So, who’s more boring than Travis? Oh yeah . . . Dido. And, quite possibly, Starsailor. . . . Y’know, you really can’t beat a nice egg salad—or, as we like to call it in our affected Anglophilic way, egg-mayonnaise-sandwich. . . . We don’t know who we feel more sorry for, Jon Tenney or Kristin Chenoweth. . . . We’re not exactly big on pain tolerance ourselves, but man, is that Matt Geiger a pussy. Maybe the Sonics can trade Vin Baker for him.
Our congratulations to John M. Klink on his nomination to head the U.S. State Department’s Population, Refugees, and Migration Bureau. Klavin! . . . Alan Ball: He’s Aaron Sorkin with a cock in his mouth. Needless to say, we will not be watching Six Feet Under, especially considering that it’s on opposite our fave new show. Go Flickerstick! . . . Hey, Todd McFarlane, would it kill you to make some Capitol Gang action figures?
“Jenna and Tonic.” Sometimes you’ve just gotta love the New York Post. . . . John Frankenheimer has finally denied the rumor that he’s Michael Bay‘s illegitimate father. He must’ve seen Pearl Harbor. . . . Just wait till you people hear The Strokes‘ full-length. You’re gonna shit yourselves with sheer rock ‘n’ roll joy. . . . OK, let’s see if we have this right—Stipe didn’t really out himself in Time, the article was actually a fascinating experimental postmodern commentary on the overused journalistic trope of accuracy? Naaaah. . . .
W. to Jenna: “Honey, I just wish you could be more like your mother.” So what, she should be pro-choice? . . . Big ups to the Rabid Wolverine his own self, Chris Benoit, on his elevation to the Main Event. Ten German suplexes? That’s gotta hurt!
Was it really seven years ago that we first predicted that one of Mary-Kate and Ashley was gonna be hot? We still can’t decide which one. . . . Walter Scott is dead. So long, Mr. Personality Parade. Who’s gonna make up the questions now? . . . Kudos to Don Francisco on his Hollywood star. He is our favorite South American Jew. . . . Speaking of landsman, that “Completed Jew” stuff really pisses us off. . . . Man, we thought Nads were gross, but have you people seen that commercial for its competitor, the one where the guy wipes his chest hair off with a washcloth? Ewwwwwwww. . . . Seriously—does anyone want to buy a tiny wireless video camera?
Soulcracker. Bwaa-ha-ha-ha! . . . Our idea for an episode of That’s My Bush: George fondly recalls his Skull and Bones days when he finds out that Jenna’s three alcohol violations (one more and she could lose her license or go to jail, thanks to a certain Texas guv’ner) were actually hazing rituals for Kappa Kappa Gamma. . . . All you really need to know about our “president”: He gave away the family cat to friends in California so the White House furniture wouldn’t be damaged. Barbarian.
Courtney’s womb is so polluted, she can’t even give (INSERT NAME HERE) a little baby. . . . Brent and Sam’s cookies are the best thing to come from Arkansas since Clinton. . . . Dammit, had we known the movie reviewer from the Ridgefield Press wasn’t real, we never would have gone to see Hollow Man. We’re still gonna give Rob Schneider the benefit of the doubt, though.
How did Frank Oz end up being the sort of director who gets to work with Edward Norton, Robert DeNiro, and Marlon Brando? C’mon, it’s not like Sidney Lumet is busy or anything. On the other hand, anyone can direct DeNiro—he just gives the same damn performance over and over again. Brando doesn’t need direction, he just needs someone like Gunther Goebel Williams to poke him with a stick and point him toward the set. Though there is a certain amount of serendipity, the idea of Yoda directing Jabba the Hutt.
Truth of the matter is, if you didn’t know Stipe was gay before, that quote about being roughly the same age as Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt is a giveaway. Hey, we already knew the guy was old.
