Oh, yeah, and George/Freddie now works at the gas station. And the drunk? Well, he's still a drunk, but now he drives a truck.

But who is playing Dr. Frankenstein with any and everyone who has the misfortune of crossing over into Potter's Bluff city limits? Well, it's none other than Potter's Bluff's own mortician/coroner, William Dobbs, a mad scientist of sorts who was chased out of Rhode Island for taking liberties with dead bodies earlier in his career. Dan approaches him about his former and latest crimes, asking how he does it, reanimates the dead. Dobbs, because of lazy writing, I suspect, answers, "I'm not going to get into that right now." What? Why not? Isn't that what we've been waiting for? While Dobbs doesn't reveal how he does it, he does explain why. Simply put: he loves to gussy up dead people. He explains that every few week days or so he has to fix up his rotting friends and neighbors. He fancies himself an artist and considers his greatest work of art Janet, Dan's wife. Yes, Janet is a zombie. And just to prove it to the audience, the director has Dan unload his gun into her.

There is a twist ending too, but if you can't figure that one out yourself, well, how do you get dressed in the morning? Brush your own teeth? Wipe yourself? Just think about it for a minute! It'll come to you.

Dead and Buried is a different kind of zombie story, but with that originality comes evidence as to why zombie stories maybe shouldn't be tweaked too much. Maybe zombie stories work better when the zombies are just shuffling and moaning and eating. Adding more layers and turning your zombie tale into a mystery is neat, but it also creates canyon-sized plot holes that are hard to ignore.

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Sunday, August 28, 2011

Suck It, Irene!

We survived Hurricane Irene! In fact, seems all you needed to survive her, in Raleigh, the headquarters of Giant Electric Penguin Industries, was an umbrella and a basic understanding of the concept of "staying inside." The worst hurricane damage we experienced was a few downed branches. And there are leaves strewn all over my kitchen. I'm gonna have to bend over to pick those up, people, and that is annoying. I guess there are people throughout the state dealing with power outages and flooding, so maybe picking leaves off of the linoleum doesn't seem so bad. I don't know. Still sucks to me.

Anyway, Irene did what hurricanes do and, per usual, local and cable news lost its collective mind. I spent most of yesterday flipping from CNN to Fox News to MSNBC to my local ABC affliate, attempting to soak in as much hurricane coverage as humanly possible. I wanted to know what to expect when Irene came knocking at my door. I wanted an update on the situation in the Outer Banks. What was Baltimore in for? Could this really be the storm to end all storms? Was God unleashing his wrath upon New York City because gay dudes can legally get married there now? This was the information I craved. Sadly, what I got, was a lot of miserable reporters in yellow rain slickers standing near piers and pointing at waves.

Eventually I grabbed a notebook and started jotting down the different captions or headlines or whatever you call them that various stations used to "set the mood" if you will, and I thought I'd share a few of my favorites right here. Needless to say, I think they went a little overboard.


Take care of yourselves, New York City. Stay dry and not dead. You guys'll be all right. C'mon! You're New Yorkers!

Stay tuned to GEP for the latest weather updates.*

*There will be no further weather updates.

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Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Giving (Me A Boner) Tree

A 13th-century fresco of a tree discovered in the city of Massa Marittima in 2000 was defaced this month, when twenty-five penises and ball-bags were cruelly and thoughtlessly painted over. The fresco, known as The Tree of Fertility (or Tree of Dicks), was undergoing a much needed restoration, but when townspeople got a glimpse of the finished product, they were less than excited. You could say that the restoration efforts left them flaccid.

"What happened to all the cocks?" remarked Gabriele Galeotti, a town official, upon seeing the finished product. "It's just a tree without the cocks on it now. And the balls. Oh, God, they painted over the balls too? This sucks."

He didn't actually say any of that, but he implied as much:

"Many parts of the work seem to have been arbitrarily repainted," said Gabriele Galeotti, a town councillor who has called for an investigation after seeing the finished work.

"The authenticity of the fresco seems to have been compromised by a restoration effort that did not respect the original character of the work."

You better believe it's been compromised! What interest would a bunch of ladies have in a boring old tree without dicks on it? If I know one thing it's women, and women want trees covered in huge, veiny dongs!

The penis-hating members of the restoration committee see things differently:

"The restoration in no way radically modified the original features," said Mario Scalini, the head of heritage and arts for the local province of Siena and Grosseto. "The operation was carried out with the greatest of care."

Giuseppe Gavazzi, one of the restorers, said the mural was already badly damaged when restoration work began and that there had been no intention to remove or cover up any of the private parts.

What a couple of dicks.

Anway, with the
Tree of Fertility fresco ruined for all of eternity--seriously, you guys, the dicks really made it special--the Western world must do all it can to protect its remaining ancient, privates-based frescoes, works like Vagina Beanstalk in Angouleme, the Grapevine of Buttholes in Napoli; and Midnight In The Garden of Taints in Hoboken, NJ. We can't let art restorers promote their anti-genital agenda all over the place. Come on, art lovers! Let us never let what happened to the Tree of Dick and Balls ever occur again! Who's with me?!?

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Friday, August 26, 2011

Food Porn Friday: Meatloaf

Food porn doesn't always have to be corndog pizzas and giant ice cream sandwiches. Sometimes it can be a good ol' meatloaf. Like Mom used to make. Or purchase from Boston Market. Don't forget the cornbread muffins like last time, Ma. Geez!

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Thursday, August 25, 2011

Summer Jam...Or Is It???

15. "California Girls" (David Lee Roth)

David Lee Roth loves women no matter where they're from, however, he wishes they all could reside in California, as it would make them easier to snort drugs off of and listlessly hump.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: the video is crammed full of bikini-clad hotties; Diamond Dave's shredded jeans (from 0:41-0:47) are the perfect pants for those balmy summer nights on the beach.

Summer Jam?: Begrudgingly, I must say yes. Dammit.

16. "Hot in Herre" (Nelly)

It's getting a little too hot for Nelly and his friends, so they're just gonna pop their shirts off. Is that all right? You're not gonna be all uptight about it, are you? I hope not, because they're probably gonna be removing their...oops, there go the pants.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: it's hot; people are wearing very little clothing.

Summer Jam?: "Hot in Herre" seems like a summer party must. I'm-a say yeah.

17. "Holiday" (Weezer)

Another classic Weezer joint from the Blue Album. This time Rivers and Co. are going on vacation.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: people often go on elaborate vacations during the summer months--they pack bags, visit "strange and distant" lands, send postcards...everything Rivers sings about; Jack Kerouac's On The Road, a book I read one summer during high school, is referenced.

Summer Jam?: Yes.

18. "Summer Nights" (from Grease)

Sandy and Danny sing/tell their goofy friends about the summer romance they shared. Their takes are decidedly different.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: the word "summer" in the title; the description of a seaside romance; at one point, Danny and Sandy were both swimming, a popular summertime activity.

Summer Jam?: I don't know if "jam" is the right word. It is definitely a summer "song," but not a summer "jam." So, no. "Summer Nights" is not a summer jam.

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Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Bird is Decidedly Not the Word

On Sunday, I published the third installment of GEP's special summer feature Summer Jam...Or Is It?, in which we present three or four songs and decide based on subject matter and, often, location of music video shoot, whether or not said song is appropriate for summer time listening. The songs deemed worthy of the coveted "Summer Jam" status have been approved by our crack squad of musicologists (or probably just me, Matt) to be played at maximum volume at beach parties, backyard barbecues, and on road trips all summer long. It is understood that at the conclusion of Summer, these songs are to be packed away and forgotten about for the next eight months until summer rears it's sweaty, sunscreen-coated head again next year. That is understood, right?

Sunday's installment feature a collection of surfing-themed songs. The decision to make The Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA" a GEP-approved summer jam was a no brainer, as were our decisions to induct both Weezer and The Drums into our growing summer canon. The final song on our list however, The Trashmen's stunningly inept, mind-numbingly insipid Rivingtons'
mash-up "Surfin' Bird" was not granted summer jam status, in fact, I came down on it pretty hard, going as far to question whether or not it actually counted as music at all.

I wasn't content to merely air my disgust on this blog. I took my hatred of "Surfin' Bird" to my personal Facebook page. Friends, family, people I've met exactly once, people I haven't seen in years and don't care to see ever again, people I don't particularly like, etc. needed to know how I felt about the song. And so I made this simple missive my status update: "'Surfin' Bird' by the Trashmen is probably the worst song ever written, provided it was actually written down at all." "Take that, you dumb surfing bird," I thought.

It did not take long for my peers to respond. "I am now going to de-friend you. BLASPHEMY!" wrote one young man. "Dislike!" another wayward soul commented. Surprised, I posted a follow-up question: "Honest question: Who is this song for? My assumption is people who hate music. I'm thinking though, based on your reaction, that you both like music and enjoy this particularly song. So, please, tell me why."

Rather than a straightforward answer, I received this:

I can only assume that this means that certain people enjoy "Surfin' Bird" because it was prominently featured in a Family Guy bit. But is it "Surfin' Bird" they enjoy or is it Family Guy? And look at the clip again, I mean, if you really need to, it is painfully unfunny. Family Guy isn't celebrating The Trashmen's one and only hit, but rather pointing out how incessantly irritating it is. Stewie doesn't throw up his hands and sing along. He shoves a fucking revolver in his mouth. So not even your friends over at Family Guy Inc. like "Surfin' Bird." They just thought it would be funny to make Peter Griffin sing it. It isn't, but there you go.

Then again, I'm not sure this is the real reason people like "Surfin' Bird." That would be illogical. Why would you like something just because something else you like referenced it? If you like something, it would stand to reason that there is something likable about said something. As far as I can tell there isn't one likable thing about "Surfin' Bird." Here's the song if you haven't yet experienced it:

I ask again, what is good about this? The vocals? The lyrics? It sounds like a mental patient smoked a carton of cigarettes, skipped his night time meds, and recorded himself screaming about birds while a shitty garage surf band played along. It's catchy, sure, but it's catchy like AIDS is catchy.

Perhaps it is a nostalgia thing. I remember very clearly my dad playing this song for me on his old record player when I was a little kid. It was the weirdest thing I'd ever heard. I couldn't believe songs like it actually existed. It was strange and funny, and I thought it was great. Then he played "Stairway to Heaven" for me. Then he introduced me to The Beatles, The Mamas and The Papas, and Chet Atkins. After that, how could I ever take "Surfin' Bird" seriously again? These guys were making real, honest-to-goodness music. The Trashmen were blabbering nonsense words.

Another FB friend attempted to change my mind on "Surfin' Bird" by provided a link to Pee Wee Herman performing the song in some movie, and while it did make me giggle, it didn't change the fact that the song "Surfin' Bird" is utter crap.

Can any of you so-called "Surfin' Bird" fans explain to me why I'm wrong? Honestly, no one has answered my initial question. And the answer, "It's fun," doesn't count, because "Surfin' Bird" isn't fun. It's grating and it's awful.

But, hey, what do I know? I like this "song."

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Perving Out: Something for the Ladies Edition

I feel like our Perving Out feature has been a little sexist in the past. I'm always posting pictures of pretty ladies in various states of undress and cyber-slobbering over them like a sex-deprived goon. Not this week! No, this week Perving Out is giving the ladies out there a little beefcake to sink their collective teeth into. Feast your perverted eyes on True Blood's sexist undead bloodsucker, Alexander SkarsgÄrd. Hey, look, he's shirtless and in bed in that last one. You're welcome, ladies.

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Monday, August 22, 2011

Movie Penguin Monday: #11. Q: The Winged Serpent (1982)

I was a mere lad the first time I visited New York City. My family was spending the Easter holiday with friends who lived on Long Island and we took a day trip into the city. A few things stand out in my mind from that visit: giant Easter eggs, the view from the top of the Empire State Building, a mohawked street punk jumping a subway turnstile, and hordes upon hordes of homeless people. I was scared shitless the entire day. I think I was aware that there were people in this country who lived on the streets, homeless, dirty, and dressed in rags, but I had never seen such a heavy concentration of them in one place. I remember the train station floor literally covered by the bodies of sleeping homeless people. It was scary and weird and depressing.

My next visit to the city was quite different. I was visiting my future in-laws in New Jersey for the first time and me and my wife took a train into New York to have lunch with a friend and see an Avenue Q matinee. I still carried with me the haunting images from my youth of streets littered with the homeless shuffling down the sidewalk in tattered shoes begging for money and screaming obscenities.

I, of course, hadn't been to New York City since its Disney-fication. Now instead of being scared of the homeless masses, I was annoyed by the non-homeless masses clogging Times Square, which has got to be one of the most annoying areas in the entire Western world (though, I do suggest walking around it on Christmas morning--it's peaceful, almost completely devoid of people). But it wasn't just Times Square--everything seemed different, in fact, I don't remember seeing more than 3 or 4 homeless people during my entire visit. There was a crazy guy in Washington Square Park who stopped by the play area for small dogs to shout about how much he "hated bitches." This new and improved, minty fresh New York City was a joy to behold, though I couldn't help but wonder what happened to all those homeless people. I like to believe that they all got jobs with the city, repairing roads and screen-printing tacky I Heart New York t-shirts. Certainly they weren't loaded onto trains and removed from the city by force...were they? I'm just asking. I haven't heard anything.

If I thought New York City was a fright fest when I visited as a boy, I would've hated to visit in 1982. Not only did you have a weird feather-haired kid walking around with a large wicker basket under his arm stalking and murdering doctors with the help of his horribly deformed brother, Manhattan was also plagued by a blood-thirsty winged serpent that may have been the second coming of the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl. Larry Cohen tells this horrifying tale in Q: The Winged Serpent, a B-grade creature feature packed full of cheesy special effects and goopy stage blood.

Shepard and Powell, of the New York City Police Department, are investigating two separate crimes: the decapitation of a randy window washer and the flaying of an unidentified man in his hotel room. The detectives have no leads (a frustrated Shepard at one point suggests that the window washer's head may have just accidentally "got loose and fell off"), but there has been talk on the streets of a giant bird snatching people off the roofs of buildings all over the city. Shepard begins some extensive research and eventually decides that both incidents are related. Meanwhile, another body shows up in the river, this one missing its heart. While this is going on, professional loser and recent parolee, Jimmy Quinn, hooks up with some diamond thieves, agreeing to be their wheel man and nothing more. At the scene of the crime though, he is handed a gun and forced inside with everyone else. Some shots are fired and only Jimmy gets away, a briefcase full of diamonds in his hands. Unfortunately, as I may have already mentioned, Jimmy is kind of a screw up, and he is hit by a cab as he makes his escape. The briefcase is knocked out of his hands and, I guess, someone takes off with it. Jimmy, bruised and scared, takes refuge at the top of the Chrysler Building. It is here that Jimmy makes the discovery he feels could finally turn his life around: a giant egg in a giant nest.

Quinn uses this information, first, to get the diamond thieves who were not caught by the police off his case (he tells them that he has hidden the diamonds in the Chrysler Building and leads them to their horrific deaths) and, second, to bilk the city for 1 million dollars, immunity from any crimes he may commit in the future, and exclusive rights to the winged serpent's story. The paperwork is drawn up and Quinn leads the police to Q's nest. Before he heads out to pump Quetzalcoatl full of lead, Shepard is ordered by Police Commissioner McConnell to drop the whole connection between the winged serpent and the human sacrafices. McConnell feels more comfortable sending his police force to kill a monster than a god. The police light Q up King Kong-style in a spectacular (and hilariously cheesy) finale. The Aztec priest running around New York sacraficing folks to keep Q happy is dealt with in much the same way as the flying lizard-bird herself (I say 'herself' because Q has laid eggs all around New York--oops, spoiler alert!). Shepard busts in on the cult leader as he is about to slice open Quinn's throat and empties his gun into the guy.

I just realized that this is the second Larry Cohen movie I've reviewed for Movie Penguin. There must be something about the guy that appeals to me. Q is a much better film than The Stuff, mostly because it doesn't try to be something more than an old-fashioned monster movie. Q is funny, bloody, and extremely well acted. David Carradine is excellent as Detective Shepard and Michael Moriarty gives a hell of a performance in a movie that probably doesn't deserve it. These naturalistic performances are what elevates Q to something more than simple schlock. Don't get me wrong, it's schlock, but schlock crafted by people who care.

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Sunday, August 21, 2011

Summer Jam...Or Is It???

11. "Surf Wax America" (Weezer)

Rivers Cuomo wants to spend his life surfing because he hates the every day grind of the rat race. Luckily, he can do so, being a mega-rich rock star and all. The rest of us plebs gotta get real jobs. Whatta jerk!

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: describes the summertime activity of surfing.

Summer jam?: Totally. This is a classic song from a classic album by a band I no longer care about.

12. "Surfin' USA" (The Beach Boys)

The Beach Boys desire to see the United States under tyrannical surfer control. Everyone will be required to sport "bushy, bushy blond hairdos" and wear their "baggies" wherever they go. Remember, surfing overlords, absolute power corrupts absolutely. That being said, I'd like to see a delegation of surfers take on the debt crisis.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: it's about surfing; I don't know, THE BEACH BOYS ARE SINGING IT! THE BEACH BOYS!

Summer Jam?: The Beach Boys invented Summer (see Wikipedia). Of course this is a summer jam.

13. "Let's Go Surfing" (The Drums)

The boys from The Drums want to go surfing. Possibly with President Obama.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: the video features band members running, stretching, and doing push-ups on the beach; the whole "I wanna go surfing" thing.

Summer Jam?: Yes. I love this song. I love this album.

14. "Surfin' Bird" (The Trashmen)

In 1963, surf rock goofballs The Trashmen, combined two songs by The Rivingtons--"Bird's The Word" and "Papa Oom Mow Mow"--creating "Surfin' Bird," the worst song about surfing birds or anything else ever recorded. If you don't agree with me, answer this question: Who the hell is this song for?

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: it might be about surfing.

Summer Jam?: No. I'm not even sure "Surfin' Bird" counts as music.

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What the WTF?!?: Sunday Bloody Sunday Edition: SUV::

So, this was in PARADE Magazine's popular Walter Scott's Personality Parade section today:

Q: Steven Tyler wears a necklace with four teeth. What is its significance? -Lisa Joyce, Bassett, Va.

A: "I wear it for good luck," the Aerosmith singer and American Idol judge, 63, has said of the piece, which displays the front chompers of a raccoon he caught as a boy. Though Tyler kept one of the critters as a pet, "I also used to trap [them]," he said.

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Saturday, August 20, 2011

What the WTF?!?: The One That Exploded My Brain

What does this headline even mean: District judge cited for passing out acorns stuffed with condoms

Condoms don't grow naturally inside of acorns as far as I know. Can you imagine being a squirrel if they did? Ick. I don't think I'd want to be a squirrel. I've never actually wanted to be a squirrel anyway. They seem so manic. They're always running around frantically, but going nowhere. And doing nothing. I mean, I'm sure squirrels are doing something, I just don't know what it is. I know they forage for acorns though. So, you know, if acorns had condoms inside of them, I can't imagine wanting to eat one. Have you ever chewed on a condom? You have? Sick!

So, a district court judge from Intercourse, PA (don't laugh at that--it's merely a fact of the story) was caught
walking around state capital, handing out condom-crammed acorns to various ladies. The judge, Isaac H. Stoltzfus (feel free to laugh--that name is ridiculous!), claims he was passing out prophylactic-stuffed acorns as a prank. I thought pranks were supposed to be funny. My bad. Maybe it was a metaphor for something else. Any ideas? Let me know in the comments.

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What the WTF?!?: Gimmee My Monkey Back!

As a father, I'd like to believe that if my daughter ever lost a beloved plaything, I would do virtually anything to find/retrieve it for her. In the deepest, rosiest depths of my heart, I would scour the world for the fuzzy object or shiny bauble that, before it was misplaced, brought endless joy and comfort to my child. In reality, however, I'm pretty sure I'd just look at her, shrug, and say, "You should probably keep track of your stuff, especially if you like that stuff a whole lot." She'd cry, I'd give her a larger, more comical shrug, and shove another stuffed animal in her face. That's life unfortunately. You find something you love--a stuffed animal, a job, a companion--you lose it, you cry, and you find something else to occupy your time. Like a dog. Or booze.

Luckily, my daughter's only "toy" right now is this weird frog ghost thing. It's, like, a frog head sewn to a wash cloth. And it's wearing a rainbow-colored scarf and armbands for some reason. I enjoy making it talk to Quinn in a goofy voice. I have it describe how it lost all of its limbs and how it was forced to live without a working mouth or a digestive tract. It is as horrifying as it sounds. I can't imagine Quinn even noticing if frog ghost washcloth went missing. I'm fairly certain she wouldn't care. I know that one day, however, she will find something and grow quite attached to it, and that's fine. I had a stuffed seal I was pretty fond of. I also took great comfort from my thumb, particularly when it was stuffed into my mouth. So, I get it. It is a part of life and it can be quite cute, you know, until the kid has us throwing birthday parties for her teddy bear or buying housewarming gifts for Barbie and Ken.

Kids fall in love with toys all the time. Adults do to, only our toys are sooooo much better. I am currently involved in a love triangle with my 50" flat screen television and my iPod. It gets tense sometimes, but we make it work. I think it's safe to say that my TV makes Quinn's ghost frog look like a pile of garbage. But we both have our things and we're both quite happy.

There are some adults, however, who have never moved beyond childish things. Remember that stuffed seal I mentioned earlier? Well, I still have him. And, yes, I still love him very much. But I've passed him along to my daughter to do with him what she will when she gets older. I don't care what she does. She can wake me up in the middle of the night, bite his head off in front of me, and laugh maniacally if she wants to. It's a stuffed animal! Earlier this month, a couple (of psychopaths) in New York City found that they had misplaced a beloved stuffed toy and reacted with something quite the opposite of complete indifference:

An Upper East Side couple grieving over the loss of a stuffed toy monkey they’ve raised like a son the past decade went bananas with joy Saturday night after being reunited with their beloved Beanie Baby.

"I never gave up hope — I prayed, mediated, and now he’s with us again," said Bonni Marcus, 47, who along with boyfriend Jack Zinzi, 58, were devastated after losing Bongo on their way to a restaurant in Park Slope, Brooklyn, on August 1.

That's right: Bonni Marcus and Jack Zinzi raised a Beanie Baby monkey named Bongo like a son. How do you raise a Beanie Baby exactly? Ugh. Anyway, these dimwits lost their fake son and freaked out, offering a $500 reward for the safe return of their sweet, sweet Bongo. But where was Bongo? Floating lonely and muck covered in an Upper East Side gutter? Lying listless in a trash-strewn alley being humped by horny sewer rats? No. Bongo was safe and sound. With this weirdo:

The 8-inch-tall doll was found Tuesday by Luis Barreto, 61, an unemployed Park Slope man, who discovered it atop a parking meter.

But unaware that it belonged to the couple and had gone missing — and finding it irresistibly cute — Barreto brought it back to his Sterling Place home, where he displayed it on a stereo speaker.

OK. Maybe I was too hard on everyone involved in this story. Sure Marcus and Zinzi are sad and weird, but, hey, in this world, with all the shit swirling around us constantly, who can fault two people for finding something they love and devoting themselves to it. And look, an unemployed man found Bongo and is gonna get $500 bucks for him. What's not to love about this story? Oh yeah, all the freaky creeps. So, the couple head over to Barreto's place, Marcus can feel "Bongo’s presence," and then this happens:

The couple then presented a cash-strapped Barreto the $500 reward they publicly promised for whoever found Bongo — but only after having to beg him to turn the doll over.

"I fell in love with Bongo and wanted to keep him," Barreto said. "He looked real to me and is cute."

I think this monkey might be coated in LSD. Or possessed by the devil. It's got genuine power over these people. WTF?! Anyway, there's a happy ending:

...the couple and toy monkey headed back to Manhattan to bar hop before returning home so Bongo could again sleep in the bed it shares with them.

Bongo will also be reunited with his identical Beanie Baby brothers -- named Doe, Ray and Me -- who Marcus said, “were also suffering.”


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Thursday, August 18, 2011

Summer Jam...Or Is It???

8. "Cheeseburger in Paradise" (Jimmy Buffett)

A former health nut is plagued by visions of the world's most perfect food: the American cheeseburger. He abandons his diet of sunflower seeds, carrot juice, and Bulgar wheat, returning to the life of a cheerful, beer-gutted carnivore. Sailors are casually insulted as well.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: the cheeseburger is a staple of any summer cook-out; Jimmy Buffett is known for singing about all manner of summery shit.

Summer Jam?: If you are drunk, high or in a cheeseburger-coma, yes. Sober, jonesin' or hungry: no.

9. "Fantastic Voyage" (Coolio)

Coolio raps about his desire to live in a neighborhood where his kids aren't always getting shot at by gang members. He also does not care for snitches.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: the video contains all sorts of summer imagery: porch sitting, convertible cars, ample-buttocks-sporting young ladies in revealing swimsuits, beach balls, and a magical pimp.

Summer Jam: It certainly is funky enough, but the lyrics don't create much of a summer mood. I'm gonna say no.

10. "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" (Alan Jackson & Jimmy Buffett)

When he's not recording albums and touring the country, Alan Jackson apparently works a soul-crushing desk job in a dreary office. He decides to duck out early one day, explaining that it must be 5:00 PM--the traditional conclusion of the American work day--somewhere.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: events in the song take place in the month of July; multiple
hurricane cocktails are requested; Jimmy Buffett is involved.

Summer Jam?: Yes. I want to hang out at the seaside bar featured in this video so bad, you know, unless it's a set.

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Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Brand New (Fat and) Stupid: Coming Soon

Set your DVRs, America!

How many episodes in before the old man suffers a fatal heart attack? Hell, before any of them do. I feel like that's what Tru TV is going for, don't you? "Watch these fat lumps eat, sweat, and wheeze! It's entertainment! Promise!" You know one of these heavy hitters is gonna complain about chest pains or a tingling feeling in his left arm at least once an episode. I mean, filming re-enactments of wacky repo situations that probably never happened can be taxing work. Ugh.

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Monday, August 15, 2011

Movie Penguin Monday: #10. Night of the Demons (1987)

[Here it is: the very first Movie Penguin review ever! Enjoy! All new reviews are coming soon! Exciting, right?]
They don't make horror movies like Night of the Demons anymore. I'll let you decide if that is a good or bad thing. Much of today's horror output is nothing but humorless gore, blood-gushing torture perpetrated upon attractive television actors, and derivative plot lines based on superior product from the 70's and 80's. Either that or J-Horror remakes and convoluted French gornography. Night of the Demons is the kind of horror movie you watched when you slept over at your friend's house in middle school. You know the friend--the one whose parents drank beer and didn't attend church regularly. You were always kind of nervous and excited when you spent the night there because your friend had HBO and there was no telling what you were going to see that night. Could be a gory teenage slaughter-fest, could be boobs. In the case of Night of the Demons you get both.

Now maybe you are the type of person who doesn't enjoy the occasional horror film. I must admit, I do not understand your kind, but I ask you: could a movie with this opening credit sequence be all bad?

You are not dreaming. You did just witness the most jaw-droppingly awesome opening credit sequence in movie history. If there is anyone reading this that can tell me where I can find a downloadable copy of this theme song, I would be eternally grateful. I haven't spoken with the wife about it, but I would be willing to name my first child after you. [Editors note: This is no longer a possibility. We have named our first born and we're sticking with that name for now. Perhaps we can make a different deal]

It'd be hard for any movie to match the sheer brilliance of these opening credits, and sadly Night of the Demons doesn't come close, but nobody watches Night of the Demons for it's brilliant screenplay or it's engaging performances. No, you're watching Night of the Demons for this:
And this:
Our story takes place on Halloween night in the suburbs of Anytown, USA. Judy Cassidy is supposed to attend the Halloween Dance at school with local stud, Jay Jansen. After politely refusing a batch of Mrs. Cassidy's homemade fudge logs (which Judy's bratastic brother accurately describes as looking like "sun-dried poodle turds"), Jay informs Judy that there has been a change of plans. Instead of dancing the night away to Flock of Seagulls and Boy George in a stuffy school gymnasium drinking flat, fruit-tinged punch and eating Halloween-themed cupcakes, they will be attending a private party organized by goth misfit, Angela, and her slutty friend, Suzanne, at an abandoned funeral home called Hull House. Judy is understandably crushed--this was to be her and Jay's first big outing as a couple--but swiftly ignored, because in Night of the Demons women are to be groped and leered at, nothing more.

The remainder of the party guests include: Stooge, a deplorable human being who in reality no one could possible enjoy spending even the smallest increment of time around; Max and Frannie, who will be screwing in a coffin before the night is over; Rodger, the skittish preacher's kid; Helen, who has the distinction of being the first to meet her demise once the demons show up; and Sal, an Italian-American stereotype and Judy's ex-boyfriend.

Everyone reaches Hull House, trades various insults (I'm not sure any of the characters are actually friends, which makes their decision to spend Halloween together all the more strange), and dances to Bahaus. Someone suggests holding a seance. The gang finds a creepy mirror in a dark room and Angela tells them all to sit in front of it and concentrate. She postulates that if they all stare at themselves in the mirror and concentrate for long enough, the mirror will go dark and reveal her future to the group. Wait a minute! That's kind of selfish. Why the hell would anyone else care about Angela's future? And how the hell is that a seance exactly?

Doesn't matter. As soon as the mirror goes dark, somebody makes a farting noise (Stooge, probably) and the spell is ruined. Everyone starts arguing, missing the giant demonic head that appears in the mirror. Everyone, that is, but Helen, who along with Rodger, decides she's had enough and leaves. The remaining guests decide to split up, I assume because that will make them easier for the forthcoming demons to murder. Say what you will about these kids--they sure know how to accommodate bloodthirsty killers from the pits of Hell.

Angela inhales some demon dust and becomes the first party guest to become possessed. And how does she display her new demonic powers? She dances of course.

Meanwhile, Jay attempts to sleep with Judy in the kitchen, Max and Frannie discover the joys of coffin fucking, and Rodger watches Helen splatter on the windshield of Stooge's car.

Suzanne becomes a demon possessed loon after French kissing Angela, much to the delight of Stooge who, in turn, becomes demon possessed when he follows Suzanne into the dark. Later, Jay has his eyes popped like grapes while having sex with Demon Suzanne on a dirty bathroom floor, Sal gets impaled on a wooden stake, Frannie has her neck broken in mid-hump, and Max has a coffin lid slammed on his arm so hard it falls off and later attacks Judy who remains non-demon possessed along with Rodger.

Rodger's survival is proof of how ahead of its time Night of the Demons truly is. Rodger is the only African-American character in the film and as such I expected him to be the very first victim. I am not a racist, but that just seems to be the way things go in Hollywood films, especially movies of the sci-fi and horror variety. And lest you think I am getting this information soley from the tired routines of forgotten stand-up comedians, let me give you an example: Jurassic Park. You want something more recent? OK. One Missed Call. Before the opening credits roll, Meagan Good is drowned along with her cat. But Rodger survives. And how does he do it? Through the power of prayer. And with the quick thinking of Judy. In fact, Rodger is kind of pathetic character, until a sudden uncharacteristic act of selflessness in the film's final moments. The Rodger character is a step in the right direction though. Kudos, Hollywood, for giving African-American supporting characters in horror and sci-fi films something to aspire to. God bless.

It would be negligent of me to exclude Night of the Demons' B-story in this review. In the opening moments of the film we are introduced to a character known simply as Old Man. He has various encounters with our party-going heroes, encounters that leave him cold and indifferent to human life. He becomes so enraged by Stooge's wish of "Happy Halloween, asshole!" and Judy's kind offer to help him pick up his fallen groceries, that he plots to fill the apples he's just purchased with the razor blades he has also just purchased and hand them out to innocent, trick-or-treating children. Then there's all the stuff I wrote earlier (see above). Finally, we rejoin Old Man the morning following Halloween as he sits down to a breakfast of apple pie (?). He shovels two bites into his mouth before his wife, Old Woman, informs him the pie is homemade and that she used the apples he brought home from the store. Upon hearing this, razor blades slash Old Man's throat from the inside and he dies violently in front of his uncaring wife.

Obviously, this scene doesn't work for myriad reasons. First of all, Old Man takes two giant bites of pie before his throat is slit. You mean he didn't feel the razor blades going down? Not only that, how did he not notice the razor blades before his fork even reached his mouth? Razor blades, unless specifically made for protozoa, are not generally microscopic and/or easy to swallow. Secondly, how and why did the razor blades wait to slash his throat open until he was told that he was eating a pie made from the apples he filled with blades? Were these some kind of sentient razor blades fond of irony? And thirdly, why did Old Man even take the time to jam razor blades into apples that he ended up not even handing out to anyone? If his threat at the beginning of the movie was simply an empty gesture, why did he go through all the trouble of creating blade-stuffed apples in the first place? And, hell, if Old Woman hated Old Man so much, why didn't she just get a divorce? No jury is going to believe that she didn't notice the apples she was slicing for a homemade pie were filled with razor blades. That's just poor planning on her part.

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Sunday, August 14, 2011

This Week in Instant View: 8/14-8/20

The recent announcement that Netflix was raising their rates angered a lot of customers, sparking them to take to the internets and spew hateful bile on a company that just a day before made it possible for them to stream every season of Fraggle Rock on their computer whenever the wanted, day or night. Yes, Netflix turned their "unlimited streaming" and "1 DVD at a time please" plan into two separate plans, forcing customers to pay 6 extra dollars to keep things as they've always been. And America was torn asunder. Forget the national debt crisis that I don't understand: Netflix wants six more dollars of our hard earned cash. Fuck them and their convenient entertainment options!

I'll admit, when I received my notification of plan options and fee changes from Netflix, I was momentarily peeved. Then I remembered without Netflix, I have nothing--I mean, besides DVR, Movies on Demand, every variation of HBO known to man, etc. I've grown accustomed to having movies and television shows at my fingertips. And I like Netflix. You should like Netflix too.


1) If you are a fan of anime and you are complaining about the Netflix price hike on Facebook or Twitter or on your tumblr site or wherever, shut your nerdy mouth right now. There are so many quality anime series on Netflix for instant viewing right now it's sick!

2) To the angry people who claim "Netflix doesn't even have any good movies on Instant View," here is a list of just a handful of the quality films in my Netflix Instant Queue right now: Tokyo Gore Police, RoboGeisha, Swamp Thing, Donovan's Brain, Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine, Godzilla's Revenge, Thrashin', Puppet Master, GI Joe: The Rise of Cobra. Classics all!

3) If you like TV--and who the hell doesn't?--look what Netflix has got for you: Mad Men! The X-Files! Friday Night Lights! Doctor Who! Red Dwarf! Archer! South Park! The League! Need I say more?

C'mon! Hey man, I don't care if you abandon Netflix. I don't get anything out of it either way. I just want people to think about shit before they make a fool of themselves on the internet. Then again, what is the internet for if not foolishness? Anyway, here are some recommendations.

Ga-Rei Zero (2008): Technically a prequel to the Ga-Rei manga, Zero tells the story of two supernaturally gifted young girls, Yomi and Kagura, who use their ability to see ghosts, demons, and all manner of spooky creeps, as well as their superior fighting skills, to rid Japan of the evil that does not belong in the natural world. The story is rich, compelling, and, because this is anime, melodramatic. The first episode is worth noting as it seems to have "pissed off" a lot of Netflix users. In the episode, titled "Above Aoi," we are introduced to an elite demon fighting squad sent to the scene of a horrific disturbance. After an epic battle with a Class B demon, the team retires to their base of operations where they are summarily slaughtered by a Class A entity. That's it. We never see these characters again. Their stories are never told. They are dead and the show moves on. I love that, but scores of zitty anime nerds with pizza-flavored Combos on their breath and Mountain Dew stains on their NERV t-shirts felt differently, encouraging fellow Netflix users to skip episode one or the whole series altogether. Whatever, nerds. Ga-Rei Zero is a solid series with a seriously horrendous opening theme song, which for some unexplained reason doesn't show up until Episode 4.


-Any of the
Futurama movies that were released in the last few years, though my favorite is The Beast with a Billion Backs, which features David Cross as a mass of tentacles who asks the entire planet Earth to move in with him.

-That Mitchell and Webb Look is the funniest sketch comedy show I've seen in a long time.

-Nickelodeon has apparently unleashed their animation floodgates all over Netflix. Available as of right this second: Rocko's Modern Life; Rugrats; Hey Arnold!; The Adventures of Jimmy Neutron; AAAHH!!! Real Monsters; and Ren and Stimpy.

-And to those who are still under the mistaken impression that Netflix has NOTHING GOOD available to Watch Instantly, here is proof that you are not only wrong, but probably also have terrible taste in film: The Fighter, Ponyo, Pulp Fiction, Kick Ass, Toy Story 3, Lord of the Rings, Die Hard, Winter's Bone, Trainspotting, Clerks, Being John Malkovich, A Clockwork I need to go on?

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Summer Jam...Or Is It???

Our continuing quest to find summer jams...continues...

4. "Summer Girls" (LFO)

The late Rich Cronin and his fellow Lyte Funky Ones reminisce about girls, pop culture, and historical figures in this odd, laid-back pop rap song that was a mega-hit for some reason.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: The word "summer" is in the title; the video takes place in a boardwalk-style setting that just screams summertime.

Summer Jam?: Maybe? I mean, it's undeniably about girls Mr. Cronin has met during the summer months, hence their description as "summer girls," but most of the non-sequiturs, arguably the reason the song is so memorable in the first place, threaten to pull the listener right out of his/her summer mood. For instance:

-"Macauly Culkin was in Home Alone": Home Alone took place during Christmas, which does not happen in summer, but, rather, winter.

-"The great Larry Bird, jersey #33": Larry Bird played basketball, a winter sport.

-"Billy Shakespeare wrote a whole bunch of sonnets": William Shakespeare was from England, a country that has no summer.

-"Michael J. Fox was Alex P. Keaton": Family Ties' Alex P. Keaton was a staunch Republican. Republicans are notorious summer haters.

Conclusion: LFO's "Summer Girls" is NOT a summer jam.

5. "Steal My Sunshine" (Len)

I have no idea what this song is about--it may not be about anything--it's just a damn good song! In my opinion, "Steal My Sunshine" makes Len the undisputed king of the one hit wonders.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: includes the word "sunshine" in the title; video features the band engaged in all manner of summertime shenanigans.

Summer Jam?: A million times yes!

6. "Rump Shaker" (Wreckx-n-Effect)

Men enjoy women's butts, or "rumps," especially when they are moving, or "shaking." Wreckx-n-Effect wrote a song about it.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: video features a bikini clad saxophonist, a beach dance party, and girls in life jackets.

Summer Jam?: Yes.

7. "Bela Lugosi's Dead" (Bauhaus)

Bela Lugosi died. Bauhaus wrote a nine minute song about it.

Evidence that it might be a summer jam: None.

Summer Jam?: No.

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Saturday, August 13, 2011

The Most Horrific Thing(s) I've Read This Week

I've never seen an entire episode of TLC's reality freak show My Strange Addiction. I usually watch the first segment, in which we are introduced to that evening's addicts, then I lose interest. I don't stick around for the inevitable attempt at curing these poor, misguided souls. I simply get the main idea and go on with my own strange addiction-free life. The show is roughly 22-minutes long, but I simply cannot justify devoting any more than 5 minutes to it. I think they should cram as many weirdos into an episode as possible, give viewers a few juicy shots of some freakwad cramming scabs into her mouth or obsessively combing his mustache hair or whatever and roll credits. I don't need the backstory. I don't need the quiet interviews with concerned friends. I need my freaky addictions delivered circus side-show tent-style. Pay your 25 cents, ogle some creeps.

During it's 16-episode run, My Strange Addiction has played host to a wide variety of addicts: Kesha, the woman who eats toilet paper for dinner; Debbie, the lady who is severely allergic to cats, but hoards them anyway; Davecat--yes, Davecat--the man married to a sex doll; and Riley, the 25-year-old woman who lives her life as an adult baby. I recently saw an episode (i.e. the first five minutes of an episode) that featured a woman from Brooklyn who is obsessed with taxidermy. She would go on long walks around her neighborhood searching for dead birds and squirrels to take home and stuff. Her cramped apartment was full of dead rats, chipmunks, and pigeons.

Obviously, every addiction featured on the program is, well, pretty strange, but the subject of a recent episode crosses the line from "strange" into "downright horrific" in a big, gross way. Meet Casie:

I hope you watched the entire clip. If you didn't, do it before you read any further. Otherwise you may just think I'm being a dick.

OK. Did you watch to the end? Sick, right? I can't imagine losing my spouse. If I even attempted to imagine it, you'd probably find me in a ball under my desk weeping uncontrollably. I can think of nothing sadder. And who's to say if faced with the same heartbreaking situation, any one of us wouldn't take our loved one's ashes to see Cowboys and Aliens or to Freshberry for frozen yogurt. But I'm fairly certain I would never resort to consuming my dead spouse Lik-M-Aid-style. Isn't that cannibalism kinda? Whatever it is, it's sick and weird and, well, perfect for My Strange Addiction, I guess.

My question: What do human cremains taste like?
According to Casie, "sandpaper, sand and rotten eggs." Nummy!

Additional information: I originally heard about Casie's story on a podcast to which I listen regularly. I turned to Google to collect more information for this article. Turns out, when you type "woman eats" into Google, Google is nice enough to offer a variety of suggestions, one of which being "woman eats baby." Being the curious sort that I am, I pursued the baby eating story and found myself face to face with the 2ND MOST HORRIFIC THING I'VE READ THIS WEEK. Please have your barf bags at the ready, provided you have a stash of barf bags in your home. A regular plastic shopping bag is also acceptable. Those can be puked into. Trust me. I've seen it. I'm serious.


Police: Woman killed her infant, ate part of brain

San Antonio police say a woman accused of beheading her 3-week-old infant son used a knife and two swords in the attack and ate some of the child's body parts.

Why did it take a knife and TWO SWORDS to decapitate a three-week-old? Two swords!?! Was this a three-week-old dragon? That still sounds pretty excessive.

San Antonio Police Chief William McManus told reporters Monday that Otty Sanchez's attack on her son, Scott Wesley Buchholtz-Sanchez, was "too heinous" to fully discuss.

Of course it was "too heinous" to discuss, the woman used TWO SWORDS TO KILL AN INFANT!?! IS SHE INSANE?!?

But he says Sanchez ate part of the newborn's brain and bit off three of his toes before stabbing herself twice.

Police say the 33-year-old Sanchez told officers who were called to her house early Sunday that she killed her son at the devil's request.

Oh, OK, she is insane. Got it.

Sanchez is charged with capital murder and is being held on $1 million bail. She is recovering from her wounds at a hospital.


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Saturday, August 6, 2011

100 Songs I Hate: 9-11

9. "Nothing" (The Script)

Turn on Vh1 in the early morning hours, and your eyes and ears will be assaulted by a program called Jump Start. The show--for better or worse*--is the last bastion for music videos. It is also concrete proof why the recording industry is dying a swift and painful death. These are the bands major record labels are signing. Bands like The Script, an Irish band that has taken everything shitty about American pop rock and copied it verbatim to create a mediocre sound perfect for background noise on TV shows like 90210, Ghost Whisperer, and The Vampire Diaries.

In "Nothing," The Script's whiny lead singer laments over the break up of a relationship, drinks a metric shit-ton of booze, and proceeds to stumble around town shouting his ex-lover's name to the heavens, much to his friends' chagrin. This asshole then proposes that, in this epically inebriated state, he should show up unannounced at said ex-girlfriend's home and explain to her, without vomiting all over himself, why they should give it a second chance. Ugh. C'mon, dude. Just get drunk, dial her number, and hang up when she answers. I don't know how they do it in Ireland, but... Actually, you know what, this is probably exactly how they do it in Ireland. On second thought, go for it, lead singer of The Script.

I think a better name for Vh1's Jump Start is Jump Off A Bridge which is exactly what one feels compelled to do after hearing even a minute of these horrible, horrible songs. (Hey, if you make it far enough into the video for "Nothing"--and it is totes understandable if you don't--you'll see the lead singer take a header off a bridge. Unfortunately, he survives.)

10. "Tonight Tonight" (Hot Chelle Rae)

Here's another crap-coated gem I heard on Jump Off A Bridge and Die this morning. I'm not even sure who this song is for. Seriously. What is this? Why does this exist? Who gets pumped up by this? Who hears this song and goes, "Now the party has officially started?" Children? The mentally disabled? Elderly deaf people? Middle-aged women who like whatever shit sprays out of their radio because it's "kewl?"

My favorite part of the song/video is the Zach Galifinakis reference. Clearly, Hot Chelle Rae were hoping for a cameo from America's foremost bearded comedian. Instead they got Trouty Mouth from Glee. Great get, guys.

11. "If Heaven Wasn't So Far Away" (Justin Moore)

I'm worried about Justin Moore. It's been 25 years since his grandfather passed away and he still can't drive by their old fishing hole without getting suicidally depressed. Working through his feelings in a trite, laughable country song isn't doing it. Justin Moore needs therapy.

Most disturbing moment: After visiting his dead relatives in Heaven, Moore promises his grandfather that he and the kids will be back in A COUPLE OF DAYS! Oh. Sweet. Lord. Is Justin Moore going to kill himself and his family?! Quick, somebody take his children away!

Alternate Title: "If Heaven Wasn't So Far Away (And You Didn't Have To Be Dead And A Christian To Get In)"


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