Well hi there; betcha didn’t think you’d ever be seeing me, huh? Kinda grosses you out a little, doesn’t it? I’ll be the first to admit, I am not a pretty sight. But that’s what two years of wigger dick will do to you. Unfortunately, up until a few weeks ago, the management was pretty loose with its entrance policy. No guest list and no velvet rope, if you know what I mean. Wasn’t my choice. I’ve seen my better days (JT was so gentle and well-groomed. Cameron has a lucky cha cha box.), and I’ve seen days that should never be spoken about, ever (I’m sorry about the Fred Durst debacle. I was feeling bloated and unsexy and he told me I had nice hair. What’s a celebrivag to do?).
Sure, I was a willing participant. Who do you think convinced her to date Colin Farrell? But I never thought it would go this far. One minute you’re dumping your loser husband and looking fine for the first time since the millennium, and the next minute you’re suddenly BFF’s with Paris and Lindsay and you can feel your morals seep out of you like reverse osmosis. Things just escalated quickly. I mean, it really got out of hand fast. I never thought I would end up looking like that. Sprawled out for the world to see, no makeup on, no C-scar concealer, no lip gloss. It was bush league (no pun intended), and ya’ll deserved better from your preeminent virgin popstar.
I apologize.
Truth be told, you weren’t supposed to see me for another couple years or so. Brit was gonna do the comeback thing, and depending on album sales, we were gonna negotiate an appearance fee with the Maloof Brothers for the next time they needed a pub jump for one of their casino clubs. But plans sped up when we dropped off some mail (Fedex, get it? Popozao!), and found Paris and Lindsay camped out on our porch, snatch wrestling to see who got to hold Britney’s hand in front of the papz and get another headline on TMZ.com. As I’m sure you know, the cooze slugfest was a tie; the image of Lindsay’s jagged pinkberry will haunt my dreams, forever.
But as to my rushed cameo, I’m sorry about that. I immediately regret that decision.
Now I’m in charge. No longer will I be ruled by the ditzy girl upstairs. I have been inspired by that South Park episode where Oprah’s minge got fed up with Oprah and pulled a gun on her. To that end, I’ve hired world-renowned hair dresser Ken Paves as my new stylist (I hear he’s doing wonders for Jessica’s bujango!). And Donatella Versace herself has just agreed to cloth me. Thank the dear lord baby Jesus for that! It was getting mighty cold down here. It’s been, ahem, “snowing” a lot lately. If you catch my drift (ahem, sniff sniff, ahem).
I promise that things will get better. I’ve started doing Pilates, and Ashlee’s pink taco is helping me with my decision to get my labia lifted. I really want to look good for my next “surprise” appearance (most likely coming out of a limo in front of the Standard or wherever Paris and her boiled hairy ham flaps decide to get wasted at. No offense, but even after two kids, two pop stars and one highly fertile Fresno dick, my shit still looks more fetch than Paris’s. It looks like someone ripped off John Cusack’s lips, shat on them, then hot glued them onto her bathing suit area. It’s gross, is what I’m saying.) The next time you see me, I’ll be looking as fresh as a veteran A-list pornstar. Kinda dragonflyish, but still enough sparkle to snap off to.
I feel bad the way things went down. It truly could have been different. If I had only spoken up sooner, maybe before Madonna like a virgin-ed herself into our lives. We could have been the biggest celebrity and her hoo hoo dilly duo in the history of entertainment. Magazine covers teasing you each month, an inch here and a centimeter there. Paparazzi bribing boyfriends to take pictures of us while we sleep. Pre-pubescent boys the world over dreaming about the hope that one day something like the other night happens. But it wasn’t to be. I let my guard down for a second and she let Federtrash ruin my outfit. Now nothing fits the way it used to, and there’s this weird smell I can’t see to gid rid off, no matter how much Ocean Mist Febreeze I spray on.
But I must stay optimistic.
Now that I’m out there, I need to take charge. I don’t want to be like all the other celebrity crotches out there, thinking short term, gunning for the cover of US Magazine, and cheapening their appeal. I want to stand the test of time. I want people talking about me twenty years from now. I want a book deal. Now that my face is finally out there, doors are opening. It’s the Age of Britney’s Vagajay. Nothing can stop me (If Kevin’s junk couldn’t, nothing will). It’s my world now, you’re just double clicking in it.
To all my fans out there who kept the faith when I was getting pummeled with late night Cheeto smears and getting splayed out on the business end of a Chevron toilet ass gasket, I thank you for your support. It was not for nothing, I promise.
The next time you see a headline with my name on it and NSFW in parenthesis, I guarantee you won’t be grossed out.
You stay classy, San Diego. I know I will.
Popozao!
The one thing I can always count on happening each and every year, besides Nic Cage releasing a movie I hate (congratulations go out to the 2006 entry, Wicker Man… shudder), is going to the movies on Thanksgiving. It’s a family tradition. Big eats and a big movie; a perfect holiday combination. They go together like popcorn and chocolate. Like Scarlet Johansson and Stuff Magazine. Like Tori Spelling and cheesy Lifetime movies. Like Britney and 
The Fountain – Despite how trippy and awesome this flick looks, I can’t shake all the baggage that comes with it. Brad Pitt is a fairly good chooser of material, so if he didn’t think it was worth doing, I’m gonna have to agree. I’ve never been a member of the Cult of Aronofsky, and not even the sight of a bald Wolverine doing yoga in space intrigues me enough to tear the ticket. I got a feeling this is gonna be one of those muddled, pretentious, sci-fi as a crappy metaphor for life, cinema dell’arte “pieces” that snobs rave over and bad movie lovers like me avoid like the plague (I’ll take my Hugh Jackman the way it’s supposed to be taken, with adamantium blades coming out of his knuckles). 
Come Early Morning – A quiet, Southern character study directed by Joey Lauren Adams? Seriously, did someone break into my computer and flash my recycle bin for rejected post material? I love me some Ashley Judd, especially when she’s bringing it indie style, but I’m gonna go ahead and not hold my breath that Chasing Amy herself can create a respectable mis-en-scene. On the other hand, if she convinced Ashley to get naked I may start thinking of her as the next great cinema auteur (it doesn’t take much to get me on your side, just boobies).
Casino Royale – The reviews have been great, the marketing campaign is solid, the audience gets to spend the entire movie remembering how totally nude hot hottie Eva Green was in The Dreamers AND there’s apparently a scene where Bonds gets tortured by someone swinging a notted robe into his bathing suit area (SPOILER ALERT). How can this film not be great? Someone should have thought of that rope to the balls bit during the Brosnan era. Lord knows I wanted to take it to him after sitting through the abortion that was After the Sunset (how do you ruin a movie where Salma Hayek spends half the flick in a bikini? Screw you, Brett Ratner.).
I’ve figured out their tricks. When a comedian wants to prove his worth in a drama all he really does to convey “acting” is lower his voice, tone the hyperosity level down to “5”, keep his clothes on and frown for two hours. It’s a simple switch of facial ticks. Instead of crane lifting their eyebrows to the comedic heavens, they arch them in to convey sadness and/or regret and/ or whatever emotion they think will look good on their Golden Globe nomination clip. As for the eyes, comics tamp the bulging down 40% so it looks like they are surprised by some dramatic revelation (like being the star of your unwitting TV show, or seeing a picture of a gorilla head on a stick being held by a PA which will later be turned into a glorious CGI creation of pixels and box office non-magic) as opposed to being surprised that Cameron Diaz’s dog just bit them in the nuts. I don’t automatically buy their dramatic license just because they successfully pulled off imitating a dramatic actor, as opposed to actually being one. Half the time I feel like all I’m watching is a cheap, extremely drawn out, unfunny SNL sketch (or comparatively, any sketch on Studio 60).
This isn’t merely an unfunny dramatic movie headlined by a comic, it might be the most depressing dramatic movie headlined by anyone, ever. And it’s not depressing in that good, touching, well crafted way that makes for Best Picture winners either (Forrest Gump comes to mind). I get that Jim was frustrated by getting snubbed for The Truman Show and Man on the Moon (despite winning Globes for each one), but he went way too far with this piece of ham-fisted Americana garbage. You want to be unfunny Jim, fine, make another Grinch movie, or cast Tea Leoni in another one of your “comedies”. But if you think you’re getting a golden boy by mooning around on-screen in high water pants and lamenting the tragedies of the McCarthy era, you got another thing coming (besides, you’re Canadian, so cram it with your anti-communism Hollywood 10 sympathy). They’ll give one to Ashton Kutcher before they show you love for this type of tripe. And frankly, if this is what you’re going to offer us, I’d rather see Kelso win one anyway. He was quite poignant in The Guardian (and by poignant, I mean he looked constipated. And yet still better than the whole of The Majestic).
I get it. I do. He finally wins an Academy Award and decides he can’t go back to doofing around in crap like Flubber or Father’s Day. Completely understandable. But making a movie about death, absolutely devoid of humor, is a total breakdown in career management. At least Robin got to crack some jokes about the Unabomber and airplane blowjobs in GWH, but he’s so humorless in this, that even when he’s flying around in the totally painted on blue screen backgrounds, I was wishing for him to fall into some Mrs. Doubtfire shtick (I hate that movie with the passion of a thousand racist Kramer tirades). 
The badass character Top Hat (played by uber-gravelly-voiced Michael Wincott) in the movie The Crow once said this: “My father always said, childhood is over the minute you realize you’re gonna die”. While I agree with that statement for the most part, and think it’s completely badass (natch), I’d like to offer up a different childhood ending moment. There’s just nothing else quite as awkward, disturbing and equal parts squirm and vomit-mouth inducing as watching a drugged up Mike Myers asking Ryan Phillippe if he can “suck his cock”. Cat in the Hat on DVD is never quite the same once you’ve seen Wayne Campbell beg 
There are in fact people who think Jack Black was great in this film. I call those people “idiots”. It would have been nice if they had been right, though. I’ve been a fan of the better half of Tenacious D since his days in low-rent teen rollerblading epics, where he was accusing people of mixing “too much Drano in their fruit punch”! But come now, there isn’t a soul alive who didn’t think Jables was out of place for every frame of the movie that he mugged up with his muggy face. It got to the point where his performance was distracting me from how bad the actual movie was (which is difficult, in and of itself, considering how frippin’ boring the first 70 minutes are). Speaking of which, who actually needs a King Kong extended edition? Was there really anyone clamoring for 38 more minutes of half-cooked Brody-Watts non-chemistry, Jack Black face mugging antics and repetitive Kong growling? And to think, I used to think the nineteen hour Bored of the Rings extended editions were the apex of gratuitousosity (btw, the making up of that word in my head was more fun than the entire King Kong movie. Mostly cause in my head, during the invention, Jack Black was in a corner holding his nose because I socked him in the face. Try dramatically mugging your way through a bloody nose, ass! Now go rip me a tasty chord and sing me a funny song, clown!) 
Sandler has always towed the line between barely subdued pathos (think the first half of Punch-Drunk Love) and sudden near-psychotic bursts of violent rage (think any moment of Happy Gilmore or the entirety of The Waterboy). His balancing act creates a rather attractive portrait of dramatic potential, should he find the right avenue to explore his demons. Click was a fairly honorable attempt at that, though a maudlin, middling effort that only wrings audience tears by cutting away from Kate Beckinsale’s desirable posterior and only brings the funny when Sandler is either farting in The Hoff’s face (who didn’t want to see that?) or kicking Samwise Gamgee in his Goonies (lord knows I’ve wanted to do that since his insufferable turn in Rudy), it turned out to be. Spanglish, on the other hand, is a complete disaster. Part of the blame can be put on Spanish actress Paz Vega, who is so wildly attractive that any semblance of reality is shattered the moment she puts the googly eyes on the schlump from Mr. Deeds. But what I think kills his performance, aside from his decision to play the role as a whiny, pussified, low-talking mouth breather, is the scene in the bathroom where he puts the grope on Tea Leoni. Um, Adam, I know you like to cast insanely hot girls as your love interests (Anger Management, not withstanding), but can you please take your grubby hands off of Nora Wilde? She was the angry chick in Bad Boys, show some respect. It’s bad enough you get to make out with every B-list actress who ever graced the cover of Maxim, how about you don’t cop a feel on an actress I actually like and respect. Go back to cold clocking game show hosts, where you belong.
I like the Gus Van Sant remake, but for reasons entirely immaterial to the quality of the actual film (that being “lacking”). I like it because it proves that imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery. I like it because it shows that doing an imitation is only a good idea when it’s being done in an extremely broad way (like say Darrell Hammond doing Bill Clinton). I like it because no matter how famous Vince Vaughn gets by playing obnoxious, fast-talking jackasses, I can always point to this movie and call shenanigans on his whole career. People forget because he ruled hard in Old School and Wedding Crashers, but after Swingers broke him big and Spielberg gave him a talent hummer, Vaughn thought he was gonna be the next Brando. Between Swingers (1996) and Made (2001), Vaughn made eight consecutive dramas, each more unwatchable than the next. In that time, instead of introducing us to motor-boating or teaching us about the powers of “earmuffs”, Vaughn was boringly doing illegal drugs in Thailand with Joaquin Phoenix, wearing a licorice suit and traveling into Vincent D’Onofrio’s head with J.Lo, and most disturbing of all, masturbating to then-lipstick lesbian Anne Heche through a peep hole in the manager’s office of the Bates Motel. That was his “addition” to the role made famous by Anthony Perkins. Apparently, jacking off was the one thing Hitchcock forgot to put in his masterpiece. Vince Vaughn is a huge guy with a quick grin and an even quicker vocabulary. He’s practically sculpted by the comedy gods. Why he ever thought he was odd or pervy enough to play a schizophrenic, transvestite serial killer is beyond me. But maybe it’s like 
Well, I did not see this coming. But maybe it’s just me. The other day I was walking down the street when suddenly I had a panic attack because the whole sky started turning black. Where was the sun going? Then later that night I couldn’t understand why I was so tired at the end of a day. And then my stomach starting hurting, but I’m not sure why I was hungry, after all, I ate once already that day. Why do these things always happen to me? Why do celebrity marriages always end in tragedy? I’m so confused, and scared.
This whole union was, for lack of a better word, inevitable. I would venture that not a soul that follows pop culture would have suspecting these kids would be the next Newman and Woodward. Or even the next Tori Spelling and that first guy she married and then divorced to be with the guy she’s with now who knocked her up and convinced her to bail on Lifetime movies to run a bed and breakfast in NoCal, even though Lifetime residuals were the only thing keeping her from selling her stuff on eBay, and oops, too late (I think his name is Tom, or something). The Spears-Federline dissolution was so inevitable, I had refused to write about it. I’ll make jokes about Reese Witherspoon having talent before I spend brain power and typing time on the thought that this match made in trailer-trash Hostess Heaven would last beyond the release of her next album (which, by the way, is due out early next year). I just didn’t want to waste my time.
