We Used to Know

By Chris Vosburg

As Mitt Dullard Romney rejuvenates the cold war dreams of the Reagan years in his campaign speeches, I thought it might be worthwhile to remind us all that there are those of us who were never quite down with the whole “evil empire” thing, even back in the “space race” days—we thought the world of Yuri Gagarin and his brave venture into orbit in the Vostok spacecraft, and it tickles me to remember that his biggest fans were the American astronauts assembled for the similar US effort.

International Space Station resident and flautist Colonel Catherine Coleman is one such brave new worlder, and last year, perhaps as the result of a Craigslist ad (“looking for musicians to jam with—have rehearsal space”) found someone to play flute with—an aging popstar fellow who shared her appreciation of the cosmonaut’s journey and “our rocket heroes”, and they performed a duet:

 Coupla notes:

Awesome hair, babe. This was, by the way, in April 2011, commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of Gagarin’s trip. There’s been on TV since a series of ads for a sexual stimulant that promises to “blow your hair back”, with resultant hairstyles to demonstrate, so, yeah, okay, comedy.

Cady Coleman confirms: it’s much easier to play flute standing on one leg in zero gravity.

Yuri Gagarin bumped in ‘68, crashing a jet he was test-piloting. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?

“We Used To Know”, is the title of an old Jethro Tull song, which has some notoriety as a result of the fact that the Eagles, which toured with Tull in ‘72, used the same chord progression in “Hotel California”. Different key, different time signature, but Ian Anderson noticed as well, and graciously said in an interview that he considered it “a tribute, much in the same sense as the tribute Rolex watch I’m now wearing.”

And lastly, I salute our “Rocket Heroes” often, as I watch the ISS sail overhead. Yes, it’s visible from the ground, and NASA has a web page which gives time, duration and direction (page is for Los Angeles, select other location as required). It’s typically the brightest object in the sky, and you might mistake it at first for an aircraft-- but it has no blinking lights, so there you go. If in Los Angeles, by the way, note that we have a nice one coming up tonight (Saturday), appearing on the Northwest horizon at 8:43 PM and traveling directly overhead, departing in the Southeast horizon three minutes later. Cool, huh?

Post Friday Beast Blogging: The Panic and Passed out Edition

Riley:  Help!  I'm trapped with a book on cinematography theory, and it's getting really pretentious in here!  Send help...!

Moondoggie:  ...while I am experiencing the otherworldly calm and total bliss known only to a Tibetan Lama or a taxidermied moose.

Good News! Bad News!

Actually, there's good news, bad news, and weird news.  The good news is that the Good News isn't the Good News starring June Allyson and Mel Tormé.  The bad news, however, is so bad it might as well involve Mel Tormé, so let's get that out of the way first:

Some of you may have already heard that Annti -- our own much adored Joanna -- has suffered yet another cruel misfortune, this time the loss of her beloved "furry chirren."  The Boy, as he was affectionately known, passed away in September, and now his sister, Biddy is gone.  Perhaps it's a small mercy that Biddy, an older cat in poor health, won't have to spend her final days enduring the shocks and stresses that will surely follow Annti's eviction, but that means Joanna herself much face those same things alone, making this normally sad event seem all the more heartbreaking.

Joanna sent me this photo months ago, and I wish I had posted it sooner.  But perhaps there is no better time than now.

 Farewell, Boy and Biddy.

Happily, there is one slim ray of sunshine beaming down on the World O' Crap community.  Yesterday, our Special Correspondent Keith sent me the following email:

 After 16 mos. of unemployment, as of this afternoon have finally been offered a position that offers gainful employment. I'll start in a few weeks.

[Details redacted so Michelle Malkin isn't tempted to snoop around his office break room, looking for granite countertops.]  So that's one positive thing that's happened to a fellow Crapper, but the good news for us is that Keith (despite blandishments from another blog which has been attempting to poach our staff) will be maintaining his Wo'C Special Correspondency:

However, I shall not abandon the magnificent cause of crap and will continue to provide our readers with the worst of the worst. So stay tuned.

In my own life, things continue to be stressful, but occasionally the tension is relieved by a bit of Dadaist street theater.  Walking down Hollywood Boulevard yesterday, en route to meet a friend, I had to step off the curb as a young guy dressed in a backwards baseball cap, a button down shirt, and nude below the waist, burst onto the sidewalk after stealing a plaid tea towel from a souvenir shop.  He engaged in a brief, violent tug-of-war with the store's middle-aged proprietor, and lost, perhaps because he could only wrestle one-handed, as the other was assigned to clutching his groin.  He spun around and sprinted down the street, with the grizzled, wheezing, bespectacled shopkeeper in hot pursuit.

When I recounted this to my friend, her main interest was in the tea towel.  "Was he covering his junk, or just being an asshole?"

"He was both covering his junk and being an asshole," I said.  "But not, alas, successfully covering his asshole."

Toward a Radical Re-Interpretation of Just For Men Mustache Dye

Smear of greasepaint Joseph Farah is giddy with his own bad self, for he has written a naughty headline at internet snake oil dealership, WorldNetDaily.  But don't worry about slipping into a fugue state after reading his outrageous, paradigm-shifting words, because on advice of counsel he spends the first paragraph talking you down like you're on a bad acid trip.  So relax.  Take some vitamin B complex.  If you've got a beer, drink it.  And put on some Allman Brothers.

Live like George Zimmerman
Exclusive: Joseph Farah says shooter behaved as men should in a self-governing society

While Joseph behaves as Maoists do in a free society, since there was a long lived graffito in downtown L.A., applied to a overpass pylon during the whole "Gang of Four" business in 1976, that read, "Jiang Qing, Live like Her!"  This was replaced about four years later, presumably by dues-paying members of the Revolutionary Communist Party, USA, with the slogan, "Bob Avakian: Live like Him!"  I absorbed these messages at a formative time in my life, and by 1980 I didn't know who to live like, so instead I adopted the Depression Era motto of the National Restaurant Association: "Enjoy Life--Eat Out More Often."

I know that’s a provocative headline – especially when all the facts on the Trayvon Martin case are not yet in.

But it's not like the facts could ever boomerang and make this sentiment seem stupid and short-sighted.  It's just like Joseph's earliest money-making scheme, back in 1966 (before he started selling the crisis seed banks, the secret karate moves the government doesn't want you to know about, and the perpetual motion Galtian solar engines you can make from stuff found in your junk drawer), his line of "Live like Richard Speck" t-shirts.  Oh sure, some unsavory things came out at the subsequent trial, but these rugged Beefy-Ts remained a popular item pretty much everywhere they were sold, except in certain Chicago-area nursing school gift shops.

However, as we learn more about this case, it is becoming clearer every day that George Zimmerman was not only defending himself against a vicious attack when he shot Martin, he was doing so while attempting to be a good citizen, a Good Samaritan, watching out for his family, friends and neighbors.

That's pretty much the lesson I drew from the parable of the Good Samaritan, and it bugs me that people focus on the protagonist helping that one injured man, rather than focusing on all the men he injured along the way.  It's like the complaint lodged by Peter Graves Impersonator Bryan Fischer that the Pentagon has totally "feminiz[ed] of Medal of Honor," because "every Medal of Honor awarded during these two conflicts has been awarded for saving life. Not one has been awarded for inflicting casualties on the enemy. Not one."

Clearly, there's only one cure for this misunderstood, vulva-ized parable, and that's an action movie.  I'm just spitballing here, but I see a kind of Superfly-style poster, with the Samaritan standing in the foreground, holding a bloody sword and giving the camera a hard look while a woman clings to his leg, and the tagline reads: "To You, He's a Good Samaritan.  But to Them...He's Bad News!"

Since the facts of the case clearly no longer support the hysterical claims of Al Sharpton, Spike Lee and Jesse Jackson that Zimmerman stalked Trayvon Martin and murdered him in cold blood because he was black, there is a new fallback narrative emerging from the media. It goes like this: “Well, the police dispatcher advised Zimmerman not to follow the suspicious person and let them handle it. If he only had listened to the authorities, Martin would still be alive and Zimmerman would not be facing second-degree murder charges.”

Nonsense.

In a self-governing society, the police are not the boss of you, and aren't allowed to tell you who you may and may not hunt within the confines of your own gated community.  The most they can do is issue you a ticket if you bag more than your limit (although, if you shoot a teenage girl, they may ask to see your doe license).

No. 1: We don’t know that Zimmerman was still following Martin. Martin may have been following Zimmerman, for all we know.

It could have been a wacky French style farce, playing out on the streets of Sanford, Florida, with Feydeau's trademark slamming doors replaced by the sound of fatal gunshots.

No. 2. This is what police say all the time. It’s what the Nanny State-types persuade Americans to do: “Just let the police handle it. This is our job. We’re trained to deal with these matters.”

That's exactly what police detective Christopher George said to embittered Vietnam Vet Robert Ginty in the 1980 film The Executioner, when he advised Robert not to go into crackhouses and roast hopheads at close range with his homemade flame-thrower.  I like to think this typical Carter-era scene was the pivot that turned viewers against the Nanny State and helped to spark the Reagan Revolution, leading ultimately to more "Stand Your Ground" legislation, and fewer FDA busybodies poking their noses into poultry slaughterhouses.

What we have as a result of that kind of programing is the beginning of the end of a self-governing society in which neighbor watches out for neighbor and citizens take personal responsibility.

I agree with Joseph.  Society was much stronger back before the state shoehorned itself into personal issues like who killed who, and murders were avenged by family members, leading to feuds that could last for years, because the cornerstone of civilization is the family, and nothing brings a family together like having a tradition.  Ours was cottage cheese and lime Jell-O salad at Thanksgiving, while yours might be a multi-generation blood vendetta.

Not too long ago, I saw a suspicious pickup truck parked in front of my property. I went out to see what was up. Naturally, I took my two best friends, Smith and Wesson, with me.

He also tried inviting his other close buds, Ass and Hole, but they've learned through hard experience to screen their calls.

Over the years, I’ve had to chase many suspicious people off my property or out of my gated community.

Most of them were rather transparently disguised as "UPS Delivery Men," "Paperboys," or "Neighbors."

I never had to shoot any of them. But I was always armed and ready to do that if they attacked me.

That appears to be what happened with George Zimmerman.

You're jealous, aren't you?

We shouldn’t be demeaning such men. We shouldn’t be booking them for second-degree murder. We shouldn’t be putting bounties on their heads. We shouldn’t be calling them racists. We shouldn’t be railroading them through the justice system.

We should be thanking them.

We should be rewarding them.

We should be honoring them. Because this is the way men are supposed to behave in a self-governing society.

Remember, "The Only Way You'll Get My Gun is When You Pry It from My Cold, Dead Hand.  Which, Coincidentally, Will Also Be the Way I'll Get Your Skittles."

And The Sinner Is...

Wo'C Correspondent Keith alerted me that the results are in for that Worst Movie Ever poll we talked about here, and the winner, as he more or less predicted, is...Battlefield Earth!  So I apologize for recycling yet another piece from Better Living Through Bad Movies, but the temptation -- let alone the synchronicity -- is simply too great to resist.  So here's our exegesis of L. Ron Hubbard's magnum opus, along with a few life lessons we picked up along the way.

Battlefield Earth (2000)
Directed by Roger Christian
Written by L. Ron Hubbard (novel), Corey Mandell and J.D. Shapiro

A crawl informs us that it’s the Year 3000, and for the past thousand years, Earth has been ruled by the "Psychlos." How did such an advanced race of space-faring beings wind up with such a stupid name? Well, they’re obviously a nutty bunch, judging by John Travolta’s performance, and they seem to have wiped out every trailer park on the planet, so I’m guessing that author and Church of Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard just combined the words “psycho” and “cyclone.” Anyway, they’re big-assed aliens from a planet where George Clinton is the dominant life form.

The Psychlos have spent the past millennium prospecting for gold, so I assume that when not invading other planets and committing genocide, they act as the Gabby Hayes-like comic relief to an alien species that resembles Roy Rogers or Hoot Gibson.

Meanwhile, humans (represented by pasty white people dressed like Vikings) are confined to pockets of wasteland, where they are rapidly becoming extinct—so I guess all those dead 19th century Indians are having a bit of a laugh. Just so we get the point, the director pans the pristine, snow-capped Rocky Mountains (giving us a glimmer of hope that even in the bleak, post-apocalyptic future, there will still be beer commercials) and a subtitle reads: “Man is an endangered species.” Despite this, the Bush Administration still wants to drill in the Arctic National Man Refuge.

The survivors of humanity have adopted the usual trappings of barbarism—furs and buckskin clothing, polytheism, and French braids. One courageous lad (Barry Pepper) defies the anger of the gods and boldly ventures forth alone to find his destiny. Within thirty seconds he gets thrown from his horse, and panicked by a miniature golf course. Fortunately, he runs into a pair of hunters, and offers them snacks in exchange for exposition.

They take shelter in the Apocalypse Galleria and huddle around a cook fire. But one of the Psychlos turns out to be a mall walker, and he takes exception to their careless use of an open flame so close to Lane Bryant. The alien stuns the two hunters with its ray gun, but Barry is too fast for it, perhaps because the alien isn’t entirely at ease clomping around in Gene Simmons’ platform boots from
KISS.

Eventually, Barry and the hunters are put in a cage built into the belly of an alien jet. Yes, even though it’s a thousand years in the future, and the aliens can instantly teleport across the galaxy, they still use internal combustion engines. Suck it, Al Gore!

The jet flies to the Psychlo’s capital, Biosphere 2. The humans are issued those little anti-snoring patches for their noses, which somehow helps them to survive the extraterrestrial environment inside the dome. But it’s not only the air that’s different; the entire domed city is perpetually bathed in a dim blue glow, suggesting the Psychlos can only exist in the atmosphere of a soft-core porn film.

The jet lands at the “Human Processing Center—Denver,” and we look forward to watching Barry get rendered into a form of alien Velveeta. Instead, he startles his captors by shooting one of the Psychlos with its own gun, and making a break for it. But he immediately slips and falls, for along with man’s loss of art, science, and medicine, he has also forgotten the ancient admonition not to run on the linoleum in your socks.

Barry slides to a stop at the platformed feet of Psychlos John Travolta and Forrest Whittaker, who were in the middle of discussing how beeswax will help to keep the fuzz down on your dreadlocks.

Travolta, it seems, has fallen from favor with the Home Office, and has been condemned to serve as security chief of Earth for another 50 years. All the other Psychlos laugh at John, except for his immediate supervisor, who’s too busy cultivating the largest dewlap in the galaxy.

Cut to Planet Psychlo. It’s a grim, inhospitable world; a dark urban landscape stretches to the horizon, studded with towers belching fire and pollution into the perpetual twilight of a purple sky, and inhabited by cruel beings thirsting for wealth and power. So basically, it’s Houston.

Cut right back to Earth, where John is getting drunk and working himself into a thick, creamy lather of overacting, which is later harvested, and dispensed as food to the humans with the help of a sour cream gun from Taco Bell.

John plans to buy his way off the planet by secretly training “man-animals” to mine a newly discovered vein of gold. First, however, he sets the humans to remodeling his office with pickaxes. But Barry, who is evolving faster than the apes in 2001, turns on John’s stereo and boldly messes with his equalizer settings.

The outraged Travolta immediately straps Barry into a dentist’s chair and has a Portuguese Man O’ War teach him Conversational Psychlo. Then they shoot some pollen in his eye, and suddenly, he’s The Computer Wore Moccasins.

John, realizing that Reading Is Fundamental, takes Barry on a field trip to the Denver Library, and tells him that “Man is an endangered species,” because Barry was ignorant when the film began, and couldn’t read the opening titles.

Later, John hauls Barry and his friends out to the forest, and proves his technological superiority by shooting the legs off a cow. Just as he’s about to win the plush toy, he’s jumped by a feral tribe wearing fox pelts on their heads, which menace him with spears. John miraculously escapes, however, when the tribe itself is attacked by PETA.

Suddenly, Forrest arrives with Barry’s girlfriend, who they’ve identified because she was carrying a chamois with a face scratched into it. The image looks remarkably like one of Red Skelton’s clown paintings, so the Psychlos immediately deduce that it must be Barry. The Girlfriend is then accessorized with the latest in explosive collars.

Back at Biosphere II, John sexually harasses his new secretary, giving us the opportunity to see that female Psychlos have prehensile tongues and male pattern baldness, and, one would assume, an escort service that does pretty well when the House Republican Caucus is in town.

Suddenly, Travolta discovers that governor Dewlap has been skimming profits, and threatens to report him to the Nevada Gaming Commission unless he does something about that Elizabethan ruffle of loose skin hanging from his neck.


Cut to the Rockies, where Travolta orders Barry (who has now gotten his alien jet learner's permit) to fly the human miners up to the gold vein, since the thin atmosphere at high altitudes doesn’t supply enough oxygen to support the Psychlo’s spittle-flecked, mouth-breathing acting style.

Instead, Barry flies to Ft. Hood, where the illiterate, spear-wielding fox-head guys learn how to pilot F-16s by playing Asteroids, while Barry watches that How to Assemble an Atomic Bomb film strip  they always used to make us watch on rainy days in junior high. Then they fly to Kentucky and rob Ft. Knox in a scene that’s not exactly the climax of Goldfinger.

Later, Barry manages to sow doubt and distrust between Forrest and Travolta, with the result that John decapitates a bartender, and shoots off Forrest’s hand.  Forrest looks confused, and considers reporting John to the EEOC for creating a hostile work environment.

Barry riles up all the human prisoners in the Planet of the Apes Memorial Cellblock, and sparks a revolt, but it doesn’t go very well. Just in the nick of time, however, the tribe of primitive hunter-gatherers arrive, flying jet fighters which are in perfect working condition after a thousand years of neglect. But let my car sit for more than a week, and I can just forget about getting it started again without begging one of the neighbors for a jump. Anyway, a bunch of illiterate, lice-ridden, half-naked savages suddenly turn into Top Gun fighter jocks after one trip to the Drivers Ed simulator and start shooting down the technologically advanced Psychlos, proving that Scientology really does work wonders.

The humans blow up Biosphere 2. Then Barry uses his girlfriend’s explosive collar to blow off Travolta’s right arm, in a ruthless act of attempted irony.

Meanwhile, one of Barry’s posse teleports to the Planet Psychlo with an atomic weapon. This is where the aliens really pay for basing their entire economy on the petrochemical industry, since the bomb causes their atmosphere to catch on fire.

And even though the film isn’t explicit about this, we sense that as every living thing on the surface of the planet is incinerated, certain cashiered whistleblowers from the Psychlo EPA enjoy a moment of smug vindication.


So what new truths have we gleaned from Battlefield Earth? Basically, if you're looking for a weird, nerdy religion with a scripture based on classic sci-fi themes like time travel, teleportation, and strange alien worlds, then you might as well just join the Mormons.  At least they don't make crappy action movies, and if you're an attractive young woman, you're much less likely to be selected by church elders as the host organism for Tom Cruises' next baster baby.

She's Like Perry Mason, But With a Breathable Cotton Panel

Our friend, mystery writer Debbi Mack is giving away an e-book version of her latest novel, Riptide (not the 1984-86 TV detective series with Joe Penny and Perry King, which I always confuse with the 1960-62 TV detective series Surfside 6, with Troy Donohue and Van Williams).  I'm a little late to the party, and the coupon on her site is only good until Saturday, so as she says, "act fast."

Remembrance of Dicks Past

Dick Clark, as you've probably heard, has passed on to a better, Ryan Seacrestless place, and at the risk of speaking ill of the dead, we thought we'd take a look back at Dick's brief movie career, with this review culled from the Teenage Wasteland chapter of Better Living Through Bad Movies.

Because They’re Young (1960)
Directed by Paul Wendkos
Written by James Gunn, based on a novel by John Farris.

Tagline: “Whoever you are, you’re in this picture! Because this tells of youth’s challenge to grown-ups who can’t understand!”

Based on the tagline, this film was a seminal influence on the early works of DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince.

But let’s meet our cast of characters:

Dick Clark is a new history teacher, a “firebrand” who believes in really talking to teens, asking them meaningful questions like what they think of the new single by The 1910 Fruitgum Company. But this school doesn’t allow gum, so Dick is in for trouble.

Joanne, the principal’s secretary, is an uptight, sexless spinster known around campus as “The Snow Queen.” She’ll be Dick’s love interest.

Shy, awkward Buddy. He worships his mother, who, unbeknownst to him, is a blowsy drunk who “dates” guys for a bottle of tequila. Buddy will be having some emotional problems in this movie.

Ricky is a cute, wholesome cheerleader who can’t wait to get married to boyfriend Doug McClure, while Doug is a red blooded, boneheaded football player who can’t wait to get into Ricky’s pants. “Don’t give me that malarkey about cold showers,” he says. Doug will be learning a few things about sex in this movie.

Tuesday Weld has already learned a few things about sex. Her shrewish mom thinks she’s a slut, but Tuesday avers, “I am not going to be a scarlet woman! I made a mistake! It won’t happen again!” Or will it?

Griff has a bad reputation, a worse attitude, and a history with Tuesday (she used to be his regular Tuesday night thing). He’s your typical suburban JD, a rebel without a brain.

So, let’s begin our movie. It’s the first day of school and already Dick has been called to Principal Woodman’s office because he doesn’t like Dick’s casual way of dealing with the Sweathogs. Secretary Joanne begs Dick to do things by the book, that book presumably being “Blackboard Jungle.” While it looks like something is brewing between Dick and Joanne, the kids give the romance a “3,” saying that it doesn’t have a good beat, you can’t dance to it, and Joanne is frigid.

Dick shows his heroic idealism at the big event of the year, the Honor Society Dance. First, he makes them admit all the students, not just the ones with honor. Then, when some young toughs from Hoodlum High try to crash it, Dick won’t let the football players trounce them. Joanne offers to call the police, but Dick nixes that too—he will handle it. And he does, by telling the hoods to leave. They
sneer “Says who?”

“I do,” Dick answers firmly. So, the gang departs, intimidated by the stern dance-show host. Or maybe they realized that James Darren was about to burst into the title song now and were afraid he might get through the entire thing, without being Raptured in mid-chorus by the Time Tunnel.

Later than night, Doug McClure gives Ricky his school ring, and then kisses her. Ricky pushes him away and flounces off—she is not the kind of girl who goes to first base, and especially not when it’s a base on balls. When Doug returns to the gym, Dick can see something is wrong—but he tactfully averts his eyes from Doug’s groin. Doug whines that Ricky is supposed to love him, but she won’t,
and stuff. Dick tells him to think about it from her perspective—and to take a cold shower.

Joanne is jealous of all the attention Dick is paying to Doug’s…problem, and warns Dick that he can’t give so much of himself to his students. At least not with the authorities pressing charges. But Dick says he can’t change, because being a teen messiah is just who he is.

Now it’s report card time. Griff got good grades, and it’s the talk of the school! Doug and all the cool kids are really impressed with how nicely Griff’s conforming these days. We learn why when he tells Tuesday he modeled himself on Eddie Haskell just for her. He turns off the lights, throws her on the couch, and kisses her passionately. Sleazy music plays and he says hungrily, “Let’s take that ride
now!” But Tuesday doesn’t want to ride Griff’s Wild Mouse, since it’s cheap, tawdry, over in two minutes, and leaves her feeling nauseous. She pushes him off and orders him out. Griff is furious to have fake-changed his life for her. He immediately goes to Chris, the butcher at Safeway, and the town’s criminal mastermind and signs up for a life of crime.

Chris invites Griff to a felony scheduled for that weekend. Chris and teen henchman Patcher have a big heist planned, and Griff can be the getaway driver. But when Chris sets off the alarm at the wiener and cold cuts warehouse, Griff gets scared and runs, leaving the ruthless Chris and the homicidal Patcher to
trudge home with link sausages draped around their necks.

Meanwhile, Buddy comes home unexpectedly and finds Mom entertaining Otis, the town drunk. Buddy is horrified to learn that any man can have his mother for a bottle of cheap wine, so he runs away from home. He winds up at play rehearsal, where he weepily confides in Tuesday that mom really isn’t a saint.

She puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, causing him to yell, “Don’t touch me! You’ll get dirty, just like me! Just like my mother!” Griff, who was hiding in the shadows, pops out to tell Buddy that Tuesday is already as grimy as Buddy’s mother, and it’s a ground-in grime that leaves her with Ring Around the Hymen.

This totally destroys Buddy’s faith in virginity, so he pummels Griff, then throws him down the stairs and runs away. Again!

Dick is suspended for having taught Buddy history, which is probably what caused him to go berserk. The FBI initiates a shoot-to-kill search for Buddy, but just then, a student rushes in with vital evidence: it’s Tuesday’s library book, and it has blood on it! DNA testing reveals that Tuesday went all the way with Griff, and so Buddy was justified in beating the crap out of him. Joanne tries to get Tuesday to come forward and save Buddy, but Tuesday hysterically explains that her mother thinks she’s a tart so she has to get away to drama school! But if anyone knows she’s impure she will never be admitted, since the acting profession has very strict moral standards.

Griff, jealous of Buddy’s and Tuesday’s bad mothers and the opportunities they provide for big, dramatic scenes, shouts at his father, “You never did care about me!” and storms out of the house.

Dick finds Buddy and tells him sympathetically that it’s always a shock to find out that your mother is the town’s cheap floozy, but hey, nobody’s perfect. Mom and Buddy hug and cry, and Buddy gets a contact high from her breath.

Tuesday resolves to confess and save Buddy from the death penalty, even if it means she’ll never get her SAG card. But when she and Dick arrive at the principal’s office, they find that Griff has already cleared Buddy. So, Tuesday’s reputation is safe and she can play a virgin in Dobie Gillis without anyone being the wiser.

Doug and Ricky reflect that they have learned a valuable lesson from all this: never have sex, because it only leads to violence, shame, and overacting. Doug says half-heartedly, “We can still have fun,” as he and Ricky sublimate through weenie roasts or something.

But just when everyone’s problems are solved, Patcher shows up and tries to kill Griff. The two boys have a knife fight in the biology lab, considerately avoiding the big aquarium that modern movie teens would feel compelled to break.

Patcher stabs Griff, but Dick, who was a football star at Neurasthenic University, tackles Patcher, thus proving that while history is all well and good, it’s sports that really matter. As the police take Patcher away, Principal Woodman calls an ambulance for Griff, causing him to say in amazement, “What you do you know? You guys give a damn!” Even better, the knife-fight cured Joanne’s frigidity, and she symbolically embraces Dick, and all that Dick stands for. The End.

Thanks to Because They’re Young, we now know that back in the early Sixties teenagers were all in their thirties, so normal adolescent angst was often complicated by erectile dysfunction, or osteoporosis. But perhaps a more eye-opening element is the filmmakers’ conviction that the proper way to treat erotophobia is with a shiv-wielding rumble.

 Our understanding of human sexuality is still incomplete, but it is clear that Because They’re Young was largely responsible for inspiring the Sexual Revolution. Its influence was apparent the very next year, when West Side Story was released, and countless potential spinsters found their career plans to be cold and unresponsive ruined by the musical’s climactic knife fight. No longer able to effectively sublimate, America’s sour-faced secretaries and purse-lipped librarians found that the merest suggestion of an attempted stabbing rendered them moist and febrile, and before the decade was out, these same prissy, bun-wearing killjoys were doffing their cat-eye spectacles and rolling around naked in the mud at Woodstock. There are even some who claim Because They’re Young paved the way for the Voting Rights Act of 1964 when its bold therapeutic approach was adopted by The Black Rebels, made later that same year, and released with the tagline, “Switchblade fights and civil rights!”

So while Because They’re Young may not have much to offer in the way of handling teens, it does have much to teach us about curing vaginal dryness and eliminating the poll tax.

Emergency! II: The Evictioning

I'm sorry, but this lifestyle isn't really all it's cracked up to be.  Me and Maru is gonna have words. 

There is no Joy in Mudville. Nor any other leading brand of dish detergent, because Anntichrist S. Coulter (our dear friend Joanna) has lost her appeal, and is being forced to go the opposite of Galt (Tlag, I suppose, which sounds like a city in the former Soviet republic of Georgia -- and I bet they have decent public housing, even if it does come with a moss-covered statue of Stalin in the breezeway).

In other words, Annti is down to her last few days with a roof over her head, and will soon be living in and around her truck.  Thanks to your generosity, she was able to move her worldly goods into storage and buy some camping equipment, the very thought of which chills my blood (I can just imagine trying to live in a vehicle or sleep on the ground with my back problems, let alone hers).

I know she's extremely grateful (as are Sheri, Mary and I) for the very kind donations she's already received, but if you've discovered a few extra coins under the couch cushions, she could really use them, for gas, food, campground fees, rent on her storage unit, and medications for her and her surviving dependent, Biddy.  There's a button for Payments to Pals on the right-hand side of her blog, and if you're able, please click here to give.  Anything -- literally, at this point, anything -- will help.

Sorry to be a downer, and sorrier still that I live in a country where the wicked prosper, while a person like Joanna -- who is always the first to care for the least of us -- can be casually, thoughtlessly, and cruelly hobo-ized.

UPDATE:  Fellow blogger and author Debbi Mack very kindly linked to the Evict-a-thon over at her blog, Random and Sundry Things.  Debbi is a lawyer and award-winning mystery writer, a lover of Perry Mason and a connoisseur of fine Della Street cheesecake photos -- in other words, she's our kinda folks, so drop by and say hi.

Making a Metaphor Out of a Molehill

When politicians talk about tipping tax policy in favor of the "job creators," I'm tempted to observe that, even if they're inclined to, there is a limit to the number of jobs they could create in our present economy, because there's a limit to the size of the human bladder -- i.e., there are just so many Frappuccinos we can drink.

But Dr. Gina Loudon reminds us that, despite the loss of our industrial base, there are three things we still manufacture in America: outrage, orgasms, and suspect doctorates.

Dr. Gina, just to catch you up, is a talk radio host from St. Louis, whose Id is broadcast over 8 Midwestern states.  Here's a sample:

The land surrounding Ground Zero is a war memorial. The proposal of an Islamic mosque there is synonymous with a Nazi war memorial in downtown London. How would the world react to that proposal? Wouldn’t Western Europe just about leap off the map if that were proposed? Where is the outrage from our European “friends?”

So like a lot of farm league Limbaughs, Dr. Gina's mouth resembles that plywood  machine on the old Hobo Kelly show, which would vomit toys when the host turned the crank.

Dr. Gina Loudon, Ph.D., dispensing her opinions during midafternoon on KJSL TRUTHTALK, 630 AM (artist's conception).

But she's more than that.  The wife of "Senator John Loudon (R-MO, ret.)" -- actually, State Senator -- she's also a "Policologist (the nexus of politics and psychology)."  At first, I assumed that meant her Ph.D is in either political science or psychology, but that's simply because my own intellectual scope is as cramped and limited as the dimensions of the human bladder, because it turns out her degree is in Humanity Itself:

Fielding Graduate University is a"distributed learning" institution, which in previous decades would have been called a "correspondence school," but it's on the Internet, so we have to make up a new bullshit, jargony term for it, 'cause of l33tspeak.  FGU focuses on the student who wants the college experience delivered to his couch like a Domino's pizza...

• Do you wish to pursue your PhD, EdD, Master's or a certificate without moving from your home?

...and is looking for a doctorate in a just barely plausible field, like "Human and Organizational Development," "Evidence Based Coaching" and "Sustainability Leadership," all of which would obviously qualify one to go on AM radio every day and bitch about homos.  Their course catalog reminds me of a bit from What's Up, Tiger Lily?:

High Macha Of Rashpur: Good afternoon. I am the Grand Exalted High Macha of Raspur, a nonexistent but real-sounding country.
Phil Moscowitz: Uh-huh.
High Macha Of Rashpur: Yes. We're on a waiting list. As soon as there's an opening on the map, we're next.

Among the achievements she's proud enough to include in her bio, "Dr." Gina and her husband also claim to be the original organizers of the St. Louis Tea Party, from which they were subsequently and summarily ejected (by Dana Loesch and her husband, Chris) after Gina called marriage equality "a big gay mistake," and (State) Senator Loudon (R-MO, ret.) remarked:

If you want gay marriage, keep the federal government out of it. Move to a State of your choosing, and live happily gayly married ever after. This crap of you leftists getting one judge to make laws really irritates the heck out of people who believe in the rule of law. It is disgusting that you people cannot learn from the past. Live by the sword, die by the sword. You leave no choice but a US Constitutional Amendment.

It seems that naked homophobia doesn't sell as well as it used to, and even Missouri Teabaggers prefer the figleaf of "religious freedom," just as many of the most virulent racists in the 1950s and 60s would rather be seen speaking of "states' rights" than "segregation."  Plus, with the weird, lopsided, Frankensteinian way her head sits on her body, most people are probably frightened by the thought of seeing her naked.

And that brings me to perhaps the most interesting thing about the Distance Learning Doctor -- that even though she's a far right wing conservative, she made the cheeky, subversive decision to use a photo collage for her official headshot (see above).  Very post modern.

Anyway, let's get to the doctor's column, in which we learn why we liberals should stop persecuting Ann Romney for the crime of wealth, and instead, simply admire the ease and frequency with which she is made moist by Mitt.

More Obama Manufactured Outrage at Women

Remember when Grandma warned you not to “make a mountain out of a mole hill” or it would get you into trouble? 

Actually, I don't really remember my grandmother ever using that phase, and certainly not as a threat.  Apparently your Grandma considered you a self-dramatizing little twit.

The Democrat machine might have crashed into the side of their own manufactured mountain.  They manufactured the war on women that never took place, and drudged up the sexually promiscuous Sandra Fluke as their hero. 

I hate when our machine crashes into imaginary mountains.  We should spend less time manufacturing and drudging, and more time listening to the GPS -- unfortunately, it's got a woman's voice, so we're at war with it.

Anyway, this is a good a time as any to clarify some common misconceptions.  The Republicans (and I think even our liberal friends can agree with this) are not at war with woman!  They're only waging war on one part -- the vagina -- and all they're asking for is the right to regulate what goes into it (nothing!) and what comes out (babies!, which should be constantly popping their heads through the labia like a game of Whack-A-Mole).

Then they manufactured a race war, and they have all the love and beauty of Sharpton, Farrakhan, and Jackson on the face of that mountain.

So our machine crashed into Imaginary Mount Blackmore, which replaced Mount Rushmore when Obama and Holder suspended the Constitution and handed the reins of power to the jackbooted thugs from Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation video?  Or is Dr. Human Development just quoting one of the more memorable passages from The Turner Diaries?

But their favorite manufactured mountain is that of class warfare.

Actually, mine is Space Mountain, followed a close second by Big Thunder Mountain. What's your favorite manufactured mountain?

This one works well for them, even in a tough economy of their own creation.  But Americans are waking up to an election on the horizon, and they are not seeing themselves reflected in the chosen heroes of the left.

We need to spritz our heroes with a little Windex.

Hilary Rosen, a Democrat strategist took a turn at the wheel of the class warfare train last night, and crashed it right into the side of the carefully constructed class warfare mountain.

I don't know if the police in Missouri can arrest one for Metaphoring while Under the Influence, but I think Gina just blew a 0.19.

Ann Romney, however blessed because of her family’s dedication to hard work, good business acumen and budgeting

...and rapine.

...has raised 5 boys.

Well, she's raised 5 boys once removed, thanks to the governesses.  And the tutors -- so twice removed.  And the chauffeurs who drove them back and forth to school, and the mall, and soccer clinic, and...Okay, let's just agree than Ann Romney raised 5 boys with no more than 6 Degrees of Separation.

She chose to stay at home and raise them, even after she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and Cancer. 

I don't mean this as a joke, but I'm not sure how her health problems reflect on her courageously empty resume, because a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis and Cancer is not usually the signal to run out and get a stressful full-time job.  Unless, unlike Ann Romney, you desperately need the medical insurance (and good luck getting it with a pre-existing condition, let alone two).

She has campaigned alongside her husband for decades (that is work!)

Agreed!  I've had a few gigs in my life that involved manual labor, and none of them were as hard and backbreaking as the job of trying to convince people to like Mitt Romney.

...and she has done so all with an air of graciousness that has made her “more likable” than her husband in the eyes of the American electorate.

Which is something else she has in common with cancer.

Did she have help? Probably.  House keepers?  Check.  Spa appointments? Probably.  But should women across the country aspire to less?  Wouldn’t it be nice if most women in America had all that? 

So...if we vote for Mitt Romney, he'll give us a facial?  And not the kind we got repeatedly from the Bush-Cheney Administration?

As American women look at the business leader who took Ann Romney to that great place

Ewwww!  Ann's campaign slogan: "Vote for Mitt -- He Got Me Off Once."

...they might just prefer a President who worked for his wife and family to that end, rather than a President who truly has never even held a job in the private sector, met a budget, or had anything of luxury not funded by taxpayers. 

 Apparently the Obamas lived in a Cabrini Green before movin' on up to the White House.  It's like The Jeffersons, cubed!

Families are already feeling the vice grip of a gasping economy.

If there's one thing that's strong, crushing, and inescapable, it's the handshake of an emphysema patient.

In quiet observation, kids watch as the Obama kids live well, vacation much, and shop often, and they are asking questions about their own family vacations.

You know, our family went through several extremely bad years when I was a child, and while I was depressed when Santa Claus bypassed our house on Christmas, and upset when I'd go to the refrigerator in the morning and find no food, mostly I was obsessed with Tricia Nixon's honeymoon plans.

R.I.P. Thomas Kinkade, “Painter of Lite”

By Keith

Thomas, I hardly knew you. In fact, I never heard of you, much less viewed your work. I inhabit that rarefied elitist world of NYC where a trip to the dentist’s or doctor’s office is more likely to feature posters from MoMA or the Guggenheim displayed in waiting rooms. Secondly, can’t receive QVC on our limited TV roster.

Read of your death, coincident with Holy Week and Passover, and of curiosity pointed my browser to your website (warning, kitschy music and QVC-like folksy sales pitch) but it was “slashdotted.” Couldn’t get through.

Fortunately was able to at last view some of your paintings. How unfortunate your demise was upstaged by the Resurrection of Our Lord & Savior™. But Thomas, you’ve made my Holy Week all the more sacred, because I’m now imbued with a deeper understanding of the meaning of all that is conveniently referred to as “Kitsch.”

The lights are always on at St. Thomas Estates, thanks to our resident G.E. AP-100 30MW nuclear power station located in the basement of St. Thomas Rectory (far right). Besides complimentary electricity service, we offer a dazzling array of amenities for your residential security and well-being. Lakefront can be “parted” during emergencies for easy egress and exit. Our cadre of advanced Raytheon “Duck-Drones” will accompany you and your loved ones to and from most local conveniences (see “Terms of Service” below). You’ll feel as if the Lord’s Breath itself has entered your body once you inhabit your dream residential environment.

This lovely cottage has “Starter Home” written all over it. And wouldn’t you love to know what’s inside? Master bedroom and bath with sublime, gold-plated fixtures, spacious kitchen with all-marble surfaces, servants quarters located in basement/dungeon combo (can be used as home office). Simulated thatched roof opens on remote command so you can access our unique Raytheon laser-guided RPGs that can take out pesky intruders up to 250 yards, all from the convenience of your living room. Enjoy the evenings outside free of bothersome bugs and ticks ... they’ve been irradiated! $1.5 Million + closing says “You’re In!”

We at St. Thomas Estates haven’t forgotten the value of entertainment. Imagine yourself enjoying an evening aboard our flagship St. Thomas Showboat and complimentary cocktails on the top deck casino (See “Terms of Service” below). Or talk to the animals ... they’ll talk back! Better yet, make a reservation at our landmark Kinkade Hospitality Center (center) and savor a meal expertly prepared from fresh seafood gathered locally each and every day.

Post-Friday Beast Blogging: The Risky Business Edition

Riley:  I love it when they go out, and we can watch whatever we want.  I think Team Blake is gonna crush it this week!

Moondoggie:  Do you think Christina Aguilera's boobs are real?

Riley:  Crap!  Did I leave the oven on...?

Moondoggie:  I mean, they look big enough to nurse an entire litter at once, but there's only two nipples, which means you'd have a huge kitten queue waiting to latch on.  Seems like kind of a design flaw, if you ask me...

Riley:  You!  Go check the oven!  I can't miss the Final Four!

Moondoggie:  I mean, they're so big they spill out of her dress and off the screen and halfway across the ro--  Oh.  Wait.  That's a biscuit warmer and a tether ball.  Never mind...

Jimmy Carter, History's Greatest Mon--Oh, Forget It

I suspect I'm getting too old for this stuff.  Not because of the bad back, or my Danny Glover-like exasperation with Mel Gibson's antics, but mostly because I remember when The Simpsons was satire.  Now it's a documentary -- and not even a tongue-in-cheek, Morgan Spurlock romp through popular culture, but a grim, pitiless, Errol Morris-like gaze into the abyss of modern American society.  In other words, I've been visiting World Net Daily.

Yes, Joseph ("Just For Menstache") Farah has gone beyond mockery, beyond satire, and is now traveling through The Twilight Zone, and by that I mean the zone with the sparkly vampires and the compulsively topless werewolves, not the literate one with the grasp of irony, flair for allegory, and frequent shots of Rod Serling coughing up a lung oyster.

What happens when an evil man is interviewed by a know-nothing interviewer from a corrupt and decadent faux news agency?

Karl Rove books another appearance on Hannity?

You need someone like me to sort out the sublime (not much of that) to the ridiculous.

While Joseph needs someone with a strong constitution to sort out his nose hair from his mustache before applying the weekly Just For Men, because dying your nasal cilia is contraindicated, according to the manufacturer.  As Barbra Streisand so memorably sang, "People...Who need People.  Are the luckiest People...in the world"  Except for the People who pull proboscis pelt duty on days when Joseph has a salon appointment.

So that’s what we’re going to do. Decipher and decode the Huffington Post’s Q&A with the insufferable Jimmy Carter.

Oh good, more of Farah's thoughts on Jimmy Carter.  It's like reading Moby Dick, if Ahab had been obsessed with harpooning Clara Peller.

Asked by HuffPost senior religion editor Paul Brandeis about Creation, Carter said: “I happen to have an advantage there because I am a nuclear physicist by training and a deeply committed Christian. I don’t have any doubt in my own mind about God who created the entire universe. But I don’t adhere to passages that so and so was created 4,000 years before Christ, and things of that kind. Today we have shown that the earth and the stars were created millions, even billions, of years before. We are exploring space and sub-atomic particles and learning new facts every day, facts that the Creator has known since the beginning of time.”

Well, wait a minute! Was it millions of years ago or billions? There’s a big difference between the two. Why so imprecise? That doesn’t sound like a nuclear physicist talking. Just how old is the Earth?

Above the age of consent, I hope, because it's getting fracked on a daily basis.  (And yes, 88-year old man, your failure to properly card Creation is making it extremely difficult to plan a birthday party for the Universe, because we're not sure if it's appropriate to hire a stripper.)

And if the Creator has known all this from the beginning of time, why would He inspire the authors of the Bible to get it wrong?

Simple!  For just as Candid Camera begat Punk'd, so the Bible begat Candid Camera.

Asked about homosexuality and the Bible, Carter had this to say: “Homosexuality was well-known in the ancient world, well before Christ was born, and Jesus never said a word about homosexuality. In all of his teachings about multiple things – he never said that gay people should be condemned. I personally think it is very fine for gay people to be married in civil ceremonies.”

Wait a minute! Isn’t Jesus God?

Turns out, no -- it was actually a case of identity theft.  Jesus was using an ATM card skimmer.

And didn’t God inspire the Bible? 

Which part?  The first part that contradicts the second part, or the second part that contradicts the first part?  And isn't Joseph question begging?  And if God is love, and God inspired the men who wrote the Bible, then who wrote the Book of Love?

Just because Jesus isn’t quoted in red letters in the Bible discussing homosexuality, does that mean He never addressed it? 

I'm sure he covered it in the lost testament, The Gospel of Saint Dorm Room Bull Sessions.

Doesn’t it suggest, on the contrary, that Jesus didn’t dispute the law of the Bible? 

In that case, I'll bet he's pretty embarrassed about this whole "Christianity" thing that mushroomed after his death.  "Jews, people...We're supposed to be Jews!  Weren't you listening?"

In fact, wouldn’t His atoning sacrifice on the cross be rendered ineffective if He didn’t uphold the law in its entirety? 

You, there!  Put down that shrimp scampi and start stoning your daughter!

Does Jimmy Carter believe there is disagreement within the Trinity on homosexuality?

You tend to get that in any love triangle, especially the one in the 1971 British drama, Sunday, Bloody Sunday, in which the omnisexual Holy Ghost was essayed by Murray Head.

Here’s what the Bible says about homosexuality with no ambiguity:

"Leviticus 18:22: “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.”

Oh, oh, too late!  Should have kept your kinds separated!  (That reminds me, I need to sort the laundry, assuming I'm not killed by this mutant homosexual).

Romans 1:24-28: “Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonour their own bodies between themselves: Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. Amen. For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature: And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompence of their error which was meet. And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient;”

This actually sounds more like the droning monologues the homeless guy who lives in front of the Wax Museum murmurs into his beard when it gets hot, and less like the kind of thing one should base a civil rights policy on.

Of course Jesus never said “gay people should be condemned.” In fact, I don’t know anyone who says that.

At most, Joseph's friends merely demand that the Department of Building Safety and City Engineering cite gay people for faulty wiring, substandard plumbing, and serious metal fatigue in all the load-bearing members.

 What most Bible-believers say is that homosexuals should turn away from their sin – just like adulterers, fornicators and liars should. Further, Jesus does talk very specifically about marriage – 

...from the perspective of a confirmed bachelor with 12 close male friends.

and he affirms what it is supposed to be in God’s economy: an institution between one man and one woman for life (Mark 10:7-9).

Jesus was sweet, but a little naive.  But perhaps marriage would work better if we thought of it as a union of two life-minded individuals united in love and commitment, rather than a cog in "God's economy," because that makes it feel more like a tranche.

Carter continues: “I draw the line, maybe arbitrarily, in requiring by law that churches must marry people. I’m a Baptist, and I believe that each congregation is autonomous and can govern its own affairs. So if a local Baptist church wants to accept gay members on an equal basis, which my church does by the way, then that is fine. If a church decides not to, then government laws shouldn’t require them to.”

Arbitrarily? Has Carter ever read the First Amendment? And what about the Bible-believing civil judge?

Oh!  Oh!  I know this one...He's a contradiction in terms?  Wait, no -- I want to change my answer!  He's bad at his job...?

 Should he or she be forced to violate his or her own moral principles by being forced to participate in sin?

Just like the registrar at the University of Mississippi when James Meredith tried to sign up for class?

Question: “Jesus says I am the way the truth and the life (John 14:6). How can you remain true to an exclusivist faith claim while respecting other faith traditions?”

Question:  A train leaves Philadelphia at 1:00 PM, heading west at at 94 miles an hour.  An eastbound train leaves Cincinnati at 2:30, traveling at 88 miles an hour.  They meet at 9:45 PM, and Gomez Addams blows them up, and it turns out they were toy trains operated by a sitcom character.  Discuss.

Carter: “Jesus also taught that we should not judge other people (Matthew 7:1), and that it is God who judges people, so I am willing to let God make those judgments, in the ultimate time whenever it might come. I think ‘judge not that you be not judged’ is the best advice that I will follow. Maybe it is a rationalization, but it creates a lack of tension in my mind about that potential conflict. There are many verses in the Bible that you could interpret very rigidly and that makes you ultimately into a fundamentalist. When you think you are better than anybody else – that you are closer to God than other people, and therefore they are inferior to you and subhuman – that leads to conflict and hatred and dissonance among people when we should be working for peace.”

But that’s not what Christians are commanded to do by Jesus. We are commanded to spread the gospel for the salvation of many. I know this hasn’t been a big part of Jimmy Carter’s life. But it remains the unequivocal, central role of the Christian in the world.

It's cute when self-righteous fundies go on a five state apostate fingering spree.  It reminds me of Doghouse Riley's observation (I'm paraphrasing) that you can crack open the phone book in any mid-sized American city and find 431 flavors of the One True Faith.

 We’re not supposed to just live and let live – because to do that actually means death for those we don’t confront with their sin and the salvation message. 

Although when you're persistent enough in your proselytizing, they often begin praying for death, so I'd call it a push.

Question: “There is a scripture passage attributed to Jesus, ‘Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth, I did not come to bring peace but a sword’ (Matthew: 10:34). How do you interpret that, in light of your basic belief in Jesus as the Prince of Peace?” 

Christ was strapped?

This is why I call Jimmy Carter a truly evil person. He still tries to masquerade as a Christian, though his views are increasingly heretical if not those of an apostate. 

We still have to prove it, though.  Okay, we'll need a giant apothecary's scale, and a duck...  (By the way, I once masqueraded as a Christian at a Halloween party in college, and I'll be frank -- I totally did not get laid).

Jesus says when judgment day comes, there will be some He turns away, even though they claim to have prophesied in His name.

“Depart from me, I never knew you,” Jesus says (Matthew 7:23). I wonder what goes through Carter’s mind when he reads that verse with Rosalyn?

Well, knowing ol' Mr. Lust in His Heart, I bet it's something dirty.

Brits Nix Stix Pix. And Crispix.

Sorry for the poor harvest here at the content farm.  Normal posting will resume tomorrow, but in the meantime, I've brought in some migrant labor to do the blogging jobs Americans can't or won't.  In this case, it's Keith, with an online poll attempting to determine which movies John Bull considers bullshit.

Now, I like Britain, it's a perfectly fine Mother Country, as long as you stick to wooden hangers, but I'm not necessarily an Anglophile.  This attitude has less to do with the British themselves than with the smug predictions of right wing "warbloggers" in the early days of the Iraq invasion, who foresaw "the Anglosphere" uniting to turn back the tide of Islamofascism.  In the language of Instapundit and his virtual vassal states, the Anglosphere consisted of the U.S., Britain, and Australia (Canada, which didn't want to play in our sandbox, was voted out of the He-Man Muslim-Hater's Club).  Thus was the Axis of Evil confronted by the Crotch of Justice, with America as the Freedom Phallus (which would stun the recalcitrant Bedouins with its Cock and Awe campaign), and the UK and Australia forming the supportive, yet dependent Balls of Buyer's Remorse.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that despite my differences with British foreign policy over the years, we seem to hate a lot of the same movies.  Or so I discovered when Keith sent me the following:

The Register has posted a short-list of "Worst Movie" nominees and the list is not exactly what I expected.

Sorry Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut didn't get a nom, it was so... crusty. (So crusty Riley & Moondoggie won't even play with it.)

Was also a bit disappointed that neither Gigli nor Swept Away (Madonna's remake) were not listed. After a bit of research found that Swept Away swept all the investors of their wallets, so a UK release was cancelled after dismal b.o. in the the US. This apparently is true of Gigli so those poor punters across the pond never had the experience of Ben Affect & J-Lo. Or Madge. Or they just weren't paying
for them on BSkyB or whatever they have over there now.

Anyway, here's a link. It's interesting. My first choice was James Cameron's Titantic but to be honest I never saw it completely. I left the theater in Times Sq. about 20 mins., asked the ticket agent when it would sink, then went out for a pint or two at the nearby "Rudy's Pub" conveniently located at 44th and 9th Ave. It's coming back this summer, in "3-D."

Manos is hard to resist but beloved because of Joel and those bots.  I believe it was one of their first offerings. Maybe Gypsy liked it a little.

So my vote went to Battlefield Earth which I have watched from beginning to end. How could one not? Travolta, a winning script from material on loan from L. Ron Hubbard, and those enthusiastic cast members get my vote any day. As well as lame focus, awkward cross-cuts, hilarious continuity gaffes and etc. It looked like no other movie I've seen. But I couldn't see it that well because I cried the entire way through and my contacts wouldn't stay in.

Vote early and often,
Keith

The poll starts off with the 13 films that were in contention, but didn't make the cut, three of which we've given the Better Living Through Bad Movies treatment (Eyes Wide Shut and Waterworld are both in the book, while Zardoz is in the [currently under construction] sequel).

Of the twenty films in contention for All Time Worst, four are in BLTBM:  Battlefield Earth, Highlander II:  The Quickening, Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace, and The Postman, while Keith wrote about Sunshine, although he bailed out before the end, probably to save his satiny complexion from the premature aging effects of excessive UV radiation.  In other words, if you're a World O' Crap reader (and if you're not, I don't know who is), then you are uniquely well qualified to vote in this poll.  So click the link and represent!

Update:  Speaking of Zardoz, Zombie Rotten Mcdonald very kindly points us to "the Best Bond Movie Ever."  Ohhh, Internet...You've done it again.