Archive for May, 2010


This week Megan Fox was axed from the “Transformers” film series by director Michael Bay. She hasn’t complained. Why? Because it’s comparable to having some contract where you have to sit around inside the a medieval shit trench, and then somehow being pardoned and getting able to leave. Speculation suggests that it was spurred by recent comments calling Bay “Hitler.” This got me thinking.

Do we really have any proof that Bay isn’t Hitler? Let’s step back and examine some eerie similarities:

1) They both love explosions

I know most of you are familiar with Hitler’s cuddly side, but in actuality he was an avid fan of explosions. Particularly explosions that involved the Jews or Allied forces. He blew a lot of shit up. Michael Bay also seems to like explosions. Plus, I have it on good authority that Bay purposely avoids “Seinfeld” reruns, for what that’s worth.

2) Hitler had shitty taste in movies

Hitler was pretty notorious for not liking good movies. Whenever Goebbels would rent “Gone with the Wind” Hitler would flip shit and screams of “Sie täuschen! Ich sagte, “‘zu mieten; Superbabies: Babygenies 2’ ! Fleischstock-Sockenmarionette!” would be heard all throughout the Eagle’s nest. Michael Bay has similar tastes (See also: any Michael Bay movies).

3)  Kink

I saw a documentary that claimed Hitler enjoyed shitting on his secretary’s chest. Judging from that creepy smirk exhibited in the photo above, I don’t think it’s off base to say Bay might be in the same category.

4) Robot fetishes

Did you know Hitler had a robot butler? He did. Every morning it would serve him his bowl of BLITZKRIEG! (part of your balanced breakfast). Bay is noticeably turned on by robots and, occasionally, overtly racist robots.

5) Subliminal messages

When you take away “T” “R” “A” “N” “F” “O” “M” and “E” from Transformers, you are left with S.S. Has your mind just been blown? Goddamn right it has.

There are some who’d say this is all just hearsay. They’re right. But do you really want to take that chance? Do you truly want to risk having the $9 from your ticket go to funding some sort of secret robot genocide squad? Do you?? I didn’t think so.

Don’t buy a ticket to Transformers 3; don’t support neo-nazism.


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SO…you’re a fledgling screenwriter. You need quick money. This quick money is attainable to you. How? Syfy original movies. Ironically, writing  a Syfy original movie is also great opportunity to get nominated for an emmy start hating yourself. So we need to start at the beginning.

You can start out by choosing an inanimate object. Any old object will do. This thing, whatever you choose, will be coming to life and killing professional actors  your Applebees hosts as they scream in terror. For example, if you choose a pencil, logic dictates that your screenplay will probably end up being titled “Pencil Monster!” The exclamation point is necessary. Because surely anyone who saw a pencil monster would say so with a fair amount of conviction. So anyway, your object is going to come to life and kill people in all sorts of great ways. The next step is figuring out how.

You could always have nuclear waste haphazardly dumped on it by dubiously irresponsible employees. The most common and easiest method to explain your creatures sudden liveliness is to not explain at all. That exposition is probably going to take up valuable time for the thespians to develop their character anyway. So, essentially, just have the killings start.

Now, You don’t have to do an inanimate object. If you choose to not go that route, you’re dealing with a flesh and blood creature. It can be any living creature. Take that creature and make it 5 times bigger than it actually is. Drizzle it in blood. Then you add a “super” in front of it. So, let’s look at a regular sequence and then Syfy the shit out of that thing. Regular:


What could have done this?


I’ve seen tracks like this before. At my uncle’s cabin up North. He’d take us up there for bible studies like any other normal uncle.




Never mind. The important thing is that I recognize these are squirrel tracks.

There you have it. Now the Syfy version of that same scene:


Im scared, Brian. What could have done this?


It’s okay, Jessie. I’ve seen tracks like this before. Let me take my shirt off.


Great idea. But what are the tracks?


These are the tracks of a super squirrel.


Let’s do it.



See what I did there? Careful manipulation of the audience. Very delicately crafted. Now, if you go forward with this you’re going to need a sheriff. This is either an old man or a young woman. That’s how it goes. They never know anything. You can kill them if you want. But you’ll also need a cast of colorful and stereotypical townspeople characters. There’s the owner of a general store with one leg and a bucket hat. There’s an old school teacher who speaks with a lisp and collects marionettes. Whatever. These people show up sporadically and act suspicious. Example:


Mr. Wilkins?




What are you doing at the aqueduct at 3 in the morning in lederhosen and clogs with a shovel and a beaker marked “secret ingredient”?


Hunting deer.

Suspicion attained. But note that these people are eccentric, so any one could be a red herring. Because you’re a genius. Then, your main characters (a divorced man trying to get his life back on track and a small town journalist who falls for him) will contact a specialist who deals with whatever is killing people. So, in the case of “Pencil Monster!”, a graphite guy. Or something. In the end he’s going to determine some crazy way to kill the pencil monster/super squirrel/ plastic cup demon. This should be accomplished by a really cheaply done explosion. Preferably.

So, all the time in between, you should sprinkle sequences of people finding bodies, the protagonists running around, and two conversations that are written in a way as to give the appearance of being deep when they’re really not. Other than that, it’s up to you. If you write something at leat 60 pages and follow these guidelines, your film will not only be made, but it will be played repeatedly on Saturday nights. Enjoy your money and life of guilt.

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As of this writing, over 5,000 people (myself included) have committed to deleting their facebook pages on the 31st of May, as part of a “Facebook Exodus” to take their private information into their own hands. Yesterday I submitted my request for deletion. After a 14 day incubation period, so long as I don’t log in,  Facebook will delete the page. I’ve already donated money to Diaspora, a proposed open source social network, and look forward to joining it. Until that point I will be forced to go without knowing what all my friends are doing or which Miley Cyrus lyrics particularly inspire them. It’s going to be arduous.

There are temporary solutions. I’m routinely hanging a white board around my neck that can be adorned with things like “EATING A SANDWICH” for when I’m eating a sandwich. Or “Gonna read some Upton Sinclair and then get KRUNKKK” for when I’m passing a particularly classy starbucks. You can poke people on the subway and hand out fancy cordial invitations for people to join your ninja army. When you want people to see a video you can burn it to a DVD and then shuttle over to their house to watch it like your great-grandfather did when he wasn’t building the combustion engine and backhanding wenches (Yes, I know about that).

Essentially, we have to make sacrifices for our privacy. At first I thought  losing Facebook would be one of those…but the more I thought about it the less I cared. Facebook had essentially become a gigantic tool to help me lose respect for friends as I see them slowly reveal details about themselves to the public. Seeing that Betty became a fan of public sanitation or that Greg has joined a group supporting Arizona’s new immigration law just makes my faith in humanity slowly plummet. Not only do I not care, but I don’t care nearly enough to willingly farm my data out to the first buyer.

It might be tough, but you have to ask yourself: what am I really missing out on and is it truly worth it? I would say no. Maybe you’ll have more time to read a book, stroll outside, or actually talk with people face to face. Maybe you’ll just spend that much more time on Twitter (*cough*).

People need control over their personal information. And you should be able to wait until you have that control.

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As British Petroleum continues its frantic bid to plug the oil leak at the bottom of the ocean like a small child desperately trying to ram a square peg into a round hole, no one seems to know who to blame. BP doesn’t want to blame itself, yet has failed thus far to come up with a suitable alternative scapegoat. Being the corporate shill that I am, I got this. If BP is going to survive this thing there’s only one thing to lie blame on: Plankton.

You can’t blame BP for trying to get the oil out of the ground. There’s a market demand for that. What you can TOTALLY blame is Plankton, without which we wouldn’t have oil to begin with. Think about this. If Plankton hadn’t been such lazy fucks and discovered a way to not die, crude oil wouldn’t exist (also, plankton would probably rule the world). But no. What did they do? They pretty much just sat around and then died, leaving their carcasses to be ravaged by time and turned into petroleum (next time you load a porn site and reach into the vaseline jar, think of the billions of plankton that died for your dirty, dirty habit.)

So, BP throws a couple billion dollars into the rounding up and executing of plankton. Imagine BP executives smiling as they cut the ribbon on a brand new Plankton death camp on the front page of the New York Times. That’s great press.  People need to understand that Plankton A) drop the ball by not contributing society during life, and B) created the very oil that is spilling into the ocean at this moment. In essence, Plankton need to become more universally hated than the Nazis or Ke$ha. It’s a tall order, but it’s possible.

So there you have it. I believe I’ve proven time and time again that I’m a public relations master, and I can’t quite understand why more CEOs don’t follow my advice in this area. I’m pretty damn good at weaseling out of things. Case in point: I’m the one who ate your last brownie. But I had to because I needed to up my blood sugar level. So you can’t be mad at me. See? BANG. Done.

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I’ve been going to the zoo my entire life. The penguins have always been my favorite. I used to run to the penguin exhibit first thing, eager to get a blue plastic penguin mold or a picture of a penguin pressed onto my penny. I’d laugh and point and dance as they jumped from their little beach front and into the toilet bowl cleaner blue water. They’ve been stars of movies like “March of the Penguins” and “Happy feet” and “Surf’s up”, acting all cute and cuddly. But you know what I’ve come to find out? Penguins are pretty much assholes.

For all the “penguins and cuddly” schtick you’ve heard or seen, how many people have you seen actually cuddling with them? None? Me either. It appears penguins aren’t actually big on cuddling. These things would rather sit on an egg for days than give you a hug. What kind of friend is that? Not a good one. Furthermore, I don’t know how many times I’ve been snubbed by penguins. At least marmosets will look at you. Penguins? Penguins are all “Oh, did you say something? Because I was too busy swimming around like a douchebag.”

Not to mention the egos on those things. I can see wearing black and white to a business function, but to slide around on the ice? Give me a break. I will not be condescended to by some pussy bird that can’t even fly. Yeah, I went there. For all their squeaking and righteousness, they can’t even get off the ground with those demented flipper things. Have you ever even seen them clean up after themselves? I doubt it. Because they’re barbarians, staring silently from behind those beady little penguin eyes.

Even if they hadn’t pecked by brother to death with their evil penguin beaks (they did. Did I mention that?), I’m confident I’d still have a shit load of reasons to expose them for the rude, disgusting, unethical animals that they are (they cheat at Old Maid. I mean, who does that? Honestly.)

But, yeah. Fuck penguins.

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A while back I posted a translation to the song “Sex Room” by that master of melodies Ludacris (He’s really giving Wagner a run for his money). That particular post has gotten a lot of attention. I think this is because everyone else was afraid to admit they didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. This time, I’ve taken the liberty of translating “My Chick Bad” which, as you’ll see, turns out to be very contradictory. There’s lots of harping on how awful his girlfriend is, but then how she’s great. I don’t get it. Enjoy nonetheless.

My female companion is dubious
My female companion is of low economic means
Yet Mmy female companion is the envy of yours
My female companion is dubious, far more dubious than yours
My my female companion is dubious, far more dubious than yours
My my female companion is dubious, far more dubious than yours

[Ludacris – Verse 1]
What i’m trying to espouse here is that my girlfriend is not good
She is not well-to-do by any means
My female companion can do things yours merely dreams of
Yet my female companion is many times worse than yours
My girlfriend, she does things I struggle to articulate
Her pompousness knows no boundaries
Her body will not surrender
So silence yourself, dolt. You know not of what you speak.
My female companion, do tell if you have laid eyes on her
She always brings sporting equipment like prominent tennis players
Both her top and her belt are of matching hues (white).
With all white jeans, her body resembles a dairy product
She has no time to toy with you, as she is an adult
My female companion is dubious, ergo, you can tell yours to vacate these premises.


[Ludacris – Verse 2]
Now your female companion may be ill but mine is ailing faster
She fornicates openly and can consume massive amounts of liquor without becoming sick
She will render your female companion unconscious and proceed to scuffle
She strikes much like Elin Nordegren, the famous Swedish super model
Yes, she can be a tad rapid in her methods
Other females would be wise to cover their bosoms
She has numerous female comrades, all with questionable mental stability
They march much like participants in the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade
I inflate balloons for her as if she were a small child
This is to test her cognitive dissonance before drawing my weapon
I am not,however, referring to Homer Simpson
This girl is so dastardly, my entire posse wants to partake in sex acts with her


[Nicki Minaj]
Yo, now all sorts of females want to become my kindred spirit
But I take evasive maneuvers with them
I insult them thoroughly and fit them inside a garbage bag
I run as if I’m engaged in a WMBA game
On Friday the 13th, inside my basement, we’ll be reenacting the horror film of the same name
Get into bed and grasp a stuffed animal tightly
In nightmare on Elm Street, the character of Freddy was played by sir Robert Englund
(My female companion is dubious)
When chefs cook for me, they all tell me my footwear needs to be institutionalized
The mental Asylum is looking for me
You are clearly a novice
I’m in in some sort of purple device of my own making. Woman, you are quite a fan.


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Check out this stud. Does he look familiar? You think you’ve seen him on a popular reality show? Or perhaps playing professional football? Maybe staring into your eyes from across a crowded coffee shop? Well you’re wrong. This Barry Van Dyke, son of the immortal Dick Van Dyke. That’s right. Caractacus fucking Potts, my friends. Mr. Toot Sweets himself. This is his offspring.

So you may ask yourself…”Why haven’t I seen this guy more? He clearly has devilishly good looks and impeccable acting chops.” Well, I don’t know either. But I’m pretty sure it has something to do with an illuminati plot to cancel “Diagnosis Murder.” Mostly because the Illuminati hate Scott Baio, which is admirable. Still. After that, Barry has pretty much been lying low. And if we can’t officially blame the Illuminati, I have no choice but to blame TMZ.

TMZ, with their self righteous correspondents waiting inside Geo prizms up to their knees in big mac wrappers for days to get a shot of Cameron Diaz.  TMZ, with their fancy glasses of coca cola and their bendy straws. TMZ, with their refusal to treat Heidi Montag like the delicate queen that she is. And yet, it seems they have no time for Barry Van Dyke. LOOK AT THAT MAN’S LEATHER JACKET. Then tell me whether or not you think he belongs on television. The answer, obviously, is hell yes.

I think you’re missing out on an opportunity to increase your viewership by tenfold, particularly in the old women demo.  And really, that’s the demo you need to capture anyway. Old ladies love Barry Van Dyke. Aspercreme and Barry Van Dyke. And okra. But mostly Barry Van Dyke. I believe I’ve made my case perfectly clear. You TMZ people are signing your cancellation by neglecting a celebrity of his caliber.  Good day.

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