Saturday, October 27, 2012

The Happy Birthday Report with MaryC!

Dateline: Hollywood!
Why: Someone's Birthday!
Who: Scott!!
How: Well, when a man loves a woman very much...

In honor of one of the  kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human beings I've ever known in my life, I present this special Birthday Blog Edition....


This is Your (Well, part of your) Life!

Scott, you've lived a very exciting and thrill packed life on the internets, and we've collected some of your most cherished memories and greatest feats together to celebrate your Birthday!

Do you remember THESE words?
There are millions of other blogs out there, clamoring for your attention.  Why read mine? Here's why: because my blog is going to be about things we can all relate to.  You know, cheesy movies, annoying politicans, weird advertising, Ann Coulter.  And MORE!
Yes, it's the very first post of your good friend, founder of World O'Crap, eventual co-blogger, co-author, and Supermodel/Astronaut/Spy, SZ!

In those days, you were a beloved and enthusiastic commenter, but one day, the fates smiled upon you, and SZ asked  you, "Scott, with your snark the most, won't you write a guest post?" And changed your life forever!
Roy Moore Draws Support of Rock-Worshipping Cults
By World O'Crap Special Correspondent Scott C.

The recent debate over Alabama Supreme Court Chief Justice Roy Moore’s monument to the Ten Commandments has exposed and to some degree exacerbated the tensions that exist between mainstream and fundamentalist Christianity. At the same time, however, the 5,300 pound cause celebre has also served to unite several previously hostile religious movements.

"Initially, church elders declined to take a position on this controversy," said Ronald Zietlow, Chief Mameluke of the Igneous Brotherhood. "We mistakenly believed that Chief Justice Moore and his followers worshipped an omniscient, omnipresent, but non-corporeal diety, and that the granite monument was merely symbolic.
 But that was just the beginning of a long, loyal partership between you and SZ. Remember the second post you contributed??
Super President to Karl Rove:
"Trim Your Bush!"

1960s-Era Superhero Sues White House over "DC 9/11: Time of Crisis"
--by  Wo'C Saturday Morning Correspondent, Scott C.

In the long annals of celebrity-on-celebrity litigation, from Vampira vs. Elvira to O’Reilly vs. Franken, to Haagen Daz vs. Frusen Gladje, there may be nothing to compare with the brute star power of the lawsuit filed this morning in New York.  Super President vs. Bush Administration, et al pits two of the most powerful combatants ever to meet in Federal Court: James Norcross, Former United States President and retired superhero, and George W. Bush, current chief executive and jumpsuit model.  The trigger for the suit was last night’s broadcast of the Showtime telefilm DC 9/11: A Time of Crisis.

"He’s stealing my positions," complained Norcross as he conducted several reporters on a tour of his Presidential Library. "Flying around the country fighting evil, dressing up in a costume, changing his molecular structure to granite or ozone—those are all issues associated with my administration."
The former President concedes that many young people may not remember his brief tenure in the White House, which lasted from 1967 to 1968, nor the widely beloved Super President Theme Song. with which he opened each press conference.
In your partnership with SZ, you managed to put NeoCons and RightWingers (who were really WrongWingers) in their respective places, all with the most hilarious and gentle of snarkiness.  And thus, the juggernaut of World O' Crap was launched, full speed ahead.

You set up a domain name and a home on the internets, continuing the tradition of gently putting certain people in their place, documenting the many animal rescues which SZ accomplished, and despite all of that, you and SZ still managed to co-author one of the most, "Hilarious. A must for bad movie lovers and MST3k Fans" books, a book which is "simply above the rest and constantly astonishes with tangents that pay off one after another in funnier and funnier ways",  Better Living Through Bad Movies (which is still available through Amazon and other fine purveyors of...fineness).

Of course, your online life hasn't been without its trials.  Remember the War on Christmas posts, which brought out the crazy in the Marley Brothers? Or that time we got hacked and never recovered? Of course you do. But did you let that stop you from bringing the snark? Nope! You picked yourself up, dusted your keyboard off, and started all over again on blogspot, going so far as to copy and paste original posts from SZ's salon blog and the virtually hosted blog.

You don't give up the snark, and you don't give in to the enemy. And that's what makes you extraordinary. And that, Scott is....Your Life (Online. So far.)!

Happy Birthday, Man 'O Mine. And now, my birthday gifts to you:

First up: I will not be making THESE cakes for your birthday:

(h/t )
 And instead of hunky, naked, Nathan Fillion, I will give you THESE:
A very young and leggy Betty Grable
Apparently an early costume concept for Animala (Lost Skeleton of Cadavra)
Finally, the luscious Julie London, singer, actress, sexy lady.

Happy Birthday, Scott! (Your real present will come later tonight. I promise.)

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Forrest Gump Without the Ping Pong Skills or Good Cardiovascular Conditioning

Right wing culture warriors often complain about unilateral disarmament, since they are forbidden by the Washington Naval Treaty of 1922 from deploying the N-word, while their enemies are free to use it in Def Comedy Jams and rap songs without fear of anybody invoking the Geneva Convention.  Likewise, gays can call one another the F-word, while comediennes are free to traffic in antique stereotypes of their own sex.  Wingnuts, on the other hand, are only safely able to mock White Evangelical Christians, and really that just amounts to bullying, because those people are legitimate victims who are under siege by the oppressive powers of Big Minority.

But today we're confronted with a question of moral and social etiquette that I don't believe has ever been raised before: is Jim Hoft entitled to gleefully repeat slurs about people with cognitive and learning disabilities, simply because he's the Stupidest Man on the Internet?

Click here for original post.
Help me out here, because I really don't know.  Is this like Jackie Mason telling Jewish jokes?

Also, since the last bayonet charge by the U.S. military was in 1951, the sentence "Like a Marine charging with his bayonet -- Ann Coulter weighed in on the debate last night" doesn't seem to make a lot of sense, unless Leathernecks were issued black cocktail mini-dresses during the Korean War, or Coulter was felled in mid-tweet by a burst from a Chinese burp gun.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Selwhine Duke

You know Young Master Selwyn Duke, of course.  Failed tennis pro.  Successful douche.  Middling Tea Party propagandist.  What I like to think of as an extra brisk Lipton Doucheteabag.  But most important of all, Master Duke is a self-certified genius whose prodigious mind has but one flaw: it's on a dead-man's switch, and if he releases the pressure on his chin for even an instant, his overloaded brain will explode!  Sure, it requires him to go through life looking oddly...coy, but he does it all for us, for were his skull to detonate, then where would we go to get our minimum daily adult requirement of snide allusions to Candy Crowley's weight?

So let's enjoy Selwyn's uniquely cerebral insights while he still has the strength to apply a constant 32 P.S.I. to his lower face.
Candy Crowley plays biggest loser with Obama

You might think that with all the recent focus on media bias in debate moderation, Candy Crowley would have minded her p's and q's in last night's presidential debate. But clearly, she doesn't even know the ABC's of her job.
She's a POS who's clearly FUBAR, and therefore undeserving of R.E.S.P.E.C.T.  QED.
Her most obvious transgression was chiming in and contradicting Mitt Romney's assertion that Barack Obama did not label the Benghazi attack an act of terror when he spoke in the Rose Garden on Sept. 12.
Of course, Obama did label the Benghazi attack an act of terror when he spoke in the Rose Garden, but that's not important, for two reasons.  Number one, because who cares?  But number two -- and a thick, steamy, corn- and peanut-speckled number two it is -- if the transgression of contradiction is allowed to go unpunished, then our entire system of argument by assertion could collapse, which would leave us with a lot of hours of cable news programming to fill up.  Sure, there's When Animals Attack, but eventually you're going to run through the grizzlies, and pumas, and ocelots, and find yourself spending all your time trying to get a bonobo to attack by promising it a box of raisins and a Fleshlight.
Crowley's unwarranted meddling was significant.
You know what you almost never see in this country?  Warranted meddling.  You know, like there's a knock at your door, and two cops are standing there, and they say, "We want to interfere with your love life, and rearrange all your furniture to make your apartment more feng shui."  And you're all, "Have you got a warrant?"  And they're all, "Yes we do," and you're like, "Okay, come on in."

The apparent lies surrounding the Libya tragedy are a huge scandal for Obama, and, with the mainstream media's failure to aggressively cover the story, the debate was a golden opportunity to get the truth out.
If there's one fault I can find with our impulsive, content-hungry, profit-driven mass media, it's their tendency to shy away from huge scandals.
Enter Crowley's Passion.
Well, why not?  Every other celebrity's got their own crappy fragrance nowadays.
She snuck into the ring, without Obama even tagging her, and hit Romney from behind with a chair while the ref, Crowley's Brain, was looking the other way.
Although a Romney supporter, even Connecticut Senatorial candidate Linda McMahon declared this a legal move.
And, as was established later, she was wrong.
Not on the facts, but Frank Luntz's focus group agreed that given the importance and solemnity of the occasion, Crowley would have better served the viewer by getting Romney in a side-headlock and ramming him face-first into the turnbuckle.
Also striking, however, is that most of the questions asked clearly played into the liberal agenda. This isn't surprising since they were chosen by Crowley herself. And we should ask: why was one liberal in a nation of 308 million people empowered to unilaterally choose the questions for a presidential debate?
I wouldn't call Candy Crowley a liberal, because I never see her at Poliburo meetings, but that could just be because I only go on Thirsty Thursdays.  Also, since the current estimated population of the U.S. is 314 million, I wonder what Selwyn did with those other 6 million people (hint: check his crawlspace).  Anyway, it does seem insanely biased that Crowley and Crowley alone had input into these questions...
CROWLEY: The Gallup organization chose 82 uncommitted voters from the New York area. Their questions will drive the night. My goal is to give the conversation direction and to ensure questions get answered.

The questions are known to me and my team only. Neither the commission, nor the candidates have seen them. I hope to get to as many questions as possible.
Okay, so the questions were supplied by Gallup, but admittedly chosen by Crowley, making it impossible for Romney to shine at this debate the way he did at the first, when the questions were selected by an entirely different, and far more democratic method:
LEHRER:  Thousands of people offered suggestions on segment subjects or questions via the Internet and other means, but I made the final selections. And for the record, they were not submitted for approval to the commission or the candidates.
Okay, we could argue about why identical things are different, but we should hurry back to Selwyn, before his chin-finger gets tired.
In fact, it would have been laughable if not so tragic, as Crowley was clearly out of her depth and ended up deep-sixing the truth. She chose a question about the male-female wage gap, assuredly oblivious to the fact that women do not get paid less for the same work; they get paid less for lesser work.
As we all learned in high school biology class, a man and a woman might perform identical jobs, but the quality of work will inevitably vary depending on the presence of a dick (in fact, six separate studies show a direct correlation between penis length and professional achievement, which is why America's Greatest Actor was either Roddy McDowell or Forrest Tucker).  This is also why male employees are not permitted to wear pants, so that Quality Assurance personnel can more easily spot check productivity.
It isn't surprising that Crowley would advocate for the feminist agenda, however, since she no doubt owes her position to affirmative action.
And Selwyn's writing would no doubt make 8% more sense if they hadn't snipped off his foreskin.

Monday, October 15, 2012

If Corky St. Clair Made a Movie

By Bill S.

When I reviewed An Angel Named Billy last year, I thought I'd seen the worst LGBT themed movie ever made. What can you say about a film where the writing was so bad they couldn't even give a drag queen a decent name? A movie celebrating a romance so creepy and disturbing and morally dubious it might set gay rights back fifty years if enough people saw it? (Don't worry about that -- the thousand or so members of One Million Moms are too busy supplying the writers of The New Normal with dialogue for the Ellen Barkin character to take notice.)

But that was before I saw Ben & Arthur...

Released in 2002, Ben & Arthur is the brainchild (for lack of a more suitable word) of one Sam Mraovich, who wrote, produced, directed and stars in the role of Arthur. Over the past 10 years, he hasn't done any other feature films, but he's certainly made an impression with this one. On the Internet Movie Database, it's currently ranked #5 in the Bottom 10, meaning there are only four movies that have a lower rating. I think that ranking is unjust, but more on that later. First, relive my journey though this one-of-a-kind (I hope) cinematic experience.

It begins with an opening title sequence, in which Mraovich is listed 11 times (including "producer" and "executive producer"). The music used during this is Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer", and when I was in the kitchen, getting the bagel Bites from the microwave, and heard the melody from the living room, for a few brief seconds, I thought (and, 85 minutes later, wished) Netflix had mistakenly shipped The Sting.

Arthur is napping, fully clothed, including his shoes, when his slumber is interrupted by a phone call from Ben, his lover of three years. Ben is calling from some unknown location outdoors, and urges him to turn on the radio, because there's a breaking news story. I don't know how Ben is hearing about it while strolling through some park, or why he can't simply tell Arthur over the phone.

Anyway, Arthur fumbles the dial on a radio, and learns that it's now legal for gay couples to marry in Hawaii. Ben arrives at the apartment "5 Hours Later" (according to a random title card), and Arthur flies excitedly into his arms. The two decide to fly to Hawaii to get married, and begin packing. Ben pulls out a bunch of shirts, hangers and all, and dumps then in a suitcase, then tops them of with a box of papers.

Their joy is short-lived, however, as it turns out that, in fact, the ruling on gay marriage in Hawaii is still in legal limbo, and couples may have to wait another two years. Arthur flies into a rage, because the plane tickets are non-refundable, and stomps around cursing in the first of many hissy fits he has throughout the film. Hoping to calm Arthur down, Ben explains that it's just as well, since he's been married to a woman for the past five years. Arthur retreats to his bedroom and begins scribbling in his diary.

Ben gets a visit from his wife, Tammy, who, like nearly everyone in this movie, seems completely insane. She's unable to accept the fact that he's left her and moved in with a man (didn't she notice after three years?). He tells her he wants a divorce so he can marry Arthur. She flatly refuses. He tells her, "I'm a homosexual. I have the papers right here." (I didn't know you needed documentation to prove you're gay nowadays; that new Arizona law is strict...oh, wait, he was talking about divorce papers). She tosses the papers back in his face and storms out the door.  Well, if the hissy fits...

Ben and Arthur work at a coffee shop where the patrons disappear and switch places, and waiters come to the table to refill paper cups. Ben used to be a nurse, but apparently gave it up for a dishwashing job, but has dreams of becoming a musician. (Playing what, we don't know. There are no musical instruments at the apartment, and we never seem him playing, writing, or doing anything that has to do with music.) Arthur expresses dissatisfaction with his job, and tells us he'd like to go back to college to take a business course, with the goal of starting a porn shop. Ben tells him he supports Arthur's dream and even agrees to give up his glamorous dishwashing job to go back to nursing. A customer pushes Arthur too far by asking him to brig her sugar for her coffee, so he storms back into the kitchen, discards his apron and leaves the coffee shop, giggling like a loon.

Having quit his job, Arthur now goes in search of a new one to pay for college. He goes to a nightclub to audition as a dancer. The club owner asks to see his moves, which would be a little easier if there were music playing. Arthur obliges, and dispels the stereotype about gay men being good dancers. When he's finished, the club owner asks to see Arthur's penis. Arthur doesn't get the job. Whether this was because he refused the owner's request, or agreed to it, I can't say.
Arthur returns home and begins looking through the paper, answering ads for an apartment. I have no idea why, but this goes on for several minutes before he remembers he's supposed to be looking at the want ads for a job. Nothing pans out, so he pays a visit to his brother Victor. When he knocks at the door and his brother answers, neither of them seems to recognize each other. Victor invites him in, and we learn that he's very religious. He asks Arthur if he's accepted Jesus as his savior, or is still a demonic homo. Arthur is understandably annoyed, and gets to the point: he wants Victor to lend him money for college. He tells Victor about Ben: "I found a great man. We're getting married -- he really inspires me to improve my life!" (he leaves out the part where Ben encouraged him to quit his job to start selling porn); Victor offers to give Arthur $8000 if he brings Ben to the house for dinner.

Arthur gets a letter in the mail that reads "You will not marry a man! I'm warning you!" He shows it to Ben, and they both wonder who it came from. Neither of them bother to look for a postmark or return address. Since only two people seem to know about the upcoming nuptials -- Crazy Tammy and Crazy Victor -- it shouldn't be too big a mystery anyway.

Ben, meanwhile, has been sorting out the issue of getting a legal marriage now that Hawaii is out. He tells Arthur, "I know a great lawyer -- you can give him a call." The lawyer turns out to be a woman (I guess Ben doesn't know her too well), whose legal advice leaves something to be desired. She tells them to fly to Vermont to get a civil union, which will be recognized in their home state of California, under the "Full Faith and Credibility [sic] Clause". (Ben neglects to tell the lawyer he's still married to Tammy -- maybe he's planning on waiting three years, like he did with Arthur)

The couple hop a flight on Alaska Airlines to sunny Vermont, where, at an outdoor church alter amid swaying palm trees, they have a commitment ceremony, presided over by a senile priest. They're finally married! They hop a Fed-Ex cargo plane back to California, where their lawyer assures them their civil union should be recognized.

Victor, meanwhile, tries to get in touch with Arthur, calling him repeatedly without ever getting an answer. Unable to take a hint, he contacts a Private Investigator. The P.I., Justin, appears about 17 or 18 years old, and when Victor notes that he looks too young, Justin explains that he's actually an intern. This doesn't stop him from charging $800 a day for his services. Victor asks him to tail Arthur, explaining, "My brother is a homosexual. He's marrying a man. I need to know what his next move is." Justin tells him it will take two days to find out anything.

"Two days Later" (according to the title card), Victor, acting on a tip from Doogie Howser, P.I., follows the Lawyer to a parking garage, approaches her car, and shoots her. She dies instantly, slumping on the horn. Victor flees, unnoticed.

Arthur finally calls Victor back, and agrees to accept his brother's earlier dinner invitation. For some reason, Arthur is dressed in the exact same clothes Victor was wearing when he phoned the Private Eye. Either this is symbolic of...something...or the wardrobe budget was really small.

Arthur and Ben arrive at Victor's place for dinner, where they feast on graham crackers and milk, and Victor introduces them to Stan, his totally heterosexually married with kids friend. Stan asks Arthur when he's planning to have kids and Victor interjects, "When he's married to a lovely wife." When Arthur reminds Victor that he's gay, Stan tells him they have ways of curing that, if he'll just visit the church five times a week. Realizing he and Ben have been ambushed by religious zealots, he has another fit, and they leave. Victor decides that "drastic measures" will have to be taken.

At home, Arthur apologizes to Ben for dragging him to the worst dinner party ever, and the two make love (because I guess arguments about Jesus turn them on.) The next morning, Ben wakes up to find four large flowers by his pillow, and a touching, romantic note from Arthur: "Ben: Went to get food. Love ya! --Arthur"

He lays back dreamily and starts to doze off again.

Crazy Tammy returns. As she shuts off her car and reaches into her glove compartment for a gun, she mutters, "I can't believe I'm gonna do this." I feel certain this was not a scripted line, but rather the actress expressing her real feelings about the scene she's about to do, because when she confronts Ben the results are so ludicrous that...oh, just watch it:
"I don't make sense?!  You don't make sense!  I make sense!  That's who makes sense!"

And note Ben's magical blue sweater.

There's a knock at the door. It's Mildred (spelled "Mildread" according to the credits), the cranky coffee shop customer who dared to ask Arthur for sugar. She tells Arthur there have been a series of break-ins and their landlord wants tenants to check the parking garage to see if anything's been stolen. Ben rushes downstairs and discovers his bike has been stolen. He scolds Arthur for forgetting to chain it up, "Arthur! I need to know I can count on you!" (This from a guy who took three years to mention he had a wife.) Arthur storms off to the bedroom and lies down. Ben apologizes, and Arthur expresses his anger at the way Ben treated him. He adds, if I ever get killed, you can cash in the insurance policy and buy a hundred bikes!" Ben responds by punching Arthur in the face, knocking him out cold. "That'll teach you not to say stupid things!" When Arthur wakes up, Ben promises to make it up to him by taking them on a honeymoon.

Victor is still troubled by Arthur's homosexuality, and asks Stan for help. Stan has just the thing for him: a special Holy Water recipe that will make Arthur straight -- if he can get Arthur to drink it. Victor goes to the apartment building, tapes the unlabeled bottle of Gay-Be-Gone to Arthur's door, with no note of any kind, and silently leaves. Arthur finds the bottle and shows it to Ben, who somehow correctly identifies exactly what it is and who it's from. He tosses it out, and they go on their honeymoon. Victor phones the apartment and gets an answering machine message that announces "We're on our honeymoon," which tips him off that the magic potion didn't work. This calls for a "final plan."

Victor goes to his church to have a talk with the priest, Father Rabin. The Father informs Victor that he can no longer be a member of the church. He explains, "It has to do with the fact that the members of the congregation don't want the brother of a gay man here! They're afraid you hold some sort of karma or deep-seated evil energy and -- well, quite frankly, I'm gonna have to ask you to stop offering your services to the church." Victor freaks out, pleading, noting that he's donated thousands of dollars to the church over the years. (I don't know what they spent it on, but it wasn't furniture or art. The Father's office consists of a tiny card table, two folding chairs, a cardboard cross and a crappy watercolor of Jesus.) But Father Rabin dismisses him, and Victor returns home to curse and beat up his mattress. He then tells Stan he plans to kill Arthur in order to improve his standing with the church. Because that's what Jesus would do, I guess. He goes back to the church and tells Father Rabin of his plan. The good Father tells him, "I know someone who can help you." We assume he's talking about a psychiatrist, but apparently he means a hit man.

Ben and Arthur are enjoying their honeymoon by the pool, until Ben gets a call from the hospital urging him to go back to work because two nurses quit. And the hospital decided to make an out-of-state phone call to someone on vacation rather than look for a closer replacement. They return. Victor pays Arthur a visit, telling him he's been kicked out of the church because of teh gay brother problem, and he's there to save Arthur's soul. He also reveals that he hired a private detective and learned that Arthur is selling porn (wait, wasn't he planning to go to college first?) Arthur responds by presenting him with a bottle of lube and a giant dildo, and tells Victor what to with it. You'd think Victor would be grateful that he's getting that stuff for free, but he's disgusted and leaves.

Arthur plans a trip to the store. Ben asks him to pick up Twinkies, Skittles and Soda. (From the looks of two of them, that sounds more like Arthur's shopping list.) Arthur leaves, driving the same car the Private Eye had. Victor and the unnamed hit man arrive, and go into the apartment. We don't see what they actually do, but they leave before Arthur returns to find Ben on the floor, bleeding. He calls an ambulance.

The next day, Victor gets a visit from Detective Moreen, who asks him what he knows about Ben. Victor replies, "Only that he's dead." The detective asks, "Who told you he was dead?" The detective then reveals that Ben is still alive, and brings the disappointed Victor in for questioning. Against all logic Victor is released. Detective Moreen then pays a visit to Father Rabin, asking him about Victor. He wants to know if Victor has any homicidal tendencies. Father Rabin covers for Victor. Oddly, nobody bothers to make any connection between the attack on Ben and the murder of the lawyer. In fact, the earlier murder is completely forgotten.

Arthur arrives at Victor's apartment. He breaks in, using a paper clip, and bugs Victor's phone. Before he can leave, Victor shows up, and threatens Arthur with a gun. He then confesses to the attempt on Ben's life. Arthur tells him he'll go to the police, but Victor isn't worried, scoffing, "Who are they going to believe?" (Um...probably Ben, the victim, who's still alive and could identify him?).

Arthur leaves and Victor calls Father Rabin claiming that Arthur roughed him up. Father Rabin assures him they'll "Take care of Ben and Arthur". Thanks to the bug, Arthur has listened in, and now knows about Father Rabin's involvement in the attack on Ben. He decides to pay the priest a visit. He poses as a new church member and asks for the address of a fellow parishioner. While the Father is distracted by writing it down, Arthur pulls a bottle of nail polish remover from his pocket, soaks a rag with it and sneaks up behind the priest, shoving the rag over his face until he passes out. He then rushes back to his car, pulls what appears to be a jug of water from the trunk, and returns. He empties the bottle on Father Rabin, strikes a match, drops it and makes a hasty exit. Very hasty, because there's no other way he could have escaped the firetrap he created in that tiny room. All this occurs in the middle of the day, and nobody sees or hears a thing.

Arthur returns home and gets a call from the hospital informing him Ben is ready to come home. Ben is still pretty groggy and can barely walk, so Arthur tucks him into bed, then goes to take a shower, to wash that dead priest out of his hair. Victor and the hit man arrive, but before they go inside, Victor sends the hit man off, and decides to fly solo. He rings the doorbell over and over. Ben is awakened and tells Arthur, who's still in the shower, to answer the door. After a few minutes, Ben rises to get it, first checking his face in the mirror to inspect the bruises over his eye (which aren't consistent with the injury from the attack). Despite the fact that the last time Ben answered the door, he was shot and nearly killed, he doesn't bother to ask Who's There?, or look through the peephole, he just opens the door. Victor shoots him, this time fatally, and Ben falls to the floor directly in front of the open door.

Arthur finally emerges from the bathroom (if you shoot or knife a clergyman, clean-up's a breeze, but the stench of cremated priest can linger, so he was forced to lather, rinse, and repeat) and finds Ben on the floor, dead  He embraces the lifeless body, copping a feel before the actor can finally exit the set. Victor, standing over the two of them, tells Arthur, "I did him a favor -- I saved his soul." He then leads Arthur to the bedroom and fumes, "You know the church kicked me out because of you?" (Um, yes, from their earlier conversation.)  He then produces a bottle of rubbing alcohol, soaks a rag with it and holds it against Arthurs face for a few seconds, rendering him unconscious (apparently this is some sort of family tradition.  Probably when they were kids, and it was raining outside and they were bored with Candy Land or Hungry, Hungry Hippos, Victor and Arthur would grab a washcloth and Mom's cosmetics bag and take turns playing "Chloroform").

When Arthur awakens Victor asks him if he'll accept Jesus as his savior" With a gun to his head, Arthur decides this might be a good time to say yes. Victor orders Arthur to strip and drags hm to the bathtub, where he turns on the water, and baptizes Arthur in the name of the Father, the Gun and the Holy Spigot. He then brings Arthur back the bedroom, smothers him with the rag to knock out again, and goes back into the living room, exhausted, setting the gun on a table nearby. Arthur wakes up and walks down the hallway. He finds a gun in a nearby drawer (Tammy's gun from her previous visit, I think) and enters the living room, stroking himself, asking Victor if he'd like to have sex with him. Apparently he's so drugged out he thinks he's in Scarface. Victor responds with the one line in the movie that makes sense, "Arthur, put some clothes on, you're embarrassing yourself."

Arthur fires the gun, killing an innocent coffee table. Victor then pleads with him not to kill him, that with Ben dead, he could collect the insurance (forgetting that the insurance policy was on Arthur's life not Ben's).  But Arthur advances. Victor fires at Arthur (using the gun Arthur was holding), hitting Arthur in the chest. Arthur reels around against the couch, and Victor fires the gun over and over, riddling Arthur's back with what look like grape juice stains. Arthur finds Victor's gun on the couch, and, with his last ounce of over-acting, kills Victor before keeling over himself.

The credits roll, accompanied by a midi of Pachelbel's "Canon In D," or as it's listed in the credits, "Pachelbel's Cannon."  (The musical selections during the opening and closing credits are the only evidence of talent in the entire movie.)

As I said, the #5 ranking in the Bottom 50 is unfair. I think it's much worse than the other four movies ranked above it. So I'd like to call upon all of you to visit the IMDb entry on this movie, and give it the one star rating it so richly deserves.
 "I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the IMDB..."

Let's get its score lower, folks. If you want to be fair and actually see the damn thing, it is currently on YouTube, uploaded in 11 segments. (Trust me, you don't need to watch them all). Let's bring this movie to The Top of The Bottom!

-Bill S

Saturday, October 13, 2012

The Hollywood Report With MaryC!

Dateline: Hoity-Toityville!

Grocery Store: Super Fancy!

Why: It was lunchtime and I went with a co-worker!

Who: Read on!

How: So, it was lunchtime at my new school, Shangri-La Elementary, and one of my new friends and fellow Second Grade Teacher wanted to go to Super Fancy Market (not it's real name, but hey, if they wanted a plug they could buy a damn Google ad) to grab lunch, and she asked me to go along.  

Well, we get there, and as soon as we enter the store, I see this old guy, pushing his grocery cart and I remarked to my friend, "Hey! From the back that guy looks exactly like an old Mark Harmon!"

Imagine my surprise as we checked out, and the old guy at the next register locked eyes with me, and it actually was Mark Harmon. And he knew what I was thinking!

Sorry, Mark!  Honestly, he looks really good, for being as horribly old as he is...Okay, he's only 61, but that's old in Hollywood, and he's married to Pam Dawber, which has got to age you.
"What do you mean, old? I use a hot oil treatment on the back of my head daily to make sure my cranium maintains a youthful and supple appearance.  Hmph!  Damn kids..."

So. There you have it. If you come to Los Angeles and want to see the stars, just ask and I'll be happy to take you to Super Fancy Market in Shangri-La Adjacent, sometime in the middle of the day, because that's apparently when all the old (yet still handsome) actors do their shopping for the week.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Happy Birthday, Anntichrist S. Coulter!

It's a big, big week for our dear friend Joanna.  First, she's secured a new apartment after a protracted period of homelessness, and now she's having a birthday.  The latter, of course, can and will happen even if you're homeless, but it's much easier to pull off if you do have a roof over your head, because that reduces the chance that someone will leave the cake out in the rain.

Unfortunately, all I was able to get her this year was the flu (but it's a pretty good strain, and I'm more than willing to share it), which is making it difficult to sit upright at the computer (and all but impossible to face the Usual Suspects from the right blogosphere).  So in lieu of a virus, here's a couple pictures of pretty people whose beauty is only enhanced by the fact that they are not presently retching into a wastebasket.
Terry Crews, ripped to perfection and basted with a light glaze of Awesome Sauce.
Charlize Theron, from what appears to be the Aeon Flux eon, but don't let that harsh your bum-oriented buzz.  Drink in that rump; after all, it's more interesting than the pegboard behind her, and someone did go to all the trouble of putting a key light on it.   Also, please join me in wishing Annti a very happy birthday and imminent housewarming.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm taking my soda crackers and flat 7-Up and going back to bed.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Annti Come Home

After a long, frightening period of flopping in the sort of motels that Charles Bukowski would have dismissed as déclassé, and roughing it in remote, weed-grown campgrounds that were one hockey mask and a crazy mother away from inspiring a mid-80s slasher flick, our friend Anntichrist S. Coulter (AKA the Unsinkable Joanna) has outlasted the Three Fundamental Forces of Nature (Time, the Elements, and Chiggers), and endured long enough to finally find an apartment that will accept tenants on disability.

I wasn't going to say anything until she actually signed the lease on Tuesday, because I'm a pessimist who lives in constant dread of offending Fate (the Fourth Fundamental Force of Nature, which recently moved up from Sixth place after checking in more times on Foursquare), but the feral cat is out of the bag, so I'll let Annti tell you all about it in her own words.

(I've slightly edited her original email, because I'm uncomfortable reprinting correspondence without the express written permission of Major League Baseball, and because I think there's a 10,000 word-per-post limit on Blogger and, well, you's Annti.):

It's time for the Wicked-Slutty Off-Key Happy-Dance of Vindictive Monkey-Love Joy, 'cause ANNTI IS NO LONGER HOMELESS!!!!!!

Sorry for the blah ol' mass-mailing to all of y'all who have HELPED ME SURVIVE, LO, THESE MANY MOONS without a roof o'er my head nor a permanent address, not to mention all of that time wasted (and money!) in roach motels, hellish and good campgrounds...but there are just SO DAMNED MANY GOOD PEOPLE out there, y'all are just not easy to do, one e-mail at a time.  I hope that no one is offended by the mass-mailing, but I am just about to BURST with the good news, and since I don't have the time or privacy to blog (not that anybody goes to M.O.B. anymore anyway), I HAD to tell y'all as soon as I got the good news!!!

Here's the basic generic newsflash that I'm sending out:  The new apartment is half of a duplex, a REAL HOUSE; the neighbor is an 88-year-old woman who's bedridden & has 24-hour nursing care, and it's QUIET and peaceful and in A REAL NEIGHBORHOOD, not the projects!  No corporate assholes, an actual construction company owns it, and though it's not in THE best neighborhood in town, it is a LOVELY block.  Lots of street repairs going on, since the Superbowl's coming next year or the next, I dunno  ---  anyway, it's a working-class neighborhood...everybody owns their own homes, takes care of them, several retirees, no drug dealers, no gangs, no hookers, no crackheads...In other words, the polar opposite of Desire. 

And the construction crew who rebuilt this joint did it RIGHT, too, from the plumbing to the a/c to the sheetrock.  BEAUTIFUL tiny backyard, all shady and private, so James (the then-6-mos.old kitten who adopted me last month @ the campground on Chef) will have a place to go outside and play without getting run over or harmed by superstitious/sadistic sociopaths.  Yes, he's a black cat, with two big white spots on his belly.  He talks so much, he got named "James, Dammit!" by me & Fallen Uterus, because that's one of Nannie's rare cuss words, whenever Papa would aggravate her or talk too much.  I swore that I'd never have another animal, after I gave Boy AND Biddy lung cancer, but dammit, this kid JUST WOULDN'T GO AWAY.  Now I have to see if I can talk the landlord into letting me go back to the campground and try to catch his silver brother.  When I decided to adopt James, I didn't know that he had any siblings amongst the baker's dozen of semi-feral/semi-tame cats there, but then I saw the face on that little silver cat (probably a boy, not sure, as it's wilder than James and I can't just go pick it up), and he/she/it was UTTERLY HEARTBROKEN.  I felt like the lowest form of life on earth, seeing that kitten's face.  You know how expressive that they are, when it's something that really matters to them.  I suspect the dumbassed son of the proprietors of having killed-off several of the cats that were there when they bought the joint from the old lady's descendants, who'd owned the RV park/campground until her death.  There were 35 cats, now there are 12.  Ya can't blame THAT many on traffic and the neighbor's untrained dogs.  But they BEGGED me to adopt James and to take five or six more with him, as if, so if his silver sibling is still there, I hope to trap & civilize him/her/it.  Hey, I've dealt with harder cases than this one.

Anyway, I DID get the apartment, going down to sign the lease on Tuesday, the federal subsidy money has been approved and the deposit paid, so it's good to go!

THANK Y'ALL THANK Y'ALL THANK Y'ALL THANK Y'ALL THANK Y'ALL SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SOOOOOO MUCH!!!!  I love y'all more than words can say, not that THAT's ever stopped me, but I hope that this silly shit can even remotely convey how thrilled that I am to have friends like y'all, who've stuck with me, lo, these many years, and to those of you who were/are able to contribute to the homelessness/no-longer-homeless fund, BELIEEEEEVE ME, if that damned Powerball ever hits, y'all are getting repaid sixfold BEFORE ANYBODY ELSE!!!!!!

I love y'all so much, and could never ask for a better bunch of friends, as I surely don't deserve friends as good as y'all, but I'm damned grateful to have found y'all!!!!!!


Scott again:  I know everyone here shares my love and affection for Joanna, the quintessential Tough Broad With a Heart of Gold, and feels the same relief and happiness as her long national nightmare comes to a close, so congratulations, Annti!

(I also know she lost a lot of her possessions in the eviction and will consequently need to replace at least some of the necessities of civilized indoor life, so if you have a couple bucks you can contribute to the housewarming endowment, her Pals with Pay address is velvetgutter - at - hotmail.)

UPDATE:  Joanna tried to leave a comment, but she's on a borrowed computer and couldn't log in, so she emailed asking if I could post this for her:

"I adore you so much, Scott.  And Mary, and Sheri, and all of y'all here who made me feel so welcome into the bizarro world o'crap that we all call home.  I love the post, though I'll never look like Liz Taylor, even in her declining years, and thank you and all of the Crappers for your kindness and patience with the clusterfuck that is my life.  Nowhere else on earth have I ever felt so at home and so loved, and though I've neglected you all terribly lately (okay, since, y'know, APRIL!), please know that I never stopped thinking of you all and never stopped missing y'all, even when I didn't have a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut @ WIFI or other ISP.  Hopefully, if I can get my ISP bill paid and get the gas money to get down there tomorrow night, I'll be moving in as soon as possible and finding help to hire to get it all outta that storage unit.  THEN, I can once again rejoin the World O'Crap that I have missed so much, lo, these many moons.

Love y'all all, so much, and am so terribly grateful for your love, patience & friendship.


Friday, October 5, 2012

Have a Coke and a Tight, Forced, Uncomfortable Smile!

This has been sitting in my blog fodder folder for awhile, quietly weeping for a caption, and it's starting to skeeve me out.  I'll get the ball rolling, shall I?
Young George Will and his wingman "Bombo" chat up the gals at the Halt! For A Malt! Shoppe by explaining how the ice in their Cokes isn't actually melting, because entropy is a leftist hoax.

Have at it!

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Happy Birthday, Dr. BDH!

First, sorry about the lack of posts this week.  I'm struggling, Jonah Goldberg-style, with a deadline, although I do hope to catch up (with both the project and the blog) before the week is over.  In the meantime, today is the natal anniversary of Wo'C's Chief Medical Officer Dr. BDH, who is not only a wise and witty commenter, but has offered Sheri and I some of the best (and most potentially controversial) suggestions for the Better Living Through Bad Movies sequel we've ever read.

Which brings us to the obligatory Ocular Candy, which, as you know, we post on these occasions in lieu of a piñata or Ann Coulter effigy.
Traditionally we like to default to a Glamour Shot from the Golden Age of Hollywood, but today I'm going for something more contemporary.  Why?  Well, this clip needs a little set-up...

Grauman's Chinese Theater is celebrating its 85th anniversary by screening a series of classic films, and offering tickets for 25 cents.  On Monday I saw WINGS (1927), winner of the first Academy Award for Best Picture, and it stirred a series of random thoughts:

1. It was a decent restoration, although seemingly drawn from multiple prints and sources.  It began with an overture, then dissolved through every iteration of Paramount Picture's stars-and-peak logo going back to the silent era, and I was surprised to see how subtle were the differences; unlike Universal, they never abandoned key, iconic design elements like the circling aeroplane, and happily -- unlike Warner Brothers -- never went through an ugly "mod" period, although the mid-Seventies Gulf and Western version came close.

2. During the aerial battle scenes it doesn't require a lip-reader to see that Richard Arlen was a bit of a potty-mouth.

3. Poor Buddy Rogers spends the first two-thirds of the film with the Heartbreak of Archie Andrews Hair, and the last with Sudden Onset Reed Richards Syndrome.

4. Men were much more in touch with their emotions in 1927; these guys never stop weeping.

5. Oddly, they trimmed the male nudity. (Really, Paramount? It's not like the racist caricatures in Birth of a Nation -- who was going to be offended by a two second shot of naked bums in an Army induction office?)  However, the flash of Clara Bow's naked breasts (seen in a mirror) remains intact, along with a liberal dash of Second Act side-boob.  But it's bespoke, 1920s boobage, which reminded me of something the Good Doctor said when suggesting s.z. and I consider Clint Eastwood's Changeling (2008) as sequel fodder.   In a brief compendium of the film's failures, he singled out Angelina Jolie's unlikely Flapper, writing, "First of all, nature didn't start production on the Angelina Jolie version of female pulchritude until the 1970's, when Russ Meyer rolled out the first models."

I think Jayne Mansfield might dispute that, but like I said, he's not a man who quails before controversy, so please join me in wishing Dr. BDH a very happy birthday.