I hate Halloween
You have to
scour the calendar to find a holiday I hate as much as
I hate Halloween (true confession: I
dislike Christmas a lot, too, and also
New Years, and
Thanksgiving; they all suck. But not as much as Halloween).
This is because of all the
goddamm forced and faked "friendship" and frivolity.
I used to work in a place where they
required you to dress up for Halloween. Dressing up ranks right down there with karaoke on the gouge-my-eyes out scale of shit I can't stand. But, ya know, what the hey, I'm a team player. So Halloween would roll around, and
I'd show up to work wearing a colorful sweater, like the one in the picture. No other kind of costuming; everything else as per the norm. Typical conversation:
"Why aren't you dressed up, Nigel?"
"I am."
"As what? You look normal except you're wearing that sweater."
"
I'm dressed up as Bill Cosby."
You may remember that Bill Cosby (left), in his 80's mega-TV show,
always wore a colorful sweater. So the costume was legit but not obnoxious like that worn by all the other retards I worked with. Exception to the negativity: occasionally a large-breasted long-legged receptionist would show up looking all Victoria's Secret like. This, I liked.
As a rule, my sweater/Cosby explanation would shut 'em up. And you can see I'm not the only one. At right,
Australian Prime Minister John Howard and US President George W. Bush wearing Cosby sweaters. Clearly, they hate Halloween too.
Grace Slick, 67 today. Constipated as ever.
Grace Slick of the
Jefferson Airplane (then and now photos, left and right)
turns 67 today. Setting aside her politics (commie) and her general outlook on everything (also commie), it occurs to me that given her age she's perhaps facing a new set of issues when compared to, say, the band's heyday. Sex, drugs, rock 'n roll have given way to....no sex, prescription drugs, and, well: Depends. With that in mind, here's a
version of "White Rabbit" (also known as "Go Ask Alice") called
"White Cloud", with lyrics appropriate for Grace's age and likely physical condition.
White Cloud(to the tune of "White Rabbit")One pill makes your bowels moveAnd one pill shuts them downAnd the one your home nurse gives youWill make you strain and frownGo ask Ex-LaxYou'll shit ten feet tallAnd if you go unrollin' Charmin'And you know you're going to callYour nurse back in to the bathroomShe will wipe you clean and allGo ask Ex-LaxYour bowels blowWhen last nights awful dinnerHas dropped out sloppy fastAnd the White Cloud is folded backwardsAnd your meal's last bit has passedRemember, it's your final blast!Wipe your arse!Wipe your arse!
The President of Time can buff my scrotum
Are we on Daylight Saving Time or off it? I can never fucking remember. We had to turn our watches and clocks and Cialis 4 hour erection schedules back last night and ended up with it being
bright and sunny when I finally woke up. That's CRAP--it's
supposed to be dark and gloomy, goddammit, when I wake up. I'm all thrown off now. And when it comes to taking care of my barnyard full of farm animals, well, hell, they're confused too!
I don't know what's going on--
hell, THEY don't know, either! I've got to bail the hay and muck the stalls and milk the cows and screw the fetus-eating goats and all that other rural mishegos, and all before 9 o'frigging clock a.m, when my favorite TV evangelist
Ernest Angley comes on Channel 46 and if I miss him and
his hair (aside: why can't he heal his own hair, by the by?), well, I'm mightily pissed pissed pissed so this damn sunshine too early
sucks all the fun out of your Nigel and as you well know there isn't much fun there to start with.
Dammit.
I'm as
angry as all the moderate Muslims claim to be about all this terrorist stuff we've heard so much about lately (at least, they say they're angry, in private, and when they're away from the
prying ears of Imam Bytemydickenjad).
I'm thinking that whoever is the President of Time can jolly well
buff my scrotum.
From Yahoo "Personals", a "fun" gal...
What,
are you kidding me? "Make Me Laugh"? From the photo this one appears as if she's advancing, armed, war-like, all a-Gitmo'd, getting ready to
insert a glass rod up my urethra. Here's a tip, Grizelda: try cracking a smile once, and it'll maybe if you're lucky lead to a laugh. Remember, sweetheart,
a smile is just a frown turned upside down (*fuck, I'm gonna be sick, for a second there I was trying to be helpful, really, but
I just can't hack it...).
Deep breath, collect my thoughts, re-center. All is in focus now...
"Make Me Laugh": just three little words. Well, I've got three for you, you sour-faced stick up your arse trog:
buff my scrotum (*whew, back to normal. Now I feel better).
I swear. It wasn't me. It was my evil twin.
So this TV anchor's doing the rape story and up pops the
Identi-Kit composite drawing of the suspect.
Amazing, no?
Black Sabbath re-groups: turn your hearing aid up!
The members of
Black Sabbath (at left, effectively defunct since 1980) are re-forming as a new band called "Heaven and Hell".
Ronnie James Dio subs for original lead singer Ozzy Osbourne, who's not associated with the group any more. From the press release announcing this, the quote that caught my eye:
"The fans have been wanting to see this for years and years. Now was just the time."Let's break this down, shall we?
--"
The fans": I'd grant you a few fans if this was the Ozzy Osbourne band...but Ronnie James Dio? Pfffft.
--"
wanting to see this for years and years": Sure. Since 1980, we've been on pins and needles, wishin' and hopin'....
--"
Now was just the time": Aging band members (
the bass player's first name is "Geezer"--honest) will be dropping dead soon, and they wanted to make some scratch while they're still ambulatory.
Something that what would be
infinitely more interesting, plus even more non-musical: what if the
second bananas from music duos got together to form a band? Say,
John Oates of Hall & Oates teamed up with
Andrew Ridgeley of Wham! and
Curt Smith from Tears for Fears. No one knows what these guys sound like (or even look like....). They could call the band "
Last But Not Least" or perhaps "
Bringing Up The Rear".
On second thought, in the case of the Wham! guy, that
last band name might be more on the money than intended.
Now,
that would be funny.
Airport security
This is
funny stuff, especially while they're in the "courtesy car". Listen to the
questions the driver asks the Japanese businessman.
You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll run the gamut of human emotions.
Clan meeting in Georgia. Scottish clan, that is.
Oh, yes.
I forgot to tell you about this past weekend's "
Highland Festival". This annual event features people
claiming Scottish heritage wandering around in kilts, vainly attempting to look like extras from the movie
Braveheart. Unfortunately there was
no one there remotely resembling Sophie Marceau, who played the lovely Princess Isabelle in that movie. Rather,
most of the women at this event resembled Sophie Tucker. The way Sophie Tucker looks,
today....Sophie Tucker died in 1966, see, and what with the worms and everything....well, you get the idea. Suffice it to say that this wasn't a hot chick "must-do" destination event.
There was
haggis to eat (or throw up, depending on your taste), "music", dancing, and other assorted Caledonian crapola. Festival-goers
swarmed their ancestral clan tents: over here the Montgomeries, over there the Lachlans and the Stuarts and on and on. For me, the fun part was listening to these people whose
families have been here for three or four hundred years prattle on about just how authentically Scottish they were. IMHO, after this amount of time has passed, you're about
as Scottish as my left hemmorhoid.
Listen up, Sparky: you're American. Dressing in all the Celtic clobber available whilst cabering the caber, hauling the heavy hammer, or shoving the sheaf doesn't change this basic fact.
One other bizarre thing. This event took place in
Stone Mountain, Georgia. A suburb of Atlanta,
Stone Mountain is notorious as the birthplace of the Georgia Ku Klux Klan. Dipshit robed racists used to hold cross burnings here every Friday night up till about 1970 or so, no kidding. But with my attending this
Highland Games gathering,
I can actually say I was at a "clan meeting in Stone Mountain", and not mean it in a bad way. Weird, eh?
Ex-wife whining means nada to Nigel
Received this via the Outlook just a moment or so ago, and naturally wanted to post it. It's
from my ex-wife, though I can guaran-damn-tee you that she's
not the girl in the photo. Nope, she must've paid someone to stand there and have the photo taken. She does NOT look like that and more's the pity. See, my
ex-wife is so ugly, they filmed
Gorillas In The Mist in her shower. She's so ugly
her face looks like she's been bobbing for french-fries. How ugly is she? When she takes her bra off, you'd swear she has four big toes. She's so ugly, her psychiatrist makes her lie on the couch face down.
She's so ugly, she could make a maggot puke. I know: I used to puke all the time, having to endure her.
Marriage is for idiots.I could go on and on, but I'll stop now. For this, I'm sure you're thankful.
Japanese invade Paris: get sick, have to leave
From
Journal Du Dimanche: some
Japanese tourists in Paris lose their little, inscrutable minds when confronted with the dirt, filth, rudeness, horror, and disgust--that is to say, the reality of France. The image of Paris in their minds clashes with what they see once actually there and the result is
cognitive dissonance run amok. "Fragile travelers can lose their bearings. When the idea they have of the country meets the reality of what they discover it can provoke a crisis," said a psychiatrist familiar with the
various freak-outs that have occurred.
This should be
no surprise to those of us familiar with
la pays du poubelle. PJ O'Rourke perhaps said it best in describing our friends across the sea: "The French:
sawed off sissies who eat snails and slugs and cheese that smells like people's feet. They fight with their feet and perform sex acts with their faces. Utter cowards who
force their own children to drink wine, they gibber like baboons even when you try to speak to them in their own wimpy language. Good points: invented the blowjob."
Gun play at home, or at least close by
Heading home tonight after
mucho cocktailatas (Spanish for: "I'm drunk and can barely type"), and just before the turn-in to my
charming and lovely subdivision, I pass three cars heading the other way at a high rate of speed. All of a sudden: bang bang bang! From the second car, a hand and a gun out the right side window and some smoke and thankfully they're pointing the damn thing away from the road and into the trees and towards a house (well, thankfully for me. Undoubtedly for the homeowner in question, not the greatest thing ever).
So. I reached for my
Sig P226 (at left) handily kept below the driver's seat--hey, fuck 'em, if they're going to shoot at me, I'm shooting back! But they were gone and unfortunately I had no chance to shoot back at whomever it was disturbin' da hood.
My head
cleared faster than Brazil's rain forest. And I was ready to protect me and mine, dammit, ready because I'm, well, ready. You can count on me, at least between cocktails and wanks and hangovers. Reliable, I am, at least 25% of the time.
Buff my scrotum if you're not happy with that.
Behind the Hybrid hypocrite
See if this makes you pause the way it did me.
So I'm driving along behind a
Toyota Prius. A hybrid, environmentally friendly car, designed to reduce gas emissions and dependence on foreign oil. Bought mostly by
guilt-ridden yuppies who want to "make a statement". And the statement they're making certainly has nothing to do with styling or looks; this car is as ugly as a hatful of assholes (photo, above left). No, mostly the
statement is about how concerned they are about the environment.Comes to a stoplight, does this Prius, and the driver winds the window down, puts his hand out, and
drops his lit cigarette butt on the road. Light goes green and he's off.
Two things popped into my head:
- You asshole.
- Who is this guy kidding? He can't be concerned about the environment; he just littered with impunity. He can't be concerned about his internal environment; hopefully the cancer cells are growing in his lungs as we speak. And if he's driving this thing because gas prices are too high....last I checked, a pack of Merit Ultra Lights is running close to $4.00 where I live and in some metro areas close to $8.00. Quit smoking, and you could drive a Hummer, get 6 mpg, pay for all that gas, and still come out ahead of where you are as a smoker.
Here's to white suburban hypocrites everywhere.
Another reason I say: buff my scrotum.
My preliminary Christmas list
Because I've been a
good boy and haven't had any problems with the law for over 13 months now: herewith, my first stab at a Christmas wish list.
Santa, you fucking asshole, you better come through this time, or I'm going to be even more unmanageable than usual.
- Sig P220 Carry. Because blowing the shit out of things I don't like is my God given right, and Sigarms is the greatest company on the face of the earth. Oh, how I love them.
- Violet Crumble Bars. 3 boxes. If you're going to eat sugar, eat the best. If you've never had one of these (and chances are you haven't), treat yourself.
- One good night's sleep, uninterrupted by my goddamm prostate (which is the size of an Idaho baked potato)...just one night where I sleep solidly all the way through till morning. This hasn't happened in 12 years. This would be maybe the best present I could get.
- One hour with Bea Arthur. She's got a face like a box of frogs. Mmmmmm, she gets my motor running.
- Alternatively, perhaps some private time with Salma Hayek? I'm guessing I'd be good for about 25 seconds. Brief, yes, plus they'd be the most disappointing 25 seconds of her life. Pour moi, mais, je serais heureux comme porc dans la merde.
- One "thank you" from my can't understand normal thinking (what an acronym!) ex-bloody-wife, who's living the life of Riley courtesy of your humble Nigel. Why? Because
I'm paying all her bloody bills. Spends her days hanging around, making the world safe so she and her yenta hen-pack of friends can go eat lunch at Taco Bell.
That's it. Now,
you fat bearded bastard, get to work like the rest of us. I'll expect goodies down the chimney bright and early 25 December, or else.
Quarter cutie cooked, quartered. Where was Mickey Rourke?
See the
story about the guy in New Orleans' French Quarter who
decapitated and dismembered his girlfriend,
boiled her head up on the GE stovetop and
cooked the rest of her in the oven--then,
jumped off a 5 storey building to his death?
Undoubtedly the dude was influenced by "evil spirits". After all, they lived above a voodoo shop ("We've got curses on sale, 2 for 1, this weekend only--come on down").
Made me think of the Mickey Rourke film
Angel Heart, which happened to be set in the New Orleans French Quarter. This is the
second Mickey Rourke film in my soon-to-be-famous
Hot Chicks/Bad Flicks Film Festival. From my standpoint, it's notable primarily because
Lisa Bonet (the super sexy daughter from the Cosby Show in the 80's--photo above left) is
totally and completely naked for much of the film and, particularly at the end, gives a simply smashing performance on her back, writhing, legs wrapped around this Rourke as he, um, Bonets her. The rest of the film had some French Quarter dismemberment in it...hearts being taken out of bodies, blood everywhere, etc.
I couldn't really figure out what the hell was going on but I didn't mostly care because of the enthusiastic performance of Ms. Bonet, bed-wise. In terms of her walking and talking and moving around and acting in general, I'd say she did just ok, but she was
frigging fantastic and oh so Oscar worthy whilst said frigging was taking place. So on the
"How Many Dead Hippos Did It Blow?" scale, this film rates
9 Dead Hippo blow jobs.
What kind of job do you have?
Last night's congressional debate in North Carolina featured two doofi (doofus, plural) going at it. Accusations flew faster than Madonna's plane leaving Malawi. One candidate accused the other of supporting, in 2003, a bill that would have provided the
National Institute of Health funding to study sexual behaviours including: masturbation in old men (hey, I qualify), plus
teenage girls' reaction to pornography.
The girls would've been paid to watch the porn.
What kind of job is that, and how would it look on a resume?
It reminds me of the summertime ads you hear for backyard BBQ charcoal briquets--"use the charcoal the
pros use!" Just who are these professional griller-outers? What qualifies them for the gig? Ya gotta go to school for that?
A professional charcoal griller, and a professional porn watcher....
sign me up for both. The photo tries to combine the two, er, professions.
Ah'm werrin nothin but baby ile hen, could be yer lucky night!
So, against my better judgment I'll be attending a
"Scottish Festival" this weekend. I say it's against my better judgment because, well, anything involving going somewhere and being around other people fits that bill.
Regular readers of this drivel -- you, my beloved shlubbies --
already know how much I love Scotland and all thing Scottish. Most of my family is from there. Like my
Auntie Chrissie. A native of Motherwell, just outside Glasgow, old Chrissie would listen as I'd regale her with stories about my primary school day. Soon, she'd had enough, and cuffing me about the ears : "
If you dinna shut up I will pap this tin of turpentine over your heid" and then, finally, "
Awa tae fuck yer talkin pish", she'd yell, and then kick me in the bollocks.
One of my favorite stories was about her and
her brother Hamish. "A had tae wipe ma fanny batter on the curtains
afore he'd shag me" -- that was the punchline of the story. We'd laugh and laugh, I gotta tell you. What great family memories.
Well, enough of this shite. Ah'm awl jeeked -- ah could'nae get a stonner if a Senga wi big diddies wis tae gie me a gammy.
Who needs good looking Democrats?
Oh, for God's sake. Comes now
this article talking about how there's a bunch of
good-looking Democratic candidates running for seats this midterm election, and hey, having a pretty face doesn't hurt, dontcha know.
WTF is the Washington Post thinking, running a
stupid article like this while we're dealing with
important goddamm issues, really important ones? Who cares what people look like when the following is on our plate:
•
Congressmen having monkey butt-sex with pages?
•
Madonna "adopting" a kid from Africa?
•
Sara Evans (pictured) divorcing her husband because of a few lousy porno tapes?
These are the issues that matter! Not North Korea, or Iraq, or Iran, or the fucking UN, or AIDS in Africa, or any of that other shit. And certainly not whether a candidate is "good looking". Got it?
Full disclosure, though:
Nancy Pelosi stirs my loins. Just a bit. In a Mrs. Robinson kinda way. I'd do her, but respectfully. She's going to be the
next Speaker of the House, see, and you don't go forcing something like, say, a
"Dirty Sanchez", or a
"Cleveland Steamer" on her without at least
asking for permission.
Stroke the putter
Knowing that
I'm a sick, sick puppy, people send me stuff in the e-mail. Like this picture, here.
This is the golfer
Michelle Wie. She's only 17, which makes my reaction to this particular photo much, much worse than if she was, say, 18. Plus, she's another
Korean (Korean-American, but still); see
previous post regarding the wiles and ways of the
Chosun ones....
About the picture. Seriously,
shouldn't her caddy have said something? Done something? Ran on over to her and said, you know, "Look, Mickey, give me the putter. Now, Mickey. I'll take care of it."
Ms. Wie can't possibly
not know that there are
cameras trained on her all the time, particularly when she's on the course....right? Here's hoping she doesn't, so we'll have many more photos like this coming our way in the future.
Words of wisdom from Mariah Carey
"Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I'd love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff."
--
Mariah Carey
Supermarket people suck
The scene: last night, on the way home, I stopped at a well known
supermarket chain store. I'm wandering around aisle 4.
Me: "Excuse me, do you have
Ginger Beer?"Girl stocking shelves: "Ginger Ale?"
Me: "Ginger Beer. Not Ginger Ale. I've seen it before in here I think."
Girl stocking shelves: "Ginger Beer. I think so. Yes, it's
somewhere in the store, somewhere." Turns away, resumes stocking shelves.
Silence. Long pause whilst I restrain myself from tearing this twat's head off.
Me: "Well, you've been a big help. I'll be sure to nominate you for employee of the month.
Good luck with your future career manning the inquiry desk at the DMV." Another bitch with an IQ measurable on the Richter scale. And another reason why men don't ask for directions.
Men are smarter than women? No way.
Well, guys, here's some water cooler fodder that's certain to cause disruptions between the sexes. Seems there's another study out:
men are smarter than women -- at least in terms of IQ tests. 4 points higher, they say. I say, riiiiiiiiiight.....
This is
patently, demonstrably false. To wit:
• Men ask women to
marry them.
• Only complete total loser idiots voluntarily ask people to marry them (I did, twice!)....ergo:
•
Men are idiots.More proof? Here are
newlyweds Cletus and Beryl (already pregnant) and their dog Cornmeal. Cletus just won the
World Mullet Championship, and with his winnings he's put a down-payment on the lovely double-wide in front of which this charming wedding photo was snapped.
She's wearing flip-flops. He's wearing some kind of cutaway attempted tux thing.
Idiot.
I rest my case.
Buff my scrotum if you disagree.
Koreans are nuts
News today about the North Koreans testing a nuclear bomb.
So what? IT'S KOREA! They're all loony, North, South, who gives a shit? Nuts, I say. Totally and completely nuts.
A little known fact about
Korea is that back in the 60's,
the South Koreans sent troops to fight on our side in Vietnam. And honest to God, the Korean troops were the only ones the
North Vietnamese and the Viet Minh/Cong were scared of. The ROK marines never lost a single battle in Vietnam...in one,
a single squad -- just 13 ROK Marines --
took on an entire elite NVA battalion. Body count: 2 Koreans killed; over 400 NVA dead; most of the battle was hand-to-hand fighting. They are insane,
ruthless killing machines of the first order, with no qualms at all about, say, disemboweling you just for giggles--and the ones from the North, like the friendly looking dude in the photo, are wackier than their Southern compadres.
Why is this? Cold weather? Rev. Sun Myung Moon? Regardless, they're crazy. After all, this is a people who
bury their food in the ground for 6 months before they eat it (kimchee....mmmmm, that's good eatin')....
Meanwhile, the
girls are goddesses, hot hot hot. Amazingly sexy. That is, if you can keep them alive. They have an unfortunate and alarming
tendency to commit suicide (a good friend of mine is coming up on the 10 year anniversary of his Korean girlfriend's shotgun induced full-cranial misting). The suicide rate among Korean women is 8 times that of other Asian countries and nearly the highest in the world. But
until they off themselves, they're something special. If you like to be bossed around by a screeching, frothing at the mouth dominatrix who would sooner
gouge your eyes out with a rock-melon peeler than give you a kiss...well, by God, Korean babes are for you. I love 'em, long time.
We ought to sic the
entire goddamm Korean peninsula on these frickin' Islamic douchebags. That'd learn those arsewipe sons of Ishmael a thing or two or three.
My nice, quiet weekend
Liqour before beer, never fearBeer before liquor, never sicker.I don't know if any of that shit is true but after the last couple of days I can definitively advise you of the following:
- my liver hurts.
- I feel like I've been licking pool tables all weekend.
- my skin looks like parchment
- I tend to over-tip bartenders and strippers
- nobody loves you when you're down and out (also, in my case, when you're up and in)
God, what fun! And all the great new friends I met along the way!
Now,
where exactly are my car keys?
Leaving to get legless
Bad day at work today; bugger it. Will leave now with goal in mind as follows: 10 beers, 3 large Sambucas, hot messy chicken wings. Hasta la vista, see ya later, gunna go get drunk.
Dope cures Alzheimers?
News from some important medical institute that huffing marijauna might "stave off Alzheimers", and that the active ingredient in pot may "help preserve brain function". This seems completely counter-intuitive; if it were true,
Tommy Chong would be
Secretary of State today.
Regardless, with this story comes images of nursing homes in Florida full of giggling, wasted, reggae loving centenarians, crowding into the kitchen at 1am, chugging on munchies-induced cans of Ensure.
The drawing is of another old guy we all love,
firing up a fattie.
Ramadan: wanking, no; suicide bombings, sure!
Why, it's Iran's Supreme Leader,
Ayatollah Khameini, pictured here holding the dildo he's planning to use on himself, up his arse, after Ramadan. But that's the key, see:
after Ramadan. Not during.
According to his holy terrorist-ness, there's to be
no self-abuse during Ramadan. None. Got that, shiite heads? Yiz can spill yiz jizz accidentally, as in during a dream, say--but if you plan out your
onanistic adventure with advance lust-in-your-heart (not to mention the you-know-what in your hand), well then, you've got a one-way ticket on the
camel express, Highway to Hades, Mohammed-style! So keep your busy little fingers where we can see them, shlubbies.
Muslims are
such a fun bunch.
Mark Foley can NOT buff my scrotum
This
twerpy shitstain perv Mark Foley, he of the IMs to Congressional boy pages, had better stay the hell away from my scrotum, and yours too. He's trying one excuse after another to justify his
butt-sniffing disgusting NAMBLA proclivities. Today he claims he was "abused" by a priest. This I don't mind so much.
But, yesterday he said he was entering alcohol rehab. Wait a minute. This
gives a bad name to alcoholics everywhere.
Speaking as an expert, let me tell you: us
heavy drinkers are mostly harmless, so long as we don't drive or have families or try to hold down jobs or maintain friendships.
My favorite bar, sold in 1994, is now a coffee house during the day with some kind of yuppie nightclubby feel at night. It was
Washington D.C.'s Zebra Room, (now the "Zebra Lounge") and when I was a regular it was famous as a smoky, divey hangout for toothless drunks, including numerous well-known politicos. Former
Speaker of the House Carl Albert effectively lived there when Congress wasn't in session. Now, as this coffehouse, it's been cleaned up and sanitized, and more's the pity.
The
old Zebra Room served
pizza in front and had a
horseshoe shaped bar in the darkened back area complete with wobbly stools and chipped formica and broken down souls bellying up for their next whiskey. It's all changed now. In the photo, taken recently at a gathering of lobbyists, you can still sort of see how the bar was.
Back to Mark Foley. That
scuzzbag. He wouldn't have been welcome at the Zebra Room, or anywhere else upstanding (or floorlying) alcoholics congregate. So don't be fooled by all his
whining and whingeing. Bastard.
Hot Chicks/Bad Flicks Film Festival continues
So, as promised,
Wild Orchid was viewed at
Chez Nigel last night. During final credits, I opened windows in the screening room in a vain attempt to air out the place.
The film stars the nubile
Carrie Otis, pictured at left. Clarification: she's NOT the one on the right. Carrie is on the LEFT. OK? The one on the right, unbelievably, is former wet dream on legs
Joey Heatherton. God, did she age badly. But that's another post for another time.
On the
"How Many Dead Hippos Did It Blow?" scale, Wild
Orchid ranked
8 dead hippos blown out of 10 possible. I saved one dead hippo blowjob because
Jacqueline Bissett is in this movie, and as grandmas go, she
still gives me a
massive knob ache the size of Idaho. Also, one dead hippo blowjob saved because Carrie's disrobed as hell throughout all the important parts of the movie. Despite her inability to put together one single, solitary, coherent, convincing line of dialogue, the poor dear looks wonderful whilst unclothed and therefore deserves both our support and our spunk,
dead hippo blowjob-wise. So to speak.
Next in the Hot Chicks/Bad Flicks Film Festival:
Dog Eat Dog!, starring the mammoth-mammaried
Jayne Mansfield.
From Sheena to Vegas
Comes on the radio this ad for a
"free" Vegas time share trip. The woman talking identifies herself as "
Tanya Roberts"-- I'd never heard of her, until I got home yesterday and snapped on the Trinitron, cable channel 763. Here's this nearly nude blondish babe astride what is obviously a
horse painted to look like a zebra, galivanting across the Serengeti, ordering black people around while communicating
telepathically with flamingoes.And more: not so very far into the the film, our heroine, sweat dripping down her ample cleavage, thoughtfully takes time from her busy African day wrangling rhinos and busting bad guys for some
skinny-dipping, and thank God for this.
Shlubbies, I'd stumbled across Tanya Roberts, in the
1984 release "Sheena". She looked just extraordinary; gorgeous legs up to her neck, lovely plump pre-Angelina Jolie lips, big eyes, pretty, pretty girl.
The movie, on the other hand,
sucked the gigantic oozing bag.Times change. To go from starring in "Sheena" (and apparently Charlie's Angels and in a James Bond movie, too, I found out, plus some soft-core porno, yeehaw?) to
hawking Vegas time shares. Wow.But enduring this "Sheena" has put me in a mind to spend some time searching out more
bad movies starring other great looking girls who also can't act. So, tonight I'm on my way to Blockbuster to get "
Wild Orchid", starring the plastic-surgery-gone-wrong actor Mickey Rourke and the beautiful but vacuous and talentless Carrie Otis. This movie has the distinction of
scoring "0%" positive reviews on rottentomatoes.com. I can't wait.
Your comments are welcome as to the next movie I should rent subsequent to that.
Irony, irony, irony....and funny
The ad for this product says:
"Chimfex Fire and Flame Suppresant combats chimney fires! Smother flames quickly, safely, NO water damage". Unfortunately, the product's
no longer available. The sad, sad reason for this unfortunate turn of events, from
their web site posting, is this:
"Due to a fire at the factory the Chimfex product is no longer available."
Talk about lousy ad placement
It's a little hard to see--but the
banner ad above this story is for a university...includes a bubble with the text "Your child goes to school here". Click on the image directly to see it full-size. From today's NY Post....
I used to work in a place where they required you to dress up for Halloween. Dressing up ranks right down there with karaoke on the gouge-my-eyes out scale of shit I can't stand. But, ya know, what the hey, I'm a team player. So Halloween would roll around, and I'd show up to work wearing a colorful sweater, like the one in the picture. No other kind of costuming; everything else as per the norm. Typical conversation:
You may remember that Bill Cosby (left), in his 80's mega-TV show, always wore a colorful sweater. So the costume was legit but not obnoxious like that worn by all the other retards I worked with. Exception to the negativity: occasionally a large-breasted long-legged receptionist would show up looking all Victoria's Secret like. This, I liked.
As a rule, my sweater/Cosby explanation would shut 'em up. And you can see I'm not the only one. At right, Australian Prime Minister John Howard and US President George W. Bush wearing Cosby sweaters. Clearly, they hate Halloween too.
