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Lindsey Lohan naked.

Tonight on the O'Reilly Factor

This is not a joke...

The O'Reilly Factor

Bill's in L.A. investigating liberal Hollywood — See if sparks fly when actors Drew Carey and Mike Farrell both enter the No Spin Zone! (cc)

'Liberal Hollywood'...when was the last time either of those people were seen in the vicinity of Hollywood? I thought Mike Farrell died in the late 1990's and I assumed Drew Carey was touring the country with his improv troupe 'benign hilarity'. Give 'em hell, O'Reilly! That'll show...someone...something...

Los Angeles

An interesting little town filled with the unemployed and unemployable. People taking breakfast meetings at 11AM, people who have nothing but time and money and people who just sit around getting high.

Overheard During One Night Stands

A short list of things overheard during one night stands:

1) "I may be post-op, but my vagina is still just an inside out penis."
2) "I'm having sex with you because my father hates Jews."
3) "So that's where I left my Salmon Mousse!"
4) "Blood and tears are just as good as lubricant."
5) "Pee on my face then flush my head in a toliet".

Sage Advice

Two things you don't want to blurt out during a one night stand:

1) I love you, Kacey.
2) I love you, Kacey. (if her name is Elizabeth)

The Dead Letter Office

Dear Death,

Remember that fateful night we spent together in Monte Cristo? The smelting iron and painful jackknives were especially memorable. Should I tell Mr. Sanchez that the villa will be purchased like we once dreamed? Those long eternities that we spent in each other’s arms...You whispering sweet delicate nothings into my ear; Me gasping for breath as the life force was sucked out of me. My darling, when will it be like that again?

Your love,

The late Joanne 'Peaches' Worthington, PHD

Dear Couple That Sat Behind Me at "Anchorman" Two Years Ago,

Hi. How are you? Could you please stop talking right this second?

After you laugh, you don't need to say 'that's funny'. Of course it's funny, we all laughed. Yes, he was talking to his dog. It's really humorous. Compaired to it, the Marx Brothers verbal repartee seems as funny as the final scene in "Philadelphia". But as laughing is the international sign of something being funny, there's really no need to speak any further on the matter. Do people sneeze and say 'I just sneezed'? Well, perhaps you do, you filthy piece of distended rectum.

And when Ben Stiller appeared for his cameo? Did you need to say 'that's Ben Stiller'? Think about it. Do you really think you were the first person in the audience to figure that delectable little factoid out? Also, is there really a need to point at Ben Stiller while you were identifying him? I'm not getting upset, I know you wanted to clarify that you were talking about Ben Stiller, and not the tree next to him. It can be very confusing. Ben Stiller, something wooden that has emerged forth from the ground. I know I can't tell the difference.

I know it's hard to believe that Will Ferrell said 'Go back to your home on Whore Island' but there is no need to question his witticism with a loud 'Oh no he didn't!'? I just hate to correct people, but yes, yes he absolutely did just say it. You saw him do it right on that humongous screen a few yards ahead of you. I can double check, but I'm pretty sure you, me and about 150 other people heard him say it.

Now I tried to be polite. I gave you the annoyed cough. That didn't work. I stepped it up and tried the slight head turn. You just thought I was cracking my neck. Finally I went 'shh!' under my breath. It did nothing! What more could a reasonable man who is afraid of confrontation do?

So, to sum up, please stop talking. The movie going experience is difficult enough, what with the commercials, trailers and mediocre 'star vehicles', please stop making it worse.

Sincerely,

Annoyed Movie-Goer

Childhood Memories, or Dead Jews Bake in Florida.

Joe: She spoke to me, pop, pop, pop. But I noticed her words were all whispers gently floating away in the wind, passing by without a thought of tomorrow.

Boy: Then what Happened?

Joe: What do you think? She totally blew me.

Boy: What's a blow job like?

Joe: It's sort of like reading a long, boring book. It's long and hard, but eventually you lose interest and give her a fake name and tell her you'll call her tomorrow.

Boy: Wow, sounds like magic.

Joe: It sure is Billy, it sure is.

Boy: My name is Alex.

Well,

I'm suffering from writer's block. Sometimes when this happens, I feel congested, like there's something inside me waiting to be put on paper. Well, not this time. I feel crap. I'm more vacuous then a viewer of "A War At Home". God, I can't even come up with a good - uh, whatever that last sentence was. You see? I can't even remember what the word is for that.

I'm putting together this grant proposal to get some money to make a feature film. I wrote the film, but now I've got to write about myself and my goals and I have no idea where to start. It's almost 11PM and I've been sitting here since 6, blank eyed and ponderous.

I've never been so self absorbed or insular in these stupid blog entries then in my last two posts. Sorry about that. I have no booze around.

God, I feel stupid and boring. Maybe I am suited for life in LA.

Astoria.

I had a bleeding heart stomach ache. The whiskey I just gulped flowed through my vein and dealt me a solid knock in the face. The two attempting-to-be-younger 30 odd year olds laughed at me while I talked aimlessly about the possible transit strike.

“I'm stuck in Astoria every day” I mumbled, with what might be considered 'dangerous' breath. I must have smelled like a furnace after a fire... “Why can't everyone else suffer like I do?”

They chuckled inanely. The fat one with warts wasn't interested, but she was polite. The thin, cute one with an Irish accent pushed me. “What street are you stuck on?” she smiled, like a devil looking for a signature on a binding document.

“29th” I thought about lying, but what was the point?

“I live on 30th” If this was a porn film, I would be filling her various orifices. But this was real life and it seemed like a bad idea.

I sipped my whiskey. The guy turning 70 next week grabbed my arm. “They're striking no matter what”. He was so sure and so old, how could I not believe him? His grip was firmer. He needed something to hold on to. He was in a room with people so much younger then he. I wondered why, but later my question was answered. “I have no one left”, I was quizzing him, because I thought maybe he wanted to fuck me because he touched my arm so much. “No wife?”...”No wife” he said “kids, nephews, anything?” I mistook his loneliness for some sort of perverse homosexual desire. He just wanted to talk. But Christ, Dude, stop touching my arm. “No, everyone's dead. Yesterday...Well, Wednesday, I guess that was yesterday, I put a reef on my sister's grave. I saw my headstone. I'm next.”

I told him about my 96 year old grandmother. “She's bonkers.” It didn't do much for him. I don't talk to 70 odd year olds as a general rule. I don't hate them, I just don't usually find myself at a bar at 1am talking to them. “You're so young” again with the arm. He HELD HARD. He was grabbing on to me, I thought, because he had nothing left to hold on to. “Your parents must be worried about you”. I could have taken that miserably, like there was something wrong with me, but instead I took it at face value. “Well, they do call too much”.

I had to walk out. I'm turning 25 next week. What happened to 16-24? I thought. I'll be 70 soon enough. What was I doing here?

I bought Paul a whiskey. He was talking too fast with some Canadian about health care. I didn't give a shit, but I could see Paul did. If I ran back to the bar to buy a drink I knew I was buying some piece-of-mind time. I kept looking back and I stared at the 70 year old man's face. He was so fucking lonely. There was no one else. Not in this moment. He couldn't look beyond this shitty Astoria bar. This was what was left of his life. He'd be dead soon enough. Why not hang out with some mid-20's kids? If he wasn't around dead people, he wasn't dying.

Still, he didn't figure on some 25 year old Jew who has lived his entire life afraid of death. I looked in his eyes and I saw myself in 45 years. Alone, wrinkled and at some shitty Astoria bar assuring some kid that the transit strike was going to happen. If I wasn't steadfast about it, he thought, I might be wrong about a lot of things. I gotta tell him I know it's going to happen, or somehow my life is meaningless. If I can't talk with authority at 70, then life's a shit worth shit.

I told Paul we needed to leave. I gulped my whiskey, nodded to the 30-something nymphets and ran out into the cooling rain. Life's too short to be worrying about life, I thought. I don't smoke, but I lit one up and walked a few blocks home. Carpe Diem, I thought. Carpe fucking diem. You couldn't catch me fucking dead in 45 years lamenting to a stranger. That's not me. I'm not that fucking guy.

So I inhaled deeply and stood in the rain for a second. “I hope he's right about that transit strike” I thought. “Everyone'll be trapped in Astoria like me” I thought.

Definition of Procrastinating

Webster's Dictionary defines a 'Treatment' as "a bunch of bollocks that a screenwriter is forced to write because most LA-types are too lazy to actually read your script". Can anyone tell me the PURPOSE in writing a five page summary of a script that's completely finished? A one sentance description, I understand. What's the film about? Certainly, I would want to know that before I read the script. One paragraph description, OK. Are these characters I will be interested in? OK, cool, whatever. But what jackass needs a five page cliff notes verision of the script to be attached to the actual script? It's like jerking off before having sex. It only makes things less pleasurable. Honestly, would you want to read a beginning, middle and end without any of the nuances or subtleties of an actual crafted, finished work?

Oy gavult. I'm complaining instead of doing. But, that's the Jew way.

9 Minutes

I'm leaving in nine minutes to celebrate the New Years at several venues across New York City. I am never terribly excited by this holiday; it seems, like Halloween, to be just an excuse for a lot of people to get slutty and drunk. Also, what exactly am I celebrating? Jesus's birth? Not for us Jews, we're in the Year Of Our Lord 7,000 or something.

Part of my New Years' resolution involves going out and forcing myself to socialize, so all this falls neatly into my plans. Leaving my house is a Herculean task usually, especially to 'go out and do stuff'. Usually leaving involves going to a dark bar to get drunk, go to someone's house to get drunk or play poker to get drunk. But when I have to dress up to get drunk, problems ensue. I seem to have cultivated a comfortable 'crap' look for myself, and I truly hate messing that up.

So kudos to you, Jebus H. Christ. Congratualtions on being born and dying for all our sins. We will honor you by getting drunk and hooking up with strange women in your name. O, thank ye, Jebus, thank ye Lord. Now let's get plastered!


UPDATE:
I was informed by several people this evening that the New Years has nothing to do with Jebus's burfday. That's Christ-mass. My bad.

T minus 25 and counting.

How long do we really live for? Should I feel that 25 is a milestone? Will this sentence end with a question mark? The answer is inveriably YES, kind sir and/or madam, yes!

Ok, so in a few minutes I'm turning 25. I can't remember turning 15 (actually I can't remember turning 24), but I'm sure it didn't feel the same way. The phrase "quarter-life crisis" is bandied about among my age-set. Is your career going yet? Are you with someone who is marriage-able? How many midgets have you met? We face these questions on a daily basis.

Carpe Diem? Said outloud, it sounds like some sort of Yiddish expression involving phlegm and/or Shabbat, but it's certainly something to think about. I'm not sure what the percentage is, but I know that I've definitely said "I wish I'd have done that" MUCH more frequently then I've said "I wish I hadn't have done that". Turning 25 is just another harsh reminder that there isn't enough time in the world to say 'NO' to stuff.

Same could be said for turning 65, I guess. My dad told me recently that he stayed up all night regretting that he had said 'no' to all the women who at some point said 'yes' to him. Granted, that's a pretty disgusting thought, but he makes a point. If I have a ton of regrets at 25, I can't imagine how I'll feel at 65.

Completely unrelated to that (*cough*), I'm attending the Sundance Film Festival this year to try to schmoooze and market myself. Last week I shot a short film on a whim and I think I may be moving to LA before 2007 is over. Carpe Diem, man. There's not enough time in the world.

Long Island Jewess Drinks and Goes Home.

I have two older brothers, and the less-older of the two has never owned a suit in his life. He takes pride in the fact that up-and-down his entire wardrobe costs under 50 bucks. Anyways, that all has to change because he's trying to get a job as a professor and now needs an 'interview suit'.

I tagged along to show my support, but I'm of little help. I consider myself stylish, or at least generally well groomed - but I'm in no position to give advice about the purchase of any item of clothing that's worth more then the GNP of Kenya. I duly sat this one out.

We ended up at generic Mid-Town Expensive Men's Clothing Store number #41. I sat at a bench adjacent to the dressing rooms and pulled out my new Frank Zappa biography, cleverly entitled 'Zappa'. There was this awful mid-30's Long Island Jewess (complete with accent) sitting next to me, waiting for her equally repellent husband to emerge from the waiting room. A staff member came out and the following conversation took place:

"Your husband likes the suit, but I'm afraid it costs $1200 dollars"
"Only $1200? Tell him it's $2100, flip the numbers around, it doesn't matter to us!"
"Would you like some store-brand water, miss?"
"Imported or domestic?"

At this point, I stopped listening. I read recently that Americans give 15 cents of every $100 they make to charity. This stupid whore is concerned if she's drinking domestic or imported STORE BRAND water, while 95% of the world is wondering if they're drinking malaria infested water from a dank, putrid river.

By any definition, I am not poor. Actually, I'm extremely well off and I consider myself lucky that I grew up in a country that offers so much financial oppurtunty. But seriously, I'm pretty fucking ashamed to be an American sometimes.

What are our priorities? We pride ourselves in being the 'moral compass of the world', but where is that morality? Does it manifest itself in passing laws preventing dudes from kissing each other? Or is it giving to the needy, stopping the spread of AIDS across Africa, spearheading scientific efforts to cure diseases, ect?

Maybe after you buy that suit, you can cut a check to the Red Cross. Not because some previously-unheard-of-disaster happened half way across the world sprung you into action, but because it's the fucking right thing to do.

Hey, look, they did something right for a change.

Harry Reid instructed his minions to vote against a "$453.5 billion defense bill including $29 billion for hurricane relief, the war and border security, and $2 billion to help low-income households pay this winter's heating expenses."

That's great news!

Why?

Because right wing nutjob Sen. Ted Stevens (R-Alaska) tacked on a provision to the bill that called for oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. What does that have to do with hurricane relief, border security or helping poor people pay their heating bills? BUGGER ALL! (Stevens, by the way, is the same jerk who shouted poor Maria Cantwell down when she requested that oil executives be placed under oath when they testified in front of a senate committee last month - God forbid)

Stevens and the Republican leadership hoped that Democrats would buckle underneath the pressure of having a campaign commercial next year that says "Liberal Senator Liberally McLiberalson voted, like the rest of the Liberal members of the senate, AGAINST hurricane relief, border security or helping poor people pay their heating bills. Do you want this Liberal in representing YOU? You aren't safe...a-Boogey-Boogey-Boogey!".

Drilling ANWR, not conservation and developing alternative energies, is the cornerstone to Bush's energy policy- just thought I'd put that in there.

So kudos, Harry Reid, et. al., for acting like a Republican and standing up for what you believe in. It's good to finally see a Democratic leadership with some balls. Now they just have to win the (mis)information war. That's the hard part. Unfortunately, "standing up for what you believe in" means bollocks when the campaign ads run. I'm so fucking sick of attack ads that use the word "liberal" like it means "Nazi" or "child rapist". Can't Democrats come back with an attack ad that uses the word conservative like that? Is that possible? Sigh....

Too Bloody Right!

I sweat when it comes to the small things.

Sometimes I sweat the big things, but rarely does it show.

Recently, a picture came to mind that was evocative of a thousand words; none of them were memorable.

Carpe Diem, they say. God doesn't exist, they say. Heaven's a dream, they say. Too bloody right, I say.

Cosmic coincidences abound.

Too bloody right. The world is a mass kufuffle controlled by randomness in search of meaning. If there's no God, then there's certainly someone having a right old laugh at our expense. Maybe just my expense. Whatever he/she/it might be, they obviously aren't a big fan of my writing.

1999ish

I looked in the mirror. Shit. It wasn't pleasant.

It was the dawn of a new century and I still looked like I was some suburban Grungester wannabe. Fuck. That was like eons ago. So 1991. I was too young back then to dress like that, so I guess I was making up for lost time. The long hair parted down the middle and the ironic Urban Outfitter tee shirts had to go. For once, my mom was right. I looked crap.

It was a sea change. In the past year I wrote and directed a play, got off with a model, fallen in love a few times and was accepted into NYU film school. I was shocked. I sent my application in a week late and I was a rich white Jew from New York City. I thought in order to get in, I may have to be a minority along the lines of "Black Asian Lesbian Cripple (With Braces!)", but somehow they took me.

So I did it. I chopped off my hopelessly dated haircut and highlighted the rest blond. I still looked crap, but at least I didn't know it. That oldest-member-of-a-boyband look was real cool in '99. I even allowed myself a goatee. Complete chin rubbish. The mustache didn't even connect to the bottom. But I was older and life was changing, so my look had to catch up. Oh right, I also had terrible acne. Oy. I can't even look back at pictures of myself for fear that my eyeballs might pop themselves out of my skull.

It was about a month until college when I got a letter from NYU with my roommate's name, address and telephone number. Rich Gibson, Some Shithole, Illinois. The next day he called me.

I guess he was nervous about my New York address, maybe my last name, whatever it was, the conversation was wholly unpleasant.

"Hey, so what kinda movies are you into?" He gurgled.

"I don't know. Comedies, I guess. Woody Allen's pretty cool."

"WOODY ALLEN? He's my favorite! I guess we're the perfect match! Maybe we should get married!"

Silence. This kid was fucking retarded. It took him about 10 seconds to realize it.

"...uhhh, sorry, I'm just excited about college"

A few hours later, I got an email from him outlining his personal habits.

1) I'm a Buddhist and I meditate four hours a day.
2) I go to sleep early and wake up early to meditate.
3) I've never done drugs, drank or smoked and never will. Mediation takes me to a higher plane.
4) I can't wait to meditate with you!

Not that I judge people on their habits or personal preferences, but I mean, shit: This motherfucker was strange. 18 year old kid from the mid-west who bases his entire life around meditation? How do I get out of this one?

My blond highlights and goatee needed someone cool to hang out with.

I searched for a way to get out of my predicament.

I noticed our dorm didn't have air conditioning.

BINGO.

I immedately went to my mother: "Mom, they stuck me in a dorm without air conditioning! I want to get out of there!"

Like any good superhero Mom, she sprung into action.

The next day, she told me she fixed everything and that I'd have a dorm with air conditioning.

"YES!"

"I got you and your roommate a new room!"

"My roommate?"

"Yeah, he called when you were out and we talked for 20 minutes. What a nice guy! He meditates, you know!"

I vomited a little in my mouth. I was going to be spending the next year with some Puritanical Buddhist.

CUT TO:

Four Months Later.

It was about 3:00am. Maybe 4. I couldn't see the clock because the room was spinny. No, the room wasn't spinny, it was my head. Colt 45 seemed awl-right when Snoop Dogg poured it out for his dead homies. But it wasn't when a bunch of hipster doofus white kids guzzled it like it was going out of style. It was completely nasty, but we felt so fucking cool. NEW YORK, DRUNK, NO PARENTS! ROCKSTAR!

When I got home, I flipped on the light. Rich wasn't home. The first week he kept to his Puritan mantra, but slowly fell out of it. I saw him smoking cigarettes, drinking and he was sleeping later then I was.

I brushed my teeth to get the 40OZ breath out of my foamy mouth.

CRASH!

The door was closed, but there was definitely some sort of wrecking ball on the other side. I opened it up. Rich lay, with a big fucking gash on his forehead, laughing hysterically. His eyes were dusty red pools of intoxicants.

"I couldn't find my keys. So I thought I'd knock down the door with my body."

I picked him up. The keys were in his hand.

He was an incoherent mess. He sat down and started to freak out.

He breath became protracted and short.

"I CAN'T BREATHE! I'M GOING TO DIE!"

I was too drunk to talk a paranoid down off a high, so I told him to eat some crackers.

He took a box of saltines and gleefully started chomping. One after one, they filled his cheeks until he looked like a chipmunk.

"Rich, you aren't swallowing".

Without hesitation, he spit the cracker dust all around our dorm room, tornado style and started to laugh like a fucking pathetic maniac.

"I KNOW, MAN!"

I jumped into bed and fell asleep. I was awoken less then an hour later to the sounds of gentle sobbing. I put my headphones on and cranked some David Bowie. Christ. This isn't how I wanted to spend my college years.

Rich and I survived that year together. We ended up going to London in the spring where he drunkenly confessed in a men's room that he "Loved Me" a few moments after he blurted out "I'm gay, I'm straight, I'm everything".

We've lost touch over the years. I guess everyone needs to make mistakes. I spent the majority of that year pining hopelessly for some awful Irish girl who laughed out loud when I told her how I felt. Rich is probably a cool guy now. Yeah, he was a pain, but if you don't act like an ass and screw up sometimes then you'll never learn from your mistakes. He learned that the meditation/no drugs thing is bollocks and I learned that I looked like an ass with frosted tips and a goatee. I mean, seriously, what the fuck was I thinking?

Members of Congress caught using Saudi Arabian Oil as Vaginal Lubricant

I saw Syriana last night. There's a wake up call. Sure it was a confused, 2 hour long, pretty much unintelligible wake-up call, but a wake up call nonetheless. Some message board smeg heads (are there any other kind?) are describing the film as "liberal, far-left propaganda" or "the truth about the right wing conspiracy", but the film deals with something that goes beyond party affiliations, something that runs deeper then our petty ideological divide.

Our policies are a depressingly unchangeable Catch-22. At least seemingly unchangeable.

Here are some excerpts from an interview with Robert Baer, the former CIA officer who wrote the novel from which the film was based:

BUZZFLASH: Why do the Saudis finance terrorism? From reading your book and elsewhere, we deduce that there are probably two reasons. One is that they’re paying protection money. You set up the scenario, as you discussed earlier, that if they didn’t buy off al-Qaeda and other terrorist groups, they might be the target of a plane that’s hijacked into their oil processing plants, and that would ruin them for years. The second reason is that the Saudis practice what we would view in America as a fundamentalist branch of the Islamic faith that actually becomes a breeding ground for terrorism.

BAER: There's a lot that we really don’t know. There are a lot of people in the royal family that sympathize with bin Laden. There are people in the royal family that feel humiliated by colonialism -- call it what you want -- by the United States, by Israel. And they’re humiliated that they are citizens or subjects of a country that has never fought a war, and yet spends so much money on defense. They’re humiliated that they don’t take the Israelis on, because their army is worthless. And maybe they’re not humiliated but rather disenfranchised because they can never advance up the ranks of the family, and it’s a very tough culture. They sit around and they read the Koran. And they get on these Islamic websites, and they watch Al-Jazeera. And they go to the mosque, and I think they’re believers.

....

That brings me to the State Department. You’ve got ’95, ’96, and ’98 bombings that had a bunch of Saudis. The bombings in Africa [U.S. Embassy in Kenya] and the Cole [U.S.S. Cole] had a bunch of Saudis involved. And we were hit September 2001, and we still don’t have visa interviews for these people. How can you explain that? If you’re a Syrian, you have to wait 30 days. If you’re an Iranian, you have to wait 30 days before you get your visa. In Saudi Arabia, you just send your passport to the travel agent. It comes back, without an interview, without any sort of check, and you get a visa. And that’s what disturbs me.

....

BUZZFLASH: You also mentioned how intertwined business relationships are with Saudi Arabia. Another point you bring out is that the Saudi Arabians keep possibly as much as a trillion dollars on deposit in U.S. banks. So how does that factor in?

BAER: Well, Kissinger set this up in the first oil embargo. He said, listen, fine, you can raise the price of oil. You’re going to get more money for your oil. But let’s be reasonable about this. Take this money and all this profit you’re making, and invest it in the United States, which is a perfectly good policy, by the way. Buy our arms. Keep your money here. It’ll keep our economy floating. We won’t go into a recession or a depression because of high oil prices. And we’re all going to win by this. And that worked fine.

But then that goes back to the dependency. We depend so much on Saudi investments in the stock market, in Citibank and other funds. This is not just Saudi money; it’s other Arab money too. If we go into a confrontation with the Middle East, especially with oil prices so high right now, and that money is not recirculated back in the United States, it’s going to do some real damage. Or if one day, they just completely pull their money out. I mean, that’s the perfect storm: an oil embargo, the Saudis and others' pulling their money out, and having the price of oil go up to $70 - $80 a barrel. We would be hurt, badly hurt.

So it's the snake eating it's tail. We finance them, they finance us, they finance terrorists, the terrorists bomb us and we bomb them. The film suggests that any attempt to change this, bring in a reformer that pushes true democracy and self sufficiency to the Saudis, is actually against our best financial interests. The oil prices might rise and they might take some of their money out of our economy. So we'll continue to support backwards anti-reform idiots who support terrorists because it keeps oil prices down and the rich white guys pockets full.

Would having a Democrat in office make things any difference? Probably not. Maybe some regulation and more funding for alternative fuels, but no fundamental difference in our policies.

Remember when the commercials used terrorism as a way to fight the drug war ("Harmless?"). Well, it ain't pot that's funding terrorism, it's your SVU. So drive that gas guzzler with the "Freedom Isn't Free" bumper sticker. You're a driving oxi-moron and you should be ashamed of yourself. OK, not you, but someone else. I like you!

Bush was Right?!?!?

Well according to the new single by "The Right Brothers", he was.

Let me preface this by saying that I enjoy pain. Not hot wax/whips and leather pain, but intellectual pain. Sometimes I listen to Sports Talk Radio, occasionally, I'll watch prime time TV, and yes, I do flip on Fox News every once in a while just to see how much I can take. Usually about 5 minutes in and I'm bleeding from my eyes and cutting myself, but that's generally what I'm doing on a weeknight anyway. Every once in a while I get enjoyment out of things that are so unbelievably intellectually offensive to me, that I'm embarrassed to admit it. So, here's one of those things.

So, "The Right Brothers" are Frank Highland and Aaron Sain, a songwriting duo who have written songs for such country megastars as Tim McGraw, Wynonna, and Rightwing McHateJew. Their new single, "Bush Was Right" is a catchy little diddy which is similar in song structure to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire", in that it's a list of bollixed historical events wrapped up in a brain-mashingly shitty song.

Here's a little sample of the lyrics:
Freedom in Afghanistan
Say Goodbye Taliban
Free Elections In Iraq
Saddam Hussein Locked Up
Osama's Staying Underground
Al Quaeda Now is Finding Out
America Won't Turn and Run
Once The Fighting Has Begun
Libya Turns Turn Over Nukes
Lebanese Want Freedom Too
Syria's Forced To Leave
Don't You Know That All This Means: BUSH WAS RIGHT!
BUSH WAS RIGHT!
BUSH WAS RIGHT!
Ted Kennedy: WRONG
Cindy Sheehan: WRONG
France: WRONG
Zell Miller: RIGHT!!!

You can't make this shit up.

To Listen, Click HERE.

Writer's Block...


Back from a self-imposed three and a half month hiatus.

I'm writing here in a vain (either definition works) attempt to get my creative juices flowing. If that doesn't sound dirty I don't know what does. OK, actually 'hard knob' sounds pretty dirty...but that's neither here nor there.

So today I drank two large coffees, four Red Bulls and a ginseng 'focus' tea...but I'm still staring at blankly at this script that I started five months ago. About three months ago, I finished a solid first draft. Instead of sending it to my manager, I desided to get my friend's opinions. Well, you know what they say...opinions are like vinereal diseases...every film school graduate has one. I got so much feedback from so many different directions that I became confused, then depressed, then confused again.

Strange thing is that most of the feedback was positive. The common problem that everyone had with the script was entirely fixable with maybe two days hard work. Well, that was about a month ago. What have I been doing since then? Drinking coffees, Red Bulls and ginseng 'focus' teas and staring blankly at my computer.

A classic Marx Brothers' gag involves Chico and Harpo posing as barbers. A man with a big mustache comes in and asks for a trim...well, the boys, in a 'vain' attempt to even the sides out, chop off his mustache completely. Well, that's what I've done to my script. Every little change forces another little change, again and again and again, until the script has so many little changes that it's a completely huge disorginized mess. All because a few of my friends told me to make the character more pro-active.

I guess I should be more pro-active and just finish the damn thing. I'm just not sure there'll be a mustache left at the end...

FLASH FROM THE WHITE HOUSE

By now, I'm sure everyone has heard that Cristeta Comerford has been named executive chef of the White House. Laura Bush made the annoucement Sunday, so everyone would be reading it on page two Monday morning.

The White House released the following information about Comerford:

She's:

1) the first woman to be White House Chef
2) the first minority to be White House Chef.

Hey - the president's popularity is at an all time low, the Iraq War causalties are raising everyday, the President's senior advisor is under investigation for leaking the name of a covert CIA operative, and the White House appointed Anti-UN freak John Bolton ambassador to the UN in a recess appointment. (That means uncontested, by the way - even Republican Sentator George V. Voinovich had problems with this guy)

But, who the hell cares, there's a woman cooking for the president! She's the first one ever! Still no comment from the White House about Valerie Plame or Karl Rove (they don't talk about ongoing investigations unless they're delicious.)

Did anyone hear ONE news story about those things in the popular media this week? No? Did you hear about the Chef? Yes?

The Do-It-Yourself Guide To Social Interaction

As most of you know, I receive a lot of fan mail, some of which is actually addressed to me. Usually I haven’t got the time to read my numerous fans blubbering praise about my literary prodigiousness, but one letter really stuck out.

Dear Matt:

I have a hard time communicating with my fellow man. I can’t handle greetings and salutations. Today some girl waved to me and I smiled and waved back. It turns out she was waving to her boyfriend, who saw me waving to her, and promptly beat me about the head with his thick, muscular forearms, as the girl pelted me with rocks and shards of broken glass. I woke up the next day in a puddle of my own blood covered with chocolate pudding and a yellow post-it note that simply read “this is a yellow post-it note”. How do I prevent this from happening again?

Thanks,

Mr. Ezra Stein (deceased)

Well Ezra, if there is one thing that’s plagued human beings from the beginning of time, it’s their inability to carry on simple day-to-day conversations with other people. Inane banter is fine in sitcoms and any movie with the word “Extreme” in the title, but in real life, it’s very, very hard. The best advice I can give you is avoid unnecessary social interaction of any kind.

Here’s a little multiple-choice test you can give yourself:

OK, you’ve seen this guy in the hall three times today. First time you smiled and said, “Hey, how’s it goin’?”, second time you gave him the old closed-lip grin and wave and the third time you gave him the acknowledging eyebrow raise and head jerk. He’s coming down the hall again…what do you do?

1. Turn around and avoid walking into him with the “I forgot something” snap of the fingers.

2. Start violently coughing and pretend you don’t see him.

3. Pick up your cell phone and call your mother, start an argument with her about why you don’t have a girlfriend.

4. Cry, cry and cry some more.

5. Stop, Drop and Roll

OK. What did you answer? Wait! Don’t tell me! Just keep it inside. Plant the seed, so you know what to do in any similar situation in the future .

Another good way to avoid having to carry on a conversation is to completely ignore what other people are saying and respond in a distant, perplexed deer-in-the-headlights manner. My mom is great at this.

Read and learn:

Mom: (stuffing food down my throat) Why don’t you eat, put some meat on those bones, you're walking around looking like your thin cousin Herbert. Do you want to look like Herbert? You'll never get a girl looking like him.

Me: Herbert's gay, Mom.

Mom: Your uncle Albert would have a heart attack if he heard you talking like that!

Me: Albert had a heart attack last week. Remember? I was talking to him about his gay son Herbert.

What can we learn from my mother? Marriage is a huge mistake, according to my father. What else? Don’t pay attention to what anyone says to you. Look confused when someone asks you a question, get angry when someone disagrees with you, whether you are right or wrong, and if the pressure’s on, offer them some food. That way you can seek out the kitchen window when they aren’t looking.

Some of us can handle the pressures of social interaction. I call these people “gentiles”. Here’s a little chart I’ll “chart” out for you so that can tell you what kind of person you really are:

Potential Social Situation:	Jew:	Gentile:
A Pretty Member of the opposite sex walks up to you and asks you for the time.	As your asthma starts to act up, you manage to wheeze out the time from your calculator-watch.	You say, “I’ve got the time baby…in my pants”. You are married and driving an SUV in no time.
Someone engages you in an inane conversation about a local sports team in the elevator.	You smile and nod at your elevator man and pretend to know what he’s talking about. Leave him an extra large Christmas bonus because you are afraid he thinks you don’t like Puerto-Ricans.	Sign his autograph and tell him the knee injury is day-to-day and you’ll be back on the court in no time.
Your accountant asks you out to dinner to discuss financial matters.	Give him that secret “Brotherhood of the Jews” handshake, eat Matzo, make fun of Christ.	Tell him you’re busy. Slam down the phone, complain to the wife about how the Jews are “ripping us off-fucking hebes”.
Someone at the Supermarket tries to talk to you about the Middle East.	Try to convince him Israel isn’t the cause of all the world’s problems, and that if the Palestinians wanted, they could have peace and their own land. Feel really, really guilty for absolutely no reason at all.	Agree to bomb Iraq, ignore threats from Nuclear Superpower North Korea because “that guy has funny hair”.

Are you a Jew or Gentile? Note: there's no such thing as a Jewtile.

There you have it. They keys to conversation. Use wisely.

To obtain a copy of this transcript, simply send 20 dollars and a SASE to Matt Manson c/o The Internet. If you don’t have an envelope, just send yourself and Matt will stamp you.