Desperate book publishers starved for sales are increasingly turning to anguished celebrities starved for attention. Especially ones that might have name recognition for the sector of an aging population that still bothers to invest in reading glasses.
Starry memoirists usually turn to this form of introspection after the mainstream press deems their lives no longer worthy of dissection. There's rarely anything novel about the navel-gazing in these ghosted tomes, but the publishers hope blatant advertisements for the self have longer shelf lives then their dated subjects.
Our critical polymath, E. Basil St. Blaise, the anti-Ebert, first licks, and then turns two thumbs down to riffle through the pages of this recent crop of eco- (think of the deforestation!) and ego-disasters. St. Blaise says, "These authors typically say that if their tale of pain and triumph can help a lone reader, their literary effort was worth it. I feel equally philanthropic if my review spares just one poor bastard from this tripe."
Sum It Up by Pat Summit –– In one word? Excruciating.
Unsinkable by Debbie Reynolds –– And I tried flushing it down twice.
Shockaholic by Carrie Fisher –– Reynolds rap.
Carrie and Me: A Mother-Daughter Love Story by Carol Burnett –– Carrie fissure.
I, Rhoda by Valerie Harper –– Rhoda rooter.
Lucky Me: My Life With -–– and Without –– My Mom, Shirley MacLaine by Sachi Parker –– Shirley, you jest.
Dear Cary: My Life with Cary Grant by Dyan Cannon –– Cannon fodder.
The Key Is Love: My Mother’s Wisdom, A Daughter’s Gratitude by Marie Osmond –– Latter-day stains.
Anyone Who Had a Heart: My Life and Music by Burt Bacharach –– What the world needs now?
Instant Mom by Nia Vardalos –– Just add water!
My Way by Paul Anka –– Drop Anka.
Mom & Me & Mom by Maya Angelou –– Mom/Me complex.
My Mother Was Nuts by Penny Marshall –– Penny anti.
Kicking and Dreaming: A Story of Heart, Soul, and Rock and Roll by Ann & Nancy Wilson –– Half-Hearted.
Cyndi Lauper: A Memoir by Cyndi Lauper –– She blop!
Go Big or Go Home: Taking Risks in Life, Love, and Tattooing by Kat Von D –– Tatty.
I Remember Me by Carl Reiner –– Glad he can remember anything.
Stories I Only Tell My Friends by Rob Lowe –– Lowe blows.
Lies that Chelsea Handler Told Me by Chelsea Handler –– Snake Handler.
YEN UP THE YING-YANG
Despite widely-reported turmoil, the venerable Yuletide Trust has just released its 2012 Top 12 Wishes of Christmas List. The North Pole, Alaska-based uncharitable organization made headlines recently when ex-President Yul Tannenbaum was forced to step down amidst allegations of influence peddling and elf-abuse. Workers at S. Claus Industries, Mr. Tannenbaum's former employer, charged that he promised to trade several incriminating wishes of Prince Harry's for upgrades from the Naughty to Nice list for himself and family members. When rebuffed, he reportedly responded with several highly inappropriate yo-mama-is-so-short jokes.
Gift-swapping expert Holly Ann D'Ivie, author of Season of the Switch, will fill in for the disgraced XMaster of Ceremonies this year as the secret yearnings of the famous and infamous are shared with the public. As always, the sources of these seasonal tidbits are kept confidential by the Trust. When pressed on the issue, Ms. D'Ivie smiled coyly and quipped, "my lips are squeezed together tighter than Kim Kardashian's butt cheeks on Santa's lap."
So, gaze upon a falling star, like Lindsay Lohan, and wish away.
12) One Percenters: To make. On the takers.
11) John Boehner: Sequestration in a tanning booth and a box of tissues.
10) Wayne LaPierre: Semi-automatic rifles with armor-piercing BBs for every 1st-grader in America.
9) Bashar al-Assad: To not hear the names Saddam, Osama or Moammar uttered around the palace ever again!
8) E.L James: Fifty shades of grey and one pair with rose-colored lenses.
7) Kim Jong Un: To "launch his rocket" and celebrate Gangnam-style.
6) Callista Gingrich: To stop being asked if there are any Newt photos of her.
5) Tim Tebow: Leaving on a Jets plane.
4) Marco Rubio: A Koch and a smile.
3) The Rolling Stones: To gather no mas.
2) Donald Trump: Hair of the dog that bit him. The rabid dog.
1) The Mayans: A doomsday do-over.
Each year the record industry unleashes an avalanche of "holiday" albums from their stables of artists and asses. Most of these will be stowed away in a manger marked "99¢", but we felt it our seasonal duty to review the top 2012 holly jolly jams.
Our resident Scrooge, E. Basil St. Blaise, fortified with a jug of extra-strength eggnog, gave these disks a spin. Read as he gives a goose to the musical spirits of Christmas Never-was, Christmas Has-been and Christmas Never-will-be.
James Taylor at Christmas / James Taylor –– Sweet baby Jesus!
Christmas with Scotty McCreery / Scotty McCreery –– Bum me out, Scotty.
Merry Christmas, Baby / Rod Stewart –– Do you think he’s sucky?
Home for Christmas / Celtic Woman –– Irish ecch-o.
On The Winter’s Night / Lady Antebellum –– Noel country for old men.
Cee Lo’s Magic Moment / Cee Lo Green –– Green sleeps.
A Laurie Berkner Christmas / Laurie Berkner –– Eww Laurie.
Cheers, It’s Christmas / Blake Shelton –– Ugh nog.
Disney Channel Holiday Playlist / Various –– It came upon a midnight Clearasil.
Chipmunks Christmas / Alvin & the Chipmunks –– Chased nuts roasting on an open fire.
What Christmas Means / KEM –– Manger crimes.
Christmas Times A-Coming / The Oak Ridge Boys –– ‘N’ I’m a-going.
Christmas in the Sand / Colbie Caillat –– Buried up to its chin.
Christmas Spirit / Richard Marx –– Carol Marx.
This Christmas / John Travolta & Olivia Newton-John –– His and her Johns.
The Classic Christmas Album / Willie Nelson –– Old Saint Nickel Bag.
The Classic Christmas Album / Luther Vandross –– The biggest Luther.
The Classic Christmas Album / Barry Manilow –– Merry Icks Mess.
The Classic Christmas Album / John Denver –– Angels we have heard when high.
The Classic Christmas Album / Kenny G –– Yuckety sax.
The Classic Christmas Album / Elvis Presley –– Return to Santa.
BOMBED, JAMES BOND
Bigger than the London Olympics. Bigger than the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. Bigger even than Prince Harry's naughty bits, it's the 50th Anniversary celebration of the movies that feature Britain's premier superspy, James Bond. From the first thwartings of world domination by the irresistably hirsute Sean Connery to the more recent derring-do of the huggably thuggish Daniel Craig, the world has thrilled to numerous cinematic versions of Ian Fleming's avatar of vodka-swilling, blood-spilling, jingoistic misogyny.
To commemorate the parade of steely-eyed, clench-jawed, cleft-chinned boys in the Bond who have inhabited the 007 role, we directed our own Dr. No of criticism, E. Basil St. Blaise, to open his dossier of reviews of all 23 films in the series. There had been two rogue non-Eon Productions flicks that we thought were beneath criticism, but St. Blaise still gave them his Goldthumb down: Casino Royale ("Micro film.") and Never Say Never Again ("Say it! Say it!")
So flash back to a simpler time of hi-jacked nukes and unstoppable death rays. Of dastardly, but defeatable villains like Blofeld, Scaramanga, Largo, and Saddam. Of undeniably classy, though reliably slutty Bond Girls like Honey Ryder, Mary Goodnight, Holly Goodhead, and Lady Gaga. And enjoy the following reviews of the movies that left St. Blaise neither shaken nor stirred.
Dr. No –– No means no.
From Russia With Love –– Nyet flix.
Goldfinger –– Wussy galore.
Thunderball –– Lightningnut.
You Only Live Twice –– Bond sigh!
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service –– George lazy be.
Diamonds are Forever –– Facet-ious.
Live and Let Die –– Moore is less.
The Man With the Golden Gun –– A Walther peepee.
The Spy Who Loved Me –– Secrete agent.
Moonraker –– Jaws dropping.
For Your Eyes Only –– If they’re shut.
Octopussy –– Eight is not enough.
A View to a Kill –– Bail, Bond.
The Living Daylights –– Timidly Dalton.
License to Kill –– OyOy7.
GoldenEye –– Pierce pressure.
Tomorrow Never Dies –– Movies do.
The World Is Not Enough –– A low-yield Bond.
Die Another Day –– Reaches its expiration date.
Casino Royale –– Royale pain.
Quantum of Solace –– Quantum leaks.
Skyfall –– Craig lists.
PUTTIN' ON THE BRITS
London, England –– The titillatingly-titled XXX Olympics have been surprisingly short on tingle for the non-jingoist as they backstroke, dribble, high jump, and sprint relentlessly on. The Nationalist Broadcasting Co.'s televised coverage lends the impression that the events might be taking place on a Hollywood backlot where a galaxy of endlessly empathetic American star athletes compete against a hissable guest cast of former and present socialist villains who can't slip, misstep or fall frequently enough.
The blah rah-rah footage makes one wonder if the quadrennial Summer Games might prove to be more fun and educational if they were tailored specifically to reflect the host country's cultural heritage. Rather than foreign viewers rooting blindly for their own athletes whilst being ignorant of the other competitors' customs and history, this approach might just give the spectator at home a real reason to hate their opponents. Such an exercise would be fruitless for the Winter Games –– they would retain their chilly Nordic pallor no matter where they were played.
To service the current interest on the debt incurred in mounting the 2004 Greek Games, the Athenians will have to sell off the Acropolis to the UAE this month, but wouldn't those Olympics have been far more exciting if they had included tax dodge ball, Euro hurling, and no-holes-barred, naked Greco-Roman wrestling? And in 2008, wouldn't the world have been forever indebted to the Chinese (more forever indebted, that is) if they had added events like the javelin throw at dissidents, the shot poet, freestyle waterboarding, and the 100,000 meter relay to the reeducation camp?
So this year it would have been appreciated if the British had introduced competitions that exploited some of their greatest natural resources –– gormlessness, eccentricity, pomposity, and toilet humor. Where was the Ministry of Silly-Walks hurdles? The Fred Scuttle Memorial broad diving competition for which the winner would gets to alternately chase and be chased by Misty May Treanor and a bevy of beach volleyball beauties accompanied by Yakety Sax? Why wasn't a dame from the Commonwealth allowed up from Down Under to put her shot balls in the name of the Queen?
And speaking of queens, why was England's Rocket Man not the Games' wacky mascot carrying the guttering torch like a candle in the wind? And why then would he not be afforded a medal for pummeling Material Girl Madge on the pommel horse? And in Her Majesty's Jubilee Year where was the Royal Family on the playing field, aside from a granddaughter prancing about in some equestrian event? The horsey we all wanted to see was Lady Camilla riding roughshod over barmy Prince Charlie in some hot-and-heavy hand-to-hand and hoof-to-mouth combat.
And since James Bond was seen parachuting into the Olympic Stadium with Her Royal Highness in the opening ceremonies, why didn't director Danny Boyle mastermind an 007-style extravaganza for our viewing pleasure? The field dynamited from below to reveal a neutron bomb that will detonate in five months. A hulking villain, who wears a mouthpiece that provides him with a pain-killing drug even as it renders his speech almost completely incomprehensible. A public execution of the last nuclear scientist who can disarm the device, and the villain's vow to save the city while he actually plans to plunge it into French Revolution-style anarchy before allowing it to be incinerated. The hero sent to rot in a prison at the bottom of a deep hole…yada, yada, yada.
BITCH AND TUNNEL CROWD
Secaucus, New Jersey –– Before the Big Game, the Garden State might well have begun to feel as if it were losing its mojo. After a decade or more of Jwowwing the nation with its sass and spunk, there was a creeping sensation, like a Herpes rash, that the days of New Jersey as badness personified, as a skeevier Sodom to Gotham's Gomorrah, were numbered.
Given its long history as New York's second banana, and as the New York mob's second Bonanno, it was the emergence of TV smash The Sopranos in 1999 that made America finally see the state as more than a cultural thrift shop jammed with smelly refineries and clogged highways –– it was also filled with lovable scumbags. Dozens of shows followed that enhanced the funky aura, including, the Real Housewives of New Jersey, Jerseylicious, Cake Boss, and, most indelibly, The Jersey Shore. Middle America's white kids, suckled on hip-hop, became infatuated with these rhythm-less crap stars. The rest of us loved to mock these mooks even as we secretly envied their shamelessness. It looked as though this Pox Romana would last a thousand years.
But the public is fickle –– just ask Paris Hilton, but phrase the question simply. By the time that the mayor of Hoboken refused to let The Jersey Shore shoot along the shores of the Hudson River, the writing was on the wall as clearly as a tat on a skank's tata. Cable networks began growing desperate –– MTV announced plans for AC/DC, a series set in Atlantic City where bisexual teens cruise the casinos and drunkenly bet on senatorial races in Washington. Bravo began talking of going grittier with Real Sluts of Camden and a spinoff, Top Clap. Oxygen expressed high hopes for a tonier Guido to the Modern Guidette. Food Networks' Italian Iced was to follow "a mob hit man with a sweet tooth and killer gelato recipes."
The fear grew that Jersey didn't have a patent on sleaze, that other states might also have fibrous, white cheeses and social diseases. Maybe packs of teen Scarfaces were prowling South Beach waiting to seduce our suburban youth with their medianoches and drug-fueled debauchery. Or meth-addled Swedes with attitude were staggering through the frozen wilds of Minnesota, and their pale, exposed bellies might make little Tyler and Madison forget The Situation's six-pack. It was looking as if the fabled bridge and tunnel might lead to nowhere.
But then came Superbowl XLVI. Big Blue bested the New England Patsies. And the bitch was back, in the black, bein' wack, smokin' crack, flashin' rack, 'n' talkin' smack like a Super PAC!
Sure, NY continued to lay claim to this football team, but no one really doubted that the squad that had played in the swamplands across the river since 1976, was really the Jersey Giants (New York could keep the Jets.) Pride oozed like extra virgin olive oil from the pores of Jersey's favorite sons and daughters. Governor Chris "Christine" Christie plotted to hijack the float carrying the victors through lower Manhattan's Canyon of Heroes to stage a parade in Newark's Canyon of Potholes. Former Gov. Jon Corzine dipped into MFL's "missing" $1.2 billion to erect a statue of QB Eli Manning in Trenton's State House. Judy Blume began novelizing the first season of VH1's My Big Friggin' Wedding.
Real housewife Teresa Giudice had her bubbies dyed blue. Ice-T painted Coco's booty blue. Snooki did whip-its until she was blue in the face. Summit's Meryl Streep signed on to play Jersey City's Martha Stewart in Martha and Mothra. The Boss composed an anthem to the broken dreams and eternal hopes of Pauly D and his crew called Born to Rut. And America learned once again, that nothing really matters when you're in love with a Jersey Girl.
IF WISHES WERE WHORES, BUGGERS WOULD RIDE
Once again, the Yuletide Trust, the Golden Globes of Holiday Hopes and Dreams, has procured for our amusement the wish lists of the rich and infamous. President Yul Tannenbaum, a former employee of Rupert Murdoch's now-defunct News of the World, would not disclose the Trust's exact methodology in obtaining these yens and itches, but he did suggest, with a smirk, "these celebs oughta' be asking Santa for a locked cell phone."
Corresponding to the twelve days of Christmas, but with nary a partridge in a pear tree in the batch, here are the dirty dozen:
12) Barack Obama, Angela Merkel, Nicolas Sarkozy, and three-quarters of the world's leaders: The great wallet of China.
11) Jerry Sandusky: Casey Anthony's lawyer.
10) Kim Jong-un: Daddy's 10-kiloton perm.
9) Moammar Gaddafi: Not to have to share his tent in Hell with Osama bin Laden.
8) Jon Corzine: To Occupy Wall Street…with tales of how he "misplaced" $1.2 billion.
7) Tim Cook: Jobs security.
6) Herman Cain: A pizza ass.
5) Charlie Sheen & Demi Moore: Two and a half men.
4) Conrad Murray: Something to help him chillax.
3) Pippa Middleton: A touch of Harry in the night.
2) Netflix subscribers: To not have Reed Hastings piss down their backs and tell them it's streaming.
1) Kris Kringle: For the world to end on December 21, 2012 –– anything for a vacation.
THE AIDDEMS FAMILY
The following is an excerpt from a manuscript believed to be by Stephen King that was considered lost or, at least, misplaced. Perhaps intentionally.
The sun sank like a one ball into the left pocket of the cold October sky. The sky wasn’t really the color of a pool table. It was more the color of the slate that would be revealed if one were to suffer a horrible miscue and rend the green baize with a sickening screech of cue tip against stone. Nor did the sun have a big number 1 printed on it. But the image of a one ball tumbling helplessly into the pitiless infinity of the night froze the heart of Benjy Weems.
“Like a one ball,” Benjy thought to himself as he stepped out onto the porch of his rambling New England Victorian. “Like the one ball I sank that time I scratched and it cost me the bet with Chuck Harbaugh. And then cost me my wife. Damn Chuck Harbaugh! And why in God's name didn’t I do this earlier in the day? Damn the Pats on TV!”
He stood paralyzed on the porch like a roadside statue of Paul Bunyan at a used-car dealership, only smaller. Which was ironic because he had once worked at a used-car dealership. It didn’t have a statue out front, just a college kid in a beaver costume, and only during the summers.
The insidious breeze licked at his ankles like Bruto, his beloved Doodleman Pinscher.
“Jesus, I love Bruto,” Benjy mused,” but is he really a good boy? Even after how he took a chunk out of the newsboy? A chunk the size of a very rare Filet Mignon at Le Petit Couchon downtown?”
“The little bugger deserved it,” Benjy whispered darkly through clenched teeth. “He teased Bruto. Teased me –– I don’t look like the guy in those ED ads. Punk. Minus a chunk.” He smiled blackly and then his eyes rose to regard the three hulking giants that towered above his front yard.
He’d heard stories before he’d bought this house –– back when he and Laurie were just married, back when Reagan told everybody to “Just Say No” –– back when he could go all night. Stories about how the homes there on Cthulhu Lane were built on land that had once been Indian burial grounds. How the ravening souls of a thousand braves still roiled beneath the ink black soil. How depraved shamans sacrificed virginal squaws and commingled their blood with wolf entrails to nurture the seeds from which these great, gnarled monsters sprang.
At least that’s what the real estate agent had said. The one with the yellow glass eye. The one who kept ogling Laurie with his good one. The one who he still believes turned little Kevie against him.
Kevie. He hadn’t thought of the boy for several hours. A new record. He played It’s Raining Men on the iPod Nano in his mind. Kevie’s favorite. Even at age nine. He remembered how he had always thought that that was a little odd. As was Kevie’s ability to see into the future when a murder was about to happen. Odd.
Benjy was shaken from his reverie as the sinister breeze worked it’s way past his partially unzipped fly and chilled him as he’d seldom been chilled before. “Well, I’ll need brass balls for this,” he growled to himself. “Brass balls and my Peacemaker.”
With a superhuman effort, he forced himself to inch towards the steps leading into the yard, the yard gradually dissolving into dusk. And then he heard it. Was it a banshee’s wail? The breeze had become a wind and seemed to cry “the fall, the fall, the fall…” in an anguished rasp. He’d heard that ancient call before. Last year and the year before and the year before that. And each time he had faced this same horror. Faced it and prevailed.
He sprang suddenly from the steps and made for the utility shed next to the house. The wind played along his now sweaty spine like a butch masseuse with two left hands. There would be no happy ending. He made it to the shed and tore open the door. The stench of potting soil, gasoline, Weed B Gone, and death assaulted his nostrils. For one terrible instant he remembered the blower. The blower that Laurie had bought him. The blower that had saved him more than once. The blower his neighbor Norm had borrowed and forgot to return.
"Damn Norm!", he thought. "I'll sic Bruto on him! But I don't need the blower. Not when I have this." He reached into the gathering gloom and fumbled around like an anxious teen on a first date before placing his aching hand on its stiff shaft. The Peacemaker!
He'd crafted it himself. Spent long hours in his workshop. Weighed and measured, sawed and stitched. Honed each fingerlike tine to withstand the maximum assault. He hefted it above his head, relishing its exquiste balance, its fearsome symmetry. He felt the fear melt from his soul as a smile spread across his face. "Bring it on, bitch," he hissed, thinking even in that instant, "Does that sound macho enough?"
He whirled from the shed, weapon held firmly before him. Whirled to feel the icy force of the north wind slap him full in the face. Like that cocktail waitress. In Philly. "Bring it on, buddy," he offered defiantly.
Now he heard it for the first time as his eyes traveled up the knotted bodies of the three behemoths. The dreaded rustling. He could see them nestled up there, thousands upon thousands of them. Sinister. Diabolical. Malefic. Waiting and rustling.
He could see them even in the twilight as they glowed eerily. Glowed in hellish scarlet, zombie-eye yellow, bilious ochre, blood orange, scar-like umber. He could just make out the serrations which ringed each like so many tiny, razor-sharp teeth. He imagined a whole Amazon's-worth of hungry, irridescent piranhas suspended above him, vibrating in the currents of the wind. Chittering. Slavering. Poised to strike.
A mighty gust of wind tore through the sky and the first terrible wave wafted down viciously in the general direction of Benjy Weems' head. He hoisted the Peacemaker above him, gritted his teeth, and gasped, "God help me."
STEIN OF THE TIMES
At the Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco, at an exhibit titled Seeing Gertrude Stein, two lesbians were asked to stop holding hands. When they protested they were asked to leave the museum.
Let's see –– Gertrude Stein show. In San Francisco. Yes, we read that correctly. The Museum has apologized. The security guard works for an independent company, is not an employee of the museum and obviously knows nothing about the show or San Francisco.
This note comes to us from Tom Hachtman, creator of Gertrude's Follies, who has some of his work included in the show. He's also shared the two sketches below inspired by the scandalous event. And then kicked in a celebratory Gert and Alice image.
WEINER TAKE ALL
Hollywood is rushing to cash in on the sensational sexting scandal of Anthony Weiner, the Democratic Representative who has made New York's District 9 look increasingly like a sci-fi horror film. Producer Willi Schortz has a tentative deal with spindly Adrien Brody to play the skeletal Weiner in an 'epic reimagining' of the Orson Welles classic Citizen Kane. Brody would strap on the Dirk Diggler prosthetic phallus first worn by Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights as Citizen Hanes, if a product placement deal can be struck with the underwear manufacturer.
A musical version called Flashpants is in the works from director Rob Marshall who hopes to get a crash-dieting Christian Bale to pull on the tighty-whities (or gayish-grays) to be his soaking-wet Maniac.
Related projects on the distaff side, include Sext in the City, which focuses on four carefree, yet sophisticated semi-sluts who are lucky recipients of Weiner's meat and tweets. A made-for-TV movie entitled Briefs Encounter aimed at the Oxygen market would dramatize the emotional toll the notorious bulge shot had on its innocent recipient, Gennette Cordova to be played by adorable Selena Gomez.
Alex Gibney, director of Client 9: The Rise and Fall of Eliot Spitzer will release The Tweet Smell of Success, a documentary on the dangers of sexting while driving neocons crazy.
The porn industry won't be able to resist flogging the Weiner either with salacious titles like The Schlong Hot Summer, Look Who's Dorking, Shvantz Upon a Time in America, and Dixar Animations' The Loin King.
The conservative blogger who exposed the tumid tweets, Andrew Breitbart, is also the subject of a proposed biopic. Dirty, Rotten, Creepy, Deluded Scoundrel will weave the ultimately inspiring tale of a rightwing pseudo-journalist and blogger who finds fame and fortune by flashing a photo of another man's dick to shock jocks.
In response Weiner is rushing a book to his publisher that's designed to put a lighter spin on his e-indiscretions. Described by insiders as a valentine to his wife, he hopes You Gotta Have a Sense of Huma, shores up his fragile marriage. It's said to include chapters with light-hearted titles like Tony No Baloney, You're Pregnant and We're Both Showing!, I Am Just Happy to See You, Have You Seen My Pole Numbers? and My Reerection Campaign.
The Weiner saga is the latest in a long, hard line of naughty political picadilloes made public. John Edwards' initial rejection of the love child he had with a campaign staffer is to be dramatized in The Rielle Thing with a slimy lizard set to play the ex-candidate. Arnold Schwarzenegger who was redubbed The Luvenator, after his maid service while in orifice, is still hoping to revive his Hollywood career. It's rumored that he might actually play himself with Jennifer Lopez costarring as housekeeper Mildred Baena in Clean and Jerk.
From their headquarters in North Pole, Alaska, The Yuletide Trust has just released its eagerly-awaited 2010 Top 12 Wishes of Christmas List. Trust Prexy Yul Tannenbaum explained, "Despite budgetary cutbacks and snow drifts up past our keesters, we ignored all the mishigas of the season and fulfilled our sacred trust: to leak the top X-mas wishes of celebrities that we hacked from Santa's laptop. We rank them from somewhat heartfelt to most fervent and publish them to make the average gift-giver feel grateful that the people on his or her list are nobodies and not demanding schmucks like these."
Tannenbaum, short of stature, though not exactly elfish, is a one-time employee of S. Claus Industries and a long-time observer of the Gifting Field. He is the author of Presents Tense: The Giftie's Anxiety at the Holiday Kick and the startling memoir The Wrap Up: Ribbons, Bows and Booze. It is not clear if there are any other active members of The Yuletide Trust.
Herewith the list:
12) Lindsay Lohan: Miley's salvia and her saliva.
11) Santa Claus: A massive cloud of ash from the Eyjafjallajškull volcano in Iceland to keep him grounded Christmas Eve.
10) Kim Jong-il: Global nuclear war and a lapdance from Jenna Jameson.
9) Spiderman: To "turn off the dark" on Bono and the Edge.
8) Mark Zuckerberg: To be poked, and not on Facebook.
7) Justin Bieber: For the other one to drop.
6) Rep. Charlie Rangel: The forgiveness and respect of his peers, particularly Boss Hogg.
5) Rick Sanchez: The number of Helen Thomas' publicist.
4) Elin Nordegren: A new set of Woods.
3) John Boehner: A gross of silk handkerchiefs with Nancy Pelosi's face embossed on them.
2) David Hasselhoff: Keith Richards' Life and liver.
1) Uncle Sam: Extradition of Julian Assange to Switzerland, or, better yet, Hell.
VENI, V-DAY, VICI
The Valentines Directorate (VD) has listed its top ten male lovers for the year dating from February 14, 2009. "It was a neck-and-necking competition this annum," commented VD chief Romeo L'Amour, "without a hicky's-breadth of separation between the top smoochers and the also-pecks."
Unsurprisingly, the top vote getter was Tiger Woods, a "veritable martyr to passion", per L'Amour, "a man whose first name screams animal sex drive and whose surname suggests he's got the extremely stiff clubs in his bag to back it up." How many bouquets and chocolate bonbons will the dirty duffer be sending this year, given the multiple maidens on his crowded scorecard (and each with a hole-in-one)?
Runner-up was former Presidential aspirant John Edwards for his multiparty romance that began with an election year bid to screw a nation of Democrats even as he was poling mistress Rielle Hunter. The title Bastard Out of Carolina could refer equally to him or his illegitimate heir. Second runner-up was the disgraced Carolinian to the South, Mark Sanford, the Lovernator who went AWOL to tango horizontally with his Argentine inamorata. Both of the politicos' spurned spouses produced best-selling books to prove that Hell hath no royalties like a woman scorned.
The rest of the lauded Lotharios are:
4) McSteamy Mark Sloan for romancing the stoned in his 3D(ouchebags) sex tape.
5) New York Governor David Paterson for his ardent denials of the blind love that dare not print its name.
6) gay blade Charley Sheen who finally learned the benefit of marriage: you don't need to pay a chick to abuse her.
7) Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi whose dalliances with teenagers prove that when the moon hits your eye like a bigga reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, that's amore.
8) The Twilight vampire guy for getting all those little suckers to flock to movie theaters.
9) ESPN baseball analyst Steve Phillips who suffered a gland slam after blaming sex addiction for his double play for a production assistant.
10) Michael Moore, who dedicated an entire film to his deep passion for an economic system, and the sound of his own voice in Capitalism: A Love Story.
SANTA'S LAP DANCE
The Yuletide Trust has issued its annual Top 12 Wishes of Christmas List:
12) Mahmoud Ahmadinejad: silent nuke, holy nuke; 11) Michael Richards: NAACP Image Award; 10) Mel Gibson: bupkes; 9) Tiger Woods: hole-in-one or more; 8) Nadya Suleman: octo-gone; 7) Falcon Heene: golden parachute; 6) Rihanna: Brown belt; 5) Mark Sanford: tango and cash; 4) Michaele Salahi: 15 more minutes; 3) Sarah Palin: big birther clubs; 2) Bernie Madoff: bars of soap; 1) Silvio Berlusconi: his two front teeth. Enjoy your own holiday cheer with the INXart Holiday Package.
Nominators Unashamed of Premature Evaluation
The Norwegian Nobel Committee (Nonoco) was apparently inspired by the preemptive strike doctrine of former President George W. Bush in impetuously awarding it's prestigious Peace Prize to Barack Obama. And, perhaps, by the idea of providing a gold-plated de nada to Obama's heart-felt perdon for Bush's disastrous postemptive damage to America's global relations.
Now, the renowned Now What Institute of Nominators (NOWIN) in Moose Tick, MN has been inspired by Nonoco's foresight and fearlessness to inaugurate its own Premature Achievement Awards. The first annual Preemies will honor the anticipated accomplishments of an illustrious roster of honorees dedicated to jumping the gun, letting slip the spoiler, and reading the last page first. Nowin Chairperson and futurist Erwin "Eloi" Tiffler insisted the Preemies were the perfect prize for our impatient times, noting, "everything in our society is about instant gratification –– we're just hitting the fast forward button and zipping to the H.G. Wellesian next of when, y'know? And, in the process, blowing the Vegas bookies' minds."
So let us steam open the Price-Waterhouse envelopes, and pre-reveal the 2010 Preemie winners before they're nominations have even been officially posted.
Literature –– Sarah Palin will bag and dress the prestigious J. Danforth Quayle Citation for Outstanding Political Memoirization for her brilliant 2011 sequel (written in three weeks!) Going Rogue II: Rogue v. Wade.
Chemistry –– The Brangelina Loving Cup for Media Magnetism will be bestowed on irresistable screen couple Buzz Lightyear and Woody for their entire artificial body of work that climaxes in Toy Story IV: Strap-ons.
Medicine –– The Platinum Hypo should inject new life into the career of David Hasselhoff whose selfless donation of stem cells from his liver will lead to a treatment for acute sufferers of Alcoholic Self-shaming Syndrome (ASS).
Physics –– The Jerry Falwell Matter From Heaven Trophy will be granted to the Kansas State School Board which will reenter the creationism debate by mandating Fundamental Neophysics be taught in middle schools to explain cataclysmic events like earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanoes in terms of the cumulative evil energy generated by gay sex.
Economics –– The Madoff Medal in Applied Pyramid Theory will be shared equally by former Secretary of the Treasury Henry Paulson and current Secretary Timothy Geithner for rescuing the critical U.S. Corporate Bonus System –– the award includes a handsome Golden Parachute and an undisclosed number of Goldman Sachs shares.
Peace –– The 2010 solid-plastic Dove Bar will be won by Bono –– Chaz Bono. The transgendered offspring of Cher, formerly known as Chastity, will achieve a nuclear disarmament treaty with Iran by convincing key government officials there to undergo sex change operations and then go fuck themselves.
Heaven gained two sparkling new stars when Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson were both booked for a date at the Palace by that great talent agent in the sky. One can only imagine recently-deceased Vegas impressionist Danny Gans moonwalking to meet Michael at the Pearly Gates while warbling Billie Jean. Or the good-natured joshing between him and dead Fred Travalena as they trade breathy Jackoisms to the nervous cherubs while David Carradine hangs around and quips to Michael, "I'm still in the closet, too."
With fetching Farrah's poster hanging above his bed, St. Peter won't need Gabriel's trumpet nor Ed McMahon's booming "Heeere's Petey!" to get his little seraph to arise and stand at attention (even when Bea Arthur growls at him to take out the garbage.) And when Charley's Angel teams up with Marilyn Chambers behind the green door with the heavenly hosts it will take a barrel full of Billy Mays' OxiClean to wipe up the mess.
THE PEST IS YET TO COME
Springtime in Washington, DC means a wide variety of annoying infestations as many insects awaken from their winter slumbers in small-town USA to once again crawl up and down the steps of the nation's Capitol, and slither, hum, and hop through the lush grass of the White House's South Lawn. Here is a brief guide to some of the most virulent nuisances that will vex the Commander-in-Chief this year.
SWEET HOME Á LA OBAMA
WASHINGTON, DC –– Sunday's We Are One (Annoying Bunch) Concert along the National Mall in Washington DC kicked off a three-day national celebration that will culminate in the installation of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States. An enthusiastic roster of showbiz stars who represented the wide range of the American experience stretching from the BET demographic to the VH1 demographic celebrated both the realization of Dr. King's dream of an America that transcends racial limitations and the expiration of Dr. Demento's nightmare which has been the last eight years of the Bush Presidency.
Some have noted (write to us for a list) that beneath the understandable pride and intense hoopla of the Obamboree lurks a worrisome undercurrent of euphoria, not unlike Alan Greenspan's "irrational exuberance"–– the meth-fueled ecstasy that led to the economy's crash-and-burn. Despite their idol's sober assessments designed to ratchet down expectations, some Obamaniacs in the crowd seemed disappointed that he had not moon-walked backwards the length of the reflecting pool to the Lincoln Memorial and then reanimated Abe's 20-ft.-tall statue to join him in break dancing to Stevie Wonder's Higher Ground.
Some of the fist-bumping and arm-waving that accompany Obama's public love fests suggest the desperate flailing of a drowning person –– the faith that he can rescue us all is touching, but one wouldn't bet what was left of one's 401(k) on it. The U.S. government can print a lot of money and shoot t-notes like t-shirts from air cannons into the economic crowd, but can it employ all of those laid off from jobs producing things that others don't really need, so that they will have enough cash in their pockets to buy the things that they don't really need?
His constituents may turn hope into a four-letter word with their great expectations, but they're sure to transform agenda politics for the next four years. Women want equal pay, fewer Hillary jokes, and more dreaminess from O.
Environmentalists expect him to transform the White House into the Green House before the Potomac crests at the Capitol Dome. Human rights activists demand Gitmo be shut down, but only after a World Court war crimes trial sends Rumsfeld and Cheney there for a long, hot summer. Gay Rights proponents want to see same-sex marriage legalized in every state while the don't ask, don't tell doctrine be shot down in the military, and applied instead to divorce court proceedings.
College sports fans think Obama can pressure the NCAA into a playoff system and a ban on ego-enhancing supplements –– his hometown Chicago Cubs fans insist that he grant them World Series rings by presidential decree. All of his young supporters expect free ringtones, unlimited texting and a ban on purity rings –– the African American ones demand especially blingy Congressional Medals of Honor for Tupac and Biggie. Joe the Plumber wants another Ronald Reagan. Joe the Unemployed, another Franklin D. Roosevelt. Joe the Republican, another Jimmy Carter. Joe Sixpack, another case. Lotsa luck.