Post-Friday Beast Blogging: The "Picking Up the Spare" Edition

RILEY:  (Sigh)  Not again...! You want to know exactly how I feel about you and that camera?

RILEY:  Bleah!

RILEY:  Hmmm. That was rather...lame. Okay, you still got it, you're still the champ...just dig down deep...

RILEY:  Wind up, and really let...him...HAVE IT!

RILEY:  Thbbbbbbbbtht!

RILEY:  Nailed it.

Happy Birthday D.Sidhe! I Got You TCM (Turner Cat Movies)

I'm still feeling like crap, but I wanted to rise from the grave long enough to toss an unbaptized baby to my harem of super-hot vampire wives for their nutrition break, and to wish a happy birthday to beloved Crapper D.Sidhe...

...(it's possible only one of those things is actually happening -- I'm a little feverish).

We haven't seen D. in comments for awhile -- which is sad for us, because she is, as s.z. famously observed, one sharp cookie, and who doesn't like seeing a wingnut eviscerated by a keen, double-edged snickerdoodle? -- but we hope she's doing well, and spending the day pleasantly drunk somewhere.

Since she's an high priestess of cat lurve herself, I've developed a tradition of making feline short subjects for D.Sidhe's birthday, but I lost all my raw footage in the recent hard drive crash, so I'm gonna have to make like The Greatest Cable Channel Known to Mankind*, and show a crude, but classic film from the early days of birthday-related cat videos, 2011:

Happy birthday, D.!

And in honor of the day...

Sexy Birthday Lizard with Cat!

*© Thrilling Days of Yesteryear, LLC

Happy Birthday, AnnPW! I Got You New Satan-in-a-Bucket®!

Before we begin, the Management has asked me to make a couple of announcements:

1.) I apologize for being so late with this post, but my stomach has been practicing its Queasy Scales all day, ranging from the seasickness scene in Chaplin's The Immigrant, to the full Mr. Creosote.

2.) If you haven't had the chance yet, I strongly recommend scrolling down or clicking here to read this walkthrough of Frogs by Hank Parmer (Codename: Grouchmarxist). I have a feeling that from now on, in rooms where women come and go, talking of Michaelangelo and this seminal 1972 eco-horror snoozefest starring Sam Elliott and his Three Expressions (or as I like to think of them, "Facial Power Chords"), the conversation will inevitably turn to Hank's definitive essay.

In breaking news, it's the birthday of self-confessed occasional Crapper AnnPW, perhaps best known around these parts as the muse responsible for World O' Crap's tradition of posting Sexy Birthday Lizard pics. So basically, she's like Olivia Newton John's character Terpsichore in Xanadu, except you don't want to smack her in the face with a sweatsock filled with meal worms, aquarium gravel, and the fossilized ruins of Gene Kelly's dignity, and then maybe rollerskate all over her body until it's reduced to a skidmark on the floor of your flashy Disco/Roller Rink.

Anyway, I thought about doing the Ice Bucket Challenge on Ann's behalf, but then I read World Net Daily and found out that it's a tool of the Devil:

We see it in movies, in Super Bowl performances, in the Grammys: In every song or dance, symbolism is the end game. With that in mind, I investigated the phenomenon behind the ALS IBC, and I discovered the IBC to be darker rather than enlightening and quite cultic instead of a lighthearted attempt to understand a debilitating disease.
[...]

I also thought about why people would pour water over their heads...I couldn’t put my finger on why this didn’t feel right to me – then I saw this video on Facebook.

In the video, Evangelist Anita Fuentes breaks down an assortment of cryptic and cultic messages hidden in the IBC. It’s worth watching to decide for yourself if evil influences and symbolism are embedded within the IBC

The video is over 43 minutes long, and I have to confess that I didn't watch very much of it. Fortunately, Ms. Fuentes begins to paint the screen with crazy almost instantly -- and while I commend her for not burying the lede, it's a bit jarring, like a porn film starting with the Money Shot.

She begins by decoding the IBC: "So when we think about water being poured out on our head, we're, again, we're talking about a baptism. So the question I pose to you my friends, is: is America being purified, is America being cleansed, in a ritual washing? And if they are...Why?  (Dramatic pause) What is America being prepared for?'

I don't know...maybe America's got a date and wants to get a little spruced up?  I really need more information before I can answer this question fully. Is it just ice water we're pouring on our heads and the heads of others, or are we also splashing on a little Bay Rum and Vitalis?

Evangelist Fuentes takes a moment to gather her thoughts, draws a deep breath, and delivers the bad news in a strong, but sorrowful voice: "The Ice Bucket Challenge seems to simulate an Illuminati, Satanic ritual."

I had no idea so many NFL players were Satanists, but I can't say it really comes as a huge surprise. I kinda suspected all that "taking a knee" on the field and thanking God in the locker room was just an effort to throw us off the track.

I always thought the color scheme for these dark, Aleister Crowley-like Sex Magick rituals would involve more black and crimson, and less neon orange.

Evangelist Fuentes pauses again to laugh bitterly at how obvious this all is, because the Ice Bucket Challenge is structured like a "pyramid scheme" and as we all know, "the pyramid is symbolic of the Luciferian agenda. The Illuminati. The New World Order. (The New World Order is prophesied in the Book of Daniel and the Book of Revelation.)" And just in case you're a little fuzzy on your Book of Daniel and/or Revelation, Evangelist Fuentes is gonna break it down for y'all:  "The New World Order consists of three--three systems. One World Government. One World Religion. And the One World Monetary System."

So if you've ever wondered, as I often have, whether the paranoid soliloquies with which Alex Jones spittle-flecks his microphone would sound more convincing issuing from the lips of a nice-looking Latina, here's a good chance to test your hypothesis.

Evangelist Fuentes then takes an moment to prove that old Chinese maxim that "A weird picture is worth a thousand crazy words" by showing us this:

"As you can see there are two pictures that I have side by side. One is Jesus being baptized by John the Baptist. And another is a man that has been recently -- baptized, I will say -- in what's called the Ice...Bucket...Challenge. They look similar, do they not?  (Pauses, disappointed that we're not calling out the answer from the studio audience. Primly:) Yes they do."

I guess the point is that Jim, who works in the Decorative Lighting Department at Home Depot, had a nice thought -- raise money and awareness for ALS -- but once he got Bob the Baptist involved, it was like an engraved invitation to Mephistopheles, and the next thing you know, Jim wound up crucified in the Vanity Fixtures and Sconces aisle.

But this is America, and we really don't care if regular people come to a horrible end because they showered with Satan, we're only concerned with celebrities. Well, Evangelist Fuentes has you covered. She draws a crappy diagram showing how Bill Gates built "a fort" to "make his challenge more cooler," then explains that "It looks to appear as symbolic as the-the-the Temple of Solomon," and slam-dunks her accusation with these damning photos:

Q.E.D., motherfuckers!

"Farfetched, you may ask? No."

Well, that answers my one question. And since we're still less than eight minutes into this video, I'm going to hit Pause and check back in with WND columnist Selena Owens, who I just now remembered brought this shit up in the first place:

Fuentes’ video depicts the world-renowned cultic queen of talk, Oprah Winfrey, taking the IBC. Winfrey precedes her dousing with the words, “In the name of ALS and the Ice Bucket Challenge. …”[emphasis mine] Interesting choice of words. 

Winfrey’s proclamation hit a nerve with me because Christians, myself included, routinely pray and make decrees “in the name of Jesus.”

Have you ever considered that maybe Jesus doesn't want you speaking for him, let alone making decrees in his name, which I imagine could lead to all sorts of official entanglements, and might even legally obligate him to smite someone, or at least co-sign your loan.

We specify whom we worship when we invoke prayer in Jesus’ name. However, because Oprah mistakenly believes the One True God is jealous of her, and the well-known fact that she denounces Jesus as the only way to God and basically considers herself to be a god, I found this statement to be very cultic in nature.

But if Oprah considers herself to be a god, then why didn't she invoke her own name, instead of drenching herself in the name of Lou Gehrig's Disease, which I think we all agree is a disease not a god, not even one of those local animistic gods with an extremely narrow portfolio limited largely to promoting cattle fertility and atrophying Major League baseball players.

Satanic ritual? Yes. Rituals abound in “Christian” America.

 "Farfetched, you may ask? No."

Whenever spectators watch singers like Beyonce, JayZ, Rihanna, Lady Gaga and especially Nicki Minaj, they are indoctrinated and involved with blatantly satanic rituals that stem from the deep abyss of the occult. 

This is why, in an effort to save my immortal soul, I always go make a sandwich during halftime.

Anyway, this goes on for awhile, but to sum up:

The ALS IBC is ritualistic in nature. People are chosen to undergo a form of water baptism with cultic god Oprah leading the charge “in the name of ALS.” The Bible is clear: “You shall have no other gods before me” (Exodus 20:3). Oprah is a god to millions of Americans, and those who follow her doctrine and antics have tossed Jesus off the throne of their hearts – perhaps not intentionally … or perhaps so. Yet by following her seemingly innocent IBC decree, knowingly or not, they have cast Jesus off symbolically.

So there you go: charity hurts Jesus' feelings.

Please join me in wishing Ann a very happy birthday, and of course...

Extra sexy Sexy Birthday Lizards!

Happy Birthday Ivan--I Got You An Embarrassing Superhero Identity!

Raise your cocktail glasses high, friends! Whether you're tossing back a Bronx or sipping a Pink Lady, quaffing a Horse's Neck or a kissing the rim of a Fallen Angel, hoist your poison and toast the natal anniversary of worldly sophisticate and man about blog, Ivan G. Shreve, Jr.

You may know Ivan from the earliest days of Wo'C, back when the world was young, Salon Blogs was a thing, and proto-commenters crawled out of the primordial slime and ooze to make snarky remarks about Dick Cheney or Aunt Jenny's Real Life Stories.  Or you may know him from his copious compendium of radio, film, and TV criticism, which is distinguished by a plainspoken, down-home folksiness that is witty, but never arch, informative, but never pendantic.  Or you may know him in his guise as a superhero, Defender of Goober! Scourge of Ken Berry!

I don't think I'm giving anything away here (and if I am, my apologizes to Ivan's parents for all the supervillains who just showed up on the doorstep without an appointment, and right round supper-time, too!  If it's any consolation, I'll be glad to help put that extra leaf in the table), when I tell you that Ivan, from his Bat Cave-like secret headquarters, Thrilling Days of Yesteryear, routinely braves and conquers some of the most horrible monstrosities ever committed to wax, celluloid, or videotape. Now I like to think I can take the worst punches the picture business can throw at me and still come out for the bell, but I freely admit I'm no match for the likes of Government Agents vs. Phantom Legion, or The Doris Day Show.

In my opinion, the only thing that's really keeping Ivan from taking off as a pop cult phenomenon and getting his own sweet, money-minting comic book movie franchise, is his lack of a good superhero alter ego.  So that's what I've decided to give him this year for his birthday.

Obviously, a busy guy like Ivan doesn't have time to shimmy into periwinkle Spanx and lace on a luchadora mask every time evil rears its ugly head in the form of a bad movie serial, or any given episode of Mayberry RFD, so I think we should look to the early days of radio for our inspiration, back when pulp heroes boasted a more bespoke wardrobe, and characters like The Shadow could function efficiently with only a snapbrim hat and a Doctor Who scarf (of course, if my super power basically consisted of making me invisible to my enemies, I'd be tempted to fight crime in sweat pants and a bathrobe, while I'm pretty sure The Shadow wore pants -- maybe not a sharply creased pair of gabardine slacks, but at least a nice pair of flannel bags, or possibly some tweedy knickers with argyle socks).

First we need a name...Hm. Obviously something inspired by early 20th century entertainment...The Whistler is already taken. So's Boston Blackie. Even Ma Rainey's Black Bottom is probably copyrighted. But it's the age of the aggregator and the mash-up, so I say we just barely skirt IP infringement, and christen him Boston's Whistling Black Bottom! (I know he's actually from Georgia, but it's a secret identity, so I'm trying to throw his foes off the track.)

So there we go. I think it's a strong concept, and will quickly spawn its own 15-minute radio show, monthly pulp magazine, and vitamin-fortified breakfast cereal (or at least a deeply shitty Columbia movie serial).  Now we just need a costume, but I'm only one man, so I'm passing the buck to you. Yes you, who have been Ivan's cohort in the Long March from Salon Blogs to Blogspot; and also you, who may have found this place more recently, because it's a party so everybody has to suffer (I'm an introvert, in case it wasn't obvious), Therefore, along with your birthday wishes and caviar dreams, please gift Ivan with your best crime-fighting fashion tips.

In the meantime, here's a shot of TDOY goddess Jane Greer lookin' wistful:

"Why can't I find a real man, like Ivan G. Shreve, Jr., to play for a sap and take the fall for me?"

And for this Sexy Birthday Lizard, I'm pulling out all the stops, and bringing in The Great One himself...

The Giant Gila Monster!

Happy birthday, Ivan!

Guest Column: FROGS (Not the Aristophanes One)

By Hank Parmer (AKA "grouchmarxist")

Frogs - or - Package for You, Sir

In any competition for the least terrifying concept ever for a nature-runs-amok movie, there are two clear stand-outs: Night of the Lepus and Frogs. Both hit the theaters in 1972, with the obvious intention of cashing in on the movie-going public's growing environmental awareness.

The carnivorous killer bunnies featured in Night of the Lepus are a pretty ridiculous premise, even if they are the size of Shetland ponies.  To their credit, the producers of Frogs didn't try to conceal the identity of their chief antagonists behind Linnaean nomenclature. But, in a severe disappointment to anyone expecting to be ribbeted -- er, riveted to their seat by the amphibian world's most fearsome predator in all its elegantly lethal glory, the "frogs" which appear in this film are actually toads.

Don't believe me? Take a look at this still:

That, sir, is a toad! They're not even extra-big toads. Frogs, toads, whatever. It's hard to work up much anxiety over creatures whose offensive capabilities are limited to either smothering you under a whole mess of 'em, or somehow tonguing you to death. (Though I'm kind of hazy on the precise mechanics of this, I'm certain you sickos can come up with some semi-plausible scenario.)

But this little bait-and-switch presents the conscientious reviewer with a dilemma: if I refer to the toads who'll appear in innumerable, interminable close-ups as "frogs" I'd be helping the filmmakers put over a deliberate deception. Scare-quoting "frogs" every time would likely give me a nasty case of carpal tunnel. Calling them “pseudo-frogs” or "froads" would just confuse everyone, and sound really silly. To hell with it: I'm going to call a toad a toad! I'm just that kind of guy.

As we'll see, though, it's other swamp critters who end up doing the dirty work. So either the toads are commanding them, or they're a kind of Greek chorus whose comments on the action (I use the word loosely) consist solely of monotonous croaking, as a subtle counterpoint to Ray Milland's monotonous whining.

Frogs opens with Sam Elliott as our protagonist "Pickett Smith" -- whose name sounds like a line of Western-themed casual wear, made in Thailand and sold at J. C. Penney -- paddles his canoe through the swamp. At least, we're encouraged to believe it's a swamp by stock jungle noises familiar to every kid who's watched a Tarzan flick. He's taking photos of creatures culled from the wide selection available in the reptile aisle at Pet World -- and toads. He snaps some more shots, of garbage in the water and a discharge pipe.

He's clad in jeans and a denim shirt -- of course, Pickett wears only natural fabrics. He also wears a Number One (concerned). In keeping with his character's uncomplicated, eco-friendly lifestyle, during the course of this movie Elliott will employ only three expressions:

1. Concerned

2. Pensive

3. The wry smirk

Pickett paddles out onto a lake. Karen Crockett (Joan van Ark) and her brother Clint (Adam Roarke) are screwing around in a fancy ski boat. In a desperate last-minute bid to get out of his contract, Roarke tries to run over Elliott. (I kid: he's too busy chugging a Bud to watch where he's going -- which is a very authentic touch, when it comes to recreational boating.) He swerves at the last moment, but their wake dumps Pickett's canoe.

Clint pulls his boat up next to Pickett and offers a hand up. As he clambers aboard, Pickett yanks Clint over the side. Gotcha, sucker! Clint's a good sport, though: he promises to replace all the equipment Pickett just lost. Clint and Karen invite him to lunch; Karen flirts with Pickett while they tow his canoe to their mansion.

Wheelchair-bound Jason Crockett (Ray Milland) watches them through binoculars. As the ski boat pulls up to his dock, he orders his weaselly son-in-law, Stuart Martindale, to find out what's happening, then resumes biting the heads off whippets.

Toad.

[There are so many cutaways to close-ups of toads and other supposed swamp critters throughout the course of this movie that I'd originally intended not to mention them at all. But the intricate, Schoenberg-esque rhythm of this film's construction is key to appreciating its mind-numbing tedium. So as you read this, just keep it in mind that "lingering close-up of" should precede every mention made in this review of a toad or any other lower form of life -- except for Uncle Stuart.] 

Speaking of close-ups, there's another important character in the drama: Sam's package. His jeans are very tight, you know. You can see everything. Nothing left to the imagination.

Clint's impressed by Pickett's package. He wants to know: "How are you at badminton?" He'd like to play a set or two of tennis, or ping-pong, or something. "We want you for our fun and games!" says Clint, as he drapes his arm possessively around Pickett's shoulders. As we'll see, in addition to his alcoholism, Clint's a randy little bugger, much given to innuendo by sports metaphor.

It seems Pickett has inadvertently crashed patriarch Jason Crockett's big birthday shindig. Jason owns the entire island. Every year, he terrorizes his kin for a couple of weeks around the Fourth.

Toads.

Uncle Stuart meets the trio as they walk across the lawn, through mist-shrouded live oaks and trailing Spanish moss. He warns them Grandpa's in a bad mood today -- which is a revelation on the order of "water is wet" and "Michael Bay makes loud, stupid movies".

Toads.

Pickett meets Jason and his grandson Michael Martindale, who sticks so close to Grandpa it looks as if he's exploring a career in commensalism, like that Kwokian monkey-lizard who picks space-lice off Jabba the Hutt.

Jason demands to know why Pickett's been taking photos all around his island. (He drinks his Metamucil from the skull of the last trespasser.) Pickett explains he's a freelance photographer, working on a pollution layout for an ecology magazine. He's previously won a Pulitzer for his pictorial essay "The Landfills of Madison County".

Jason claims photographing his private island is illegal. Pickett reminds him Ronald Reagan isn't president yet. Mike asks Pickett: "Did you take any pictures of frogs this morning? I saw the biggest bullfrog."

Mike then complains about the racket the frogs have been making. Jason says he sent Grover out to take care of that. There's probably not  much a furry, pot-bellied, purple Muppet who earns money on the side dubbing Yoda can do, but Jason told him to spray the bay on the north side of the island, anyway. Jason asks Pickett if he saw Grover while he was paddling around. Nope. Where's Grover?

Inside the mansion, another disturbing development: the phone is dead. (The toads are nothing if not old school.) Clint's wife, Jenny (Lynn Borden) shows Karen and Pickett an adorable drawing by her kids -- of frogs!

Clint goes upstairs to shower -- a cold one, hopefully -- while Karen introduces Pickett to Aunt Iris. Iris Martindale is Jason's daughter, a flaky matron straight out of Southern Gothic 101, with just a dab of Geraldine Page in Summer and Smoke. She's putting a monarch butterfly in a bell jar for Daddy's birthday. Pickett also meets Karen's cousin, Ken Martindale -- the artistic one -- and his beard, stunning African-American fashion model Bella (Judy Pace). She too is awed by Pickett's packet. The air just fizzles with sexual tension, here at Casa Crockett.

Pickett and Karen leave. Iris shows her bell jar to Ken and Bella. Ken feels it's a much more successful effort than last year's dead vole in a guano-caked bird's nest.

Cut to: bare-chested Pickett, in Clint's bedroom. Wearing a silk bathrobe, Clint emerges from the bathroom after taking his shower. The homoerotic vibe is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Pickett's inspecting a framed football jersey, perhaps drawn to it by Clint's powerful man-musk. Clint tells him that Jenny was the one who framed it: "She's still impressed with me, after I was Midwest Valley Central's highest scorer!" Ah ... another double entendre. My guess is Clint's alma mater was the Midwest Valley Central Institution for the Perpetually Priapic.

Clint has a shrine, made up of trophies from his glory days at MVCIPP. Oh, crap: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof just wandered into the script! Although this dialog does sound as if it could have been written by Williams ... Tuscaloosa Williams, that is. (He's the one nobody in Tennessee's family would talk about.)

Metaphor alert: the trophy display also includes pictures of Jenny, back when she was a cheerleader. While he fondles one of his football trophies, Clint coyly mentions he's the same weight as when he was playing. Just when this might be getting interesting -- toads.

Cut to the garden, where Ken's taking pictures of Bella. Charles, the butler, appears: "Mr. Kenneth, I have a message from your grandfather."

Ken: "With or without the profanity, Charles?"

Charles wisely chooses the latter: "'Get your [bleep]ing ass to the mother-[bleep]ing party, you [bleep]ing little [bleep] or I'll rip your [bleep] off and stuff it up your rancid [bleeeeeeeeeeeep]! [Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep]!'" (Or words to that effect.)

On their way to the party, Ken and Bella pass a reflecting pool; the camera lingers on a concrete statue of a frog. Cut to close-up of a toad.

The Crockett clan's gathered on the lawn. Grandpa gripes about the kids being late for the party, then lectures Jenny about proper child-rearing techniques. Why, the daily beatings -- along with frequent testicular electroshocks -- made him the man he is today! The children, Jason and Tina, run up with a toad they want to show to Grandpa. Mike snatches the toad out of little Jason's hand and pitches it away. Jenny claims all the noise from the frogs is making everyone crazy.

Jason changes his tune: he's decided Pickett must be an "ecology expert" and now wants him to do a frog survey on the island. Anything to shut these whiny titty-babies up. Pickett goes along with the gag.

Toads.

Later, Jason meets with Pickett in private, in the study/gun room. He too is strangely attracted to Pickett's package. I mean, damn, it's right at his eye-level, so what's he supposed to do?

Even veteran actor Ray Milland is mesmerized by the power of Pickett's package!

Post-Friday Beast Blogging: "The Unexpected Guests" Edition

MOONDOGGIE: Come on, it's my turn for the sheepskin bed!  You said, "Right after Ellen" and it's been like an hour and a--

MOONDOGGIE: Hang on. I think I'm being abducted by aliens...

MOONDOGGIE:  I'll be with you in just a minute, guys -- I gotta settle this custody dispute over the bed. Oh, and I wanna be called Star-Lord. Is that okay?

Happy Birthday, Doc Logan! I Bring You...The FUTURE!

Yes, today is the natal anniversary of kindly ol' Doc Logan, purveyor of Pavlovian Behavior ModificationTechniques to Undead Americans since 1985.  In addition to being a valued member of the Crapper Commentariat, the good Doctor is also quite active in the Mad Science Community, so the choice of a gift this year was easy. If your profession, like Doc Logan's, involves not getting eaten by zombies, then you're going to want the most versatile, dependable, and compatible technology available, as well as the sexiest hot pants that Science can devise.  Voila!

This actually got me thinking about my first foray onto the Information Superhighway. It was the early 90s, and I was back East visiting a computer programmer friend, who had some TCP/IP E-I-E-O thing set up in his house, and showed me how to use "Gopher" to find documents on "the Internet." It struck me as pretty cool, but somewhat menacing, since it was only a short step to Colossus: The Forbin Project, and if I ever scored with Susan Clark, I didn't want some computer peeping on us while we did the nasty.

A couple of years later this same friend gave me a modem for my birthday (my computer hadn't come equipped with one, so I used it primarily for playing Solitaire and working on my novel, in that order).  I quickly discovered the concept of the BBS, which as we all know is a gateway drug, and this led inevitably to the hard stuff -- AOL -- and a couple hundred dollars a month in per-minute fees, especially once I discovered the Mystery Science Theater 3000 fan group.  So it's kind of a dark story, with a grim, VH1 Behind the Music tone. But on the bright side, that's where I met Sheri, and where we eventually started writing summaries of bad movies to amuse each other, and now...here we are.

So what's your deal? Early adopter, or Johnny-Come-Lately?  Share your  Internet origin story in the comments, and please join me in wishing a very happy birthday to Wo'C Mad Scientist-in-Residence, Doc Logan!

Artist's conception.

We now conclude our broadcasting day with the playing of our National Anthem, and the traditional Sexy Birthday Lizard!

I'm calling this one "Petey."