Thursday, November 11, 2010

The Unreal Housewives of Beverly Hills

As a general rule, I have avoided the lure of the much-ballyhooed flagship series of the Bravo network -- the "Real Housewives of..." But recently, I found myself in front of the idiot box watching the idiotic boxes on "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills."

At first I deluded myself that I just wanted to check in and see what Kim Richards was up to. Remember her? The husky-voiced, blonde actress from one of my childhood favorite Disney flicks, "Escape From Witch Mountain." I liked her. She was spunky before Punky Brewster ruined spunky with Rainbow Bright garishness and the fake orphan pout. Well, as it turns out, Kim's still pretty normal and likable as an adult. Bravo! Bravo. So far, not terrible.

Next housewife is Kyle RIchards -- even though an aunt to Paris Hilton -- she seems down to Earth and charming. I get the vibe she's just genetically blessed good people. And lets face it, I could stare at her bewitching mane of brunette locks for hours. Get this woman a Pantene commercial stat! Maybe her sister, Kim Richards found some hair care secrets on Witch Mountain and shared them with her sis before she escaped. I don't know. But again, so far - so good. I don't flip away. You're luring me in, Bravo you temptress of cable!

But then the oily smear of humanity that is Camille Grammer slithered on screen.

On an episode of "Mythbusters" they proved that you can actually polish a turd. That's right. You can take a loaf of tiger dung and slowly buff it into a shiny, rather stunning object d'art. Something about all the protein the big cats eat, anyway... Apparently, all that meaty goodness keeps the chunks of feline fecal matter intact long enough for it to withstand the intensive buffing and rubbing required to create a gleaming globe of pooptastic glory. I'm not kidding I would display that turd-ball on my mantel.

However, I can assure you , you can't polish the turd that is New Jersey-born, former-MTV-dancer-turned-titty-model that is Camille Grammer. That particular brand of white trash stink can not be masked by fancy digs, spray tans, famous husbands, expensive tooth veneers, his and hers hot tubs or an El Camino-full of Fabreeze. Grammer has no substance, no meaty goodness -- no protein-rich core that offers stability. Just a thin veneer of silicone and Swarovski crystals vainly attempting to cover a bad case of crazy-eye.

On the season preview clips Grammer blithely quips, "Don't judge me, I have four nannies." That's FOUR nannies for TWO children. That's man-on-man defense -- squared. Kobe Bryant doesn't need that kind of coverage.

What are her children up to? Are they on 24-hour arson watch? Are they prone to spontaneously spraying the neighborhood house pets with a thin layer of buckshot? Do they have a taste for meth and German porn that can't be contained by normal maternal supervision? Explain, please.

Camille's not one of the Duggars. She's not raising her very own marching band. She's not even Kate Gosselin who manages to parent eight tiny Goslins (and one large, errant, Asian Ed Hardy aficionado) while simultaneously finding time to shake her flat ass with the stars for some lunch money.

What is it YOU do, Camille Grammer? You keep yammering about how you're so busy and your houses aren't big enough to contain your staff and your fabulosity. But save for the odd PSA about IBS - I can't for the life of me figure out what you actually DO to earn any of the millions it costs to pay for the multiple houses "you" own that sit empty so you can condescend to allow your "friends" to live in. So in fact, I do judge you. I think you're nauseating. And I'm a pretty good judge of character.

So back to the busy thing. Clearly making sure any man within a 5-mile radius has seen your plastic rack and knows you're up for it, is a relative time commitment. But I wouldn't think it keeps you all so busy. I mean, you can work at any old Walmart and flash your ass crack and make suggestive comments whilst ringing up tube socks, right? It's not like one precludes the other. "Hey Nick, would you like some tennis BALLS to go with these tube socks...? NO? That will be $4.98." See? It can be done. It's not like you're curing cancer AND holding down the overnight shift on the production line at the Whirlpool factory.

Of course there's posing for People magazine photo spreads to drum up sympathy for you after you thanked karma for allegedly killing your estranged husband's & his new girlfriend's unborn child. That's gotta kill a few hours. But other than that, I'm not sure simpering and cock-teasing is a truly marketable skill for a woman of your age. Fair enough -- there's the obvious dedication to grooming, shopping, delegation of personable responsibility to hired help; self-aggrandizing, condescending, name-dropping and conference calls betwixt all six personalities ("Shut up!" "No! YOU shut up!") -- but those aren't so much a jobs as a character defects.

But I have to say , in support of Camille's inability to live in a 3,500 square foot apartment in New York. I feel you doll. When you suffer from IBS as you do, I can only imagine that you need at least a 2,500 square foot safe zone around you at all times to buffer the stench of your mad gas queefing out of your crass, gold-digging ass.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

An open letter to Meg Whitman

Dearest, darling Meg Witman:

So I thought I'd write you and kindly let you know that I will be posting a great deal about you in the coming months. You see, while I suppose most mouth-breathers and Goldman Sachs employees think you're awesomesauce, I don't.

Despite your having more millions than I've had hot meals, you're still not going to browbeat me into submission with your pernicious, omnipresent and frankly sanctimonious bullshit campaign ads. I won't be "glamoured" by your your well-funded, soulless vampiric lies -- or be hypnotized by the thumping of your heartless rhetoric drum. No matter how much of your own lunch money you spend, I'm not going to vote for you.

Here's why.

Your career highlights include marketing Mr. Potato Head for Hasbro and running an online garage sale.

Under Meg Whitman's gold-plated guidance, said online garage sale (a.k.a. Ebay) lost $30B -- which was HALF it's TOTAL stock value.

Meg violently SHOVED an Ebay employee Young Mi Kim in a petty tantrum on the job.

By the time the dust settles, Meg Whitman has threatened to flush $150 MILLION of HER OWN MONEY down the toilet rather than just invest it in California jobs.

Meg Whittman sucks the Mitt Romney teat, so regardless of what she and her five-head say, she's taking BIG Morman money to make sure the gays in California (and everywhere else) don't have the same civil rights as the rest of the inbred, high fructose corn syrup-drinking nation.

Meg Whitman wants to cut government spending. Meg Whitman spent $500,000K last year on private jets ALONE.

Meg Whitman wants t
o "create California jobs." Meg Whitman exported an estimated 40% of Ebay jobs overseas.

So you see my point.

I get it. We get it. You don't fucking care. You just want the TIARA.

You'd rather spend $150 MILLION on photoshopping out your double chin and female pattern baldness in a CRAPSHOOT effort to BUY your way in to the California Governor's seat. You don't actually want to have better jobs or schools for the people of California - because at the VERY least, if you divided up the money you were spending on your own campaign among the 36 million people in California -- you could buy each of us a Happy Meal.

Or how about it you divide that $150M among California's 2M unemployed. Do the math there, folks. $150M divided by the $2M jobless in California. Now THAT's a Happy Meal.

But you don't even care that much. Maybe you'll win? Maybe you won't. But you'd rather roll the dice than ensure Californians at LEAST have a Happy Meal. THAT'S why you are a failure. Not just in this political arena, but in life.

Guess again.

I'm really not going to let that happen and I invite my fellow literate, non-billionaire compatriots to join me.

Contrary to what the current laws say, money does NOT equal freedom of speech. Yes, that's the current wisdom as to why there are no caps on use of private money for political campaigns. Because MONEY EQUALS FREE SPEECH.

I'm going to go right out there on a limb and point out that MONEY ISN'T FREE.

So in closing, Meg...? I will be diligent. I will be stirring the pot. You can't buy me. You care so much about California but you'd rather gamble a reported $150M in ads rather than just give it to Claifornia? Really -- you'd rather roll the dice than just let us have it? AND...!?? When you get in office you will CUT TAXES FOR THE RICH???

So let me get this, you will spend $150M of your own money to get in office and suck your rich pal's knobs...?

It's on.


The Facial Mirkin

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Prince Has Bigger Balls Than You

People are giving Prince...? Or, 8==>...? Or whatever the hell his new moniker is a bunch of sparkly purple shit because he told the UK Mirror newspaper that the Internet was, "completely over." "I don't see why I should give my new music to iTunes or anyone else. They won't pay me an advance for it and then they get angry when they can't get it," Prince told The Daily Mirror.

You know what, Prince -- you're so fucking right. iTunes DOESN'T pay you for your music so they have no fucking right to it. iTunes and the rest of the recording industry want to convince artists they should sell their valuable music catalogs in downloads, ringtones or Hostess Twinkie format - or whatever the new fucking delivery mechanism is, because if they don't...? The artist is, "driving the fans to steal it from non-legal sources."

I wonder if that logic works for Mercedes -- or better yet, Bugatti! I want one of those cool Bugatti cars, but damn!? They just won't sell them to me for the price I want to pay (which would be approximately $1.72). So, in retaliation, I think I'll go about stealing one. See, Bugatti! I told you! You won't put the same price tag on it as a bag of gummy worms, so now I have to steal it. See what you made me do??

For those of us olde school music fans, there's this great urban legend about another one of Minneapolis's finest musical offerings, The Replacements. Legend has it, The Replacements got all kinds of liquered up and broke in to the Minneapolis offices of their record label (at the time it was Twin Tone) and stole their own master tapes so they could chuck them in the Mississippi River rather than allow their music to come out on the new uncool, sellout format..."compact disc."

I don't know if that story punk rock urban legend or a true tale of typical, boozed-induced 'Mats "shoot-yourself-in-the-foot-rather-than-wear-fancy-shoes" rock logic. Don't care. Because I love The Replacements and their shambolic, grubby, middle-class, neo-punk, heartfuckingbreaking brand of snot-nosed rock n' roll.

And guess what else...? If The Replacements wanted to get drunk and chuck their meal ticket in the Mississippi rather than sell their music in a format they didn't want....? Well, that just makes me love them all the more. It's called ARTISTIC CREDIBILITY.

Prince has earned the right to be Prince. He can sing his new album into a bucket (albeit a really fancy, purple bucket) and it's his right. He can chuck his whole new album into the Mississippi River alongside The Replacements' master tapes if he so chooses. He doesn't have to sell it to YOU at all. He can do what he wants with it because he's the artist.

Guess who else is right? AC/DC, De Leppard and whole bunch of other big-balled rock stars who decided they didn't want to scrape on bended knee before the vandals who are defacing their art and stripping it of context and value. Record labels want artists to scrape off their album art; chisel seminal concept albums down to a 10-second ringtones and throw the bones on iTunes for a few thankless ducats.

Since when does Terra Firma (a.k.a. the refuse removal company who now owns EMI - yes, a GARBAGE company owns the record label that is home to The Beatles and Pink Floyd's catalogue) get the right to tell Pink Floyd to sell RINGTONES which specifically violates their contract not to mention artistic statement?

Since when do WE the consumers get to tell Prince in what format he should release his ART and how much we think it's worth? You can just not buy it, sure. But that's your choice. Neither I nor Prince care. But I don't see that your opinion matters. Have you sold 100 million albums? If not, you don't get a vote. Just like when I call up Mr. Bugatti and tell him about my cool new pricing plan for the Veyron 16.4.

Music is still art. Musicians are still artists. You don't cut the eye out of the Mona Lisa and sell if for a cut rate -- just like you don't sell "Wish You Were Here" as a ringtone just to make a cool 99 cents.

Maybe it's a Minneapolis thing, but I LIKE the idea of artists who don't have to create art that fits into your iPhone and at the price you decide you might pay -- 'cause if they don't...? You'll STEAL it. Really? You'll just STEAL it...?

Count me in with the 'Mats & Prince. Fuck you. I'd rather just chuck it in the river and have the integrity and sense of self to know that all the fucking great unwashed non-fans, jackals and fuckos who are pissing in the collective talent pool of the recording industry aren't going to get their thieving hands on my goodies.

I like the idea that artists are willing to create art and sell it in a way that satisfies them creatively instead of creating music that can be sliced and diced up for sale like cheap, day old bread.

Here's a link to the article.
And here's a link to The Replacements because they are the fucking best, you just don't know it yet.

And here's a link to the Bugatti Veyron 16.4. It ain't no gumball.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Mel Gibson & the "N" Word

So there you go...

Aussie hypocrite, fading actor and failed Christian zealot Mel Gibson was busted today in the media when a recording of him vomiting forth a racist, hateful, obscene and violent verbal assault on his baby mama, Oksana Grigorieva was released to the media.

Sure we all blurt out some fairly unpleasant sentiments in the heat of a spicy battle with our significant other. I, myself, have been known to go to the dark side and compare my spouse to her mother -- which is about as low as you can go in the insult department as far as I am concerned and it's guaranteed to escalate any already heated argument into an out-an-out blood bath.

But here's the thing. I never yell racist slurs. I don't care how drunk or mad I am. NO chance. No way. No how. Guess why? I'm not a racist. See how that works?

Mel has been scampering all over Hollywood for years selling himself as this affable, handsome, charming Aussie film star who loves himself some JESUS! That's right. Mel loves the Lord so much - he had to build himself his own church. Not just any old church mind you - but a real fancy one in Malibu. A real fancy, church in Malibu that thinks the Vatican is too damn liberal with their views on women and saying mass in English. Mel prefers his church in LATIN and his women pregnant and obedient (and stacked... yeah... that too).

Why in Latin? The actor has been very vocal about his "traditionalist" views, adhering to the Roman Catholic faith as it was understood before the "modernization" by the Second Vatican Council of 1962-1965. ''I go to an all-pre-Vatican II Latin mass," he told USA Today in 2001. "There was a lot of talk, particularly in the '60s, of 'Wow, we've got to change with the times.' But the Creator instituted something very specific, and we can't just go change it.''

So in 2003 the actor decided to help change things back to the way they were, building a chapel in Malibu, Calif. – The Church of the Holy Family. Tucked away in the tree-covered mountains of Agoura Hills, 30 miles northwest of downtown Los Angeles, the rustic church, unaffiliated with the Roman Catholic archdiocese, has a foot-tall crucifix on the altar and the priest keeps his back to the parishioners as he performs mass every morning entirely in Latin. In church, women must wear head coverings.

Among traditionalists, there is a more extreme group affiliated with the ultra-conservative stream of Catholicism known as Sedevacantism, meaning, "the seat [of the papacy] is empty." They believe there has been no legitimate pope since 1958. Gibson hasn't said he shares that belief, though his father, Hutton Gibson, is a well known anti-Vatican II activist and author of the book Is the Pope Catholic? Mel also occasionally calls law officers "sugar tits" and blames all the wars in the world on Jews. So as you can see -- he's really a go-to guy for excellent points of view and searing truth.

So Mel is bigger than the Pope! Mel calls himself "Catholic" but doesn't recognize the Pope. Hey Mel! The Pope is the guy in white sitting in the Popemobile if you are having trouble "recognizing" him. But Mel Gibson doesn't need no stinking Vatican! He's got his own church now where parishioners get to look at the priest's ass through mass because they aren't worthy and women need to cover their hairdos lest Jesus think they were having a bad hair day.

So what's the point here? Well, first of all racists can't be Christians. It's against the rules. It's like being a vegan who loves a good pork chop.

Second of all, while I'm all about mocking Mel Gibson for his self-indulgent, faux faith and general buffoonery -- what I'm wondering is why NOBODY IS SHOCKED THAT HE IS VERBALLY ABUSING AND THREATENING THIS WOMAN WHILE HIS INFANT CHILD CRIES IN THE BACKGROUND.

So we are appalled that he uses racist epithets, but the domestic abuse doesn't seem to ruffle many feathers. Because I'm not really down with hitting women or using your power and position to degrade someone privately so you can link arms with them and sashay down a red carpet publicly the next.

So for the record, I think the "N" word describes to Mel Gibson perfectly and that "N" word is NUTJOB. And while he may love himself some Latin, there aren't enough "mea culpas" in Malibu to make me forgive him for being a racist, violent, asshat.

In Vino Veritas, Mel-baby.