Saturday, December 01, 2007

Doused In Mud

So I finally sat down and watched the infamous 2 Girls 1 Cup video the other day. What took so long, you ask? Well, unlike some losers, I don't watch pirated videos on the internet. I sent away for a real copy of the film to ensure the artists were compensated fully for their work. It's only fair.

For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, I'll explain. 2 Girls 1 Cup is the cheaply made scat-munching sex romp that has taken the internet by shit storm. It comes from the same people who brought you Barely Fecal, Squishtar, and Flavor of Love - so you know it's high quality. There are currently thousands of videos on YouTube posted by people who have filmed their horrified reactions while watching the two girls. It's almost a rite of passage for anyone with a camcorder.

Here's a brief synopsis of the film: The epic begins with two scantily clad women engaging in some typical lesbian foreplay. In my fantasy, they've just returned from the International Chili Cookoff. Needless to say, things get crazy. Long story short - girl shits in cup, girls lick and swallow shit, girl vomits on shit and the pair continue licking. The end. Remember that sex scene in 9 ½ weeks? Well, pretend that scene was about eighteen hours longer. This video would be the last ninety seconds of that.

I have a couple problems with all this.

1. First off, the video didn't gross me out at all. Perhaps I have a strong stomach. Maybe I'm not a twelve-year-old girl. Whatever the case, there was no effect. What did bother me, though, was that I couldn't find out what was on the video without actually watching it myself. Every time I asked somebody, they would reply with, "You gotta see it yourself, man…I don't want to spoil it for you." What the hell are you people talking about? This isn't The Sixth Sense or Harry Potter. This is a porn/fetish video. There's no such thing as a spoiler. Nobody cares about the plot twists and cameo appearances. In fact, here's another spoiler for you. Through savvy eBay bidding, I recently acquired the script for the sequel to 2 Girls 1 Cup. It's called Tootsie Roll. Essentially, it's the same plot as the original, only this time, one of the girls is an international drug mule, so when they're done licking, there's a nice surprise in the center. Kobayashi co-stars. Sorry if I just ruined it.

2. Secondly, the girls in the video are wearing mascara and lipstick. Listen, when you're eating shit for a living, there's no place for vanity. If there's anything I can't stomach, it's the thought of these girls acting like divas in the make-up chair before the big shoot. Because if they're wearing make-up, you know there's been at least one instance when a girl threw a fit because her look wasn't right.

"I won't come out of this trailer until somebody gets me some conditioner. Yeah, I have no problem eating shit, but not with frayed, split ends. I'm not some kind of a tramp. Would Beyonce eat shit with split ends? Then neither will I!"

I bet the other girls hate her because she walks around with her nose in the air. Sure, she acts like her shit doesn't stink, but everybody knows it clearly does.

Also, the portrayal of the girls is completely irresponsible. All they're doing is perpetuating the myth that you have to be a perfectly toned size two to break into the scat-munching industry. Right now, there are literally millions of girls being denied access to their dreams because of this unfair stereotype. My fear is that these young shit eaters in training will develop low self-esteem and ultimately eating disorders because of their efforts to reach the top. One girl in the video already appears to be bulimic.

3. You have to feel bad about the guy for whom this video was made. It's all a big joke to us, but there's a guy out there who really gets off on this stuff. He's married, has a couple kids, lives in the suburbs. He goes to work every day in a big office building. He eats lunch at Applebee's. By all accounts, he's normal, except for his little secret. And you know he's spent his entire life convincing himself his fetish isn't that bad. "Some guys are breast men, some guys are leg men…" he says to himself, confidently. "If god didn't want us eating shit, why did he put our asses so close to our mouths? You'd think he'd put them down at our feet," he reasons. Then, one day, after years of denial, he checks YouTube and finds five-thousand people screaming, dry-heaving, and vomiting at the one thing that gets him off sexually. This guy sees scat-munching the way the rest of us see tongue-kissing, yet most people would rather set their eyeballs on fire than watch another second. Heartbreaking. Now he has to come to terms with his life taking a giant shit on him.

So, what's the future for 2 Girls 1 Cup? Will it settle into obscurity like the Star Wars Kid, or Andy Milonakis? Will it be remembered in shitty countdown shows starring lame, unfunny comedians? No. That's not good enough. I think it should be used as the trailer for Dane Cook's next HBO special. It's perfect. The girls represent Dane's dumbass fans. The shit represents his material…and they can't stop lapping it up.

DANE COOK - BOTTOM'S UP.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Your Crying Is a Well-Known Sound

There’s something you need to know about comedians. Many of them are fucked-up in the head. Not me, of course, but a lot of the others. If they’re not already fucked-up when they start comedy, the grind of constant failure and rejection interspersed with dim mirages of hope can really take its toll on a person’s psyche. The majority of comedians I know are a strange mix of narcissism and insecurity - two qualities that seem to be at odds with one another. What this combination usually amounts to is a person who has a grossly unjustified sense of self-importance, along with a constant state of mild paranoia. It can be entertaining if they actually have some talent, but for the unfunny ones, it all just ads up to insane. Here’s an example. Remember when that Michael Richards video hit the internet? Everyone was outraged, but not all for the same reasons. I’d bet money there was at least one misguided comic sitting at home, screaming:

“That motherfucker stole my bit! I’m the white guy who says nigger on stage. That whole hanging-upside-down-with-a-fork-in-your-ass thing – THAT’S MINE! I wrote that after I saw Soul Plane. Where in the hell did Michael Richards see me perform?”

Then, this comic - we’ll call him Rodd Roady - spent the next three minutes unraveling the mystery. He probably concluded, with total sincerity, that Kramer was sitting in the back of the Chortle Portal in Racebait, Iowa last summer while Rodd was opening for a veteran puppet act (“Hey Mutton, do you support the troops?” “Support the troops, I can’t even support my head!!!”). Rodd called all three of his comedy buddies - the Truth-Teller, Mr. High-Energy, and the One Who Plays Guitar - complaining that he could never do the ass-fork chunk again, and that Kramer had screwed up the bit anyway by leaving out all the funniest parts. He lamented that life wasn’t fair, and that the little guy who writes the brilliant jokes is always trampled upon by the big, famous celebrity who steals them. He vowed to take his frustrations out on the crowd at his next open-mic. They’re a bunch of idiots, anyway.

The level of delusion in stand-up comedy is unbelievable. It’s like watching an infomercial with the volume turned down.

I once opened for a guy who called himself “The King of Showbiz.” He took the stage wearing dark shades and clutching an acoustic guitar – your classic single threat. That evening, The King had shown up at a mid-week one nighter in the comedy hotbed of Altoona, PA. You know what they say: If you can make it in Altoona, kill yourself. He arrived fashionably late to a capacity crowd of twelve people (leg-room only), and a wall adorned completely with headshots of past comedians who had used this very bar as their own stepping stone to shame and obscurity. There was The Coach, The Tough-Talking Mother, The Fatty, and of course, Miss Daddy Issues. All of the pictures had turned a dark, rubber-chicken shade of yellow, and most sported fashions from the late eighties. It looked like a Battle Royale of regret, and I’ll bet there was a stack of applications in the back corresponding with each name on that wall. I left before The King’s set, but I’m sure he crushed. In the back of my mind, I was hoping the whole “King of Showbiz” persona was a put on, but that’s a really long drive just to be sarcastic.

Another time, I opened for The Disgruntled Clown. He dressed up in a black and white clown suit with matching clown makeup. He spent his disgruntled life in a disgruntled van, lugging his disgruntled props and merchandise across every run-down state highway he could find. He was a hardcore road dog. I imagine he had at least fifty ways to tell a pothole to lick his balls. Way number thirty-seven: “You know what I call an empty pothole? Motel Nutsack, and I’m checking in!” Before each show, he had to spend time applying his makeup and getting into costume. After each show, he lingered, cleaning up the props from around the stage. Fifteen percent of his act had anything to do with being a clown.

Every comic who’s been around for a few years has stories like these. Why? Because comedy is teeming with the biggest freaks you’ve ever seen. It’s like those fish that grow to a certain size based on the volume of the tank they’re in. The more work these fuck-ups get, the crazier and more delusional they become. I’ve seen ping-pong balls shooting out of a mannequin’s ass. It was somebody’s closer. I’ve overheard a shitty road comic advise his opener to wear a propeller hat and bow-tie on stage. And he was being sincere.

You always hear about the stereotypical sad clown in comedy – the lovable jokester who’s really hurting on the inside. Perhaps he didn’t get attention as a child. Maybe he was a big Creed fan. People love that story because it’s a romantic idea. But you never hear about the untalented sideshow attractions who remain anonymous their entire lives. They’re usually even crazier. It’s just like people say…it’s the ones with quiet crowds you have to worry about.

The same thing happens in music. Everybody romanticizes the tortured lead singer, but I bet there’s a nameless bassist out there who’s only humping amps because his uncle touched him wrong. Rappers love talking about their troubles, but why doesn’t anybody mention the melancholy hypeman?

“Yeah, you know, I love telling motherfuckers to wave their hands like they just don’t care…but I wish somebody would care about me, nah-mean?”

But comedy is worse because, frankly, I have to be around these people. They have the costumes, the song parodies, the one liners, and the wacky props. But they don’t have the talent, and that’s driving them insane. If the seedy underbelly of stand-up ever goes extinct, the people who will suffer the most are the ones working at the silly-string and slide-whistle factories. They’ll lose their jobs and default on their mortgages. An entire town will fall into ruin. Michael Moore will arrive with cameras to document the atrocity. He’ll talk with a father of four who’s been in the slide-whistle game his whole life, just like his father before him. Sure, he’s applied at the fart-machine plant, but they’re about to go under, too. He’ll parade out his youngest son, starving, who will lift one of the last remaining whistles to his mouth and blow, mustering a symbolic, downward slide. Then, the kid will go off and use that sound to write a joke about going limp in bed because he “smelled something fishy.” Years later, it will be his closer.

Freeze frame, roll credits.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Forced To Endure

I hope you’re sitting down for what I’m about to tell you, because this won’t be easy. Are you ready to be outraged? Well, here goes: A 70-year-old white radio host might possibly be a racist. Or a sexist. Or a monster. Maybe he’s a ruthless creature sent here by alien warlords to destroy women’s basketball. Oh, the humanity. Whatever he is, we sure do need to talk about it. A lot. I mean, how did we, as a society, allow this to happen? And whose fault is it? And will he be punished? And double standards. And rap music. And black people. And the children. And grrrrrr!

What a bunch of nonsense.

Self-righteousness has finally become overexposed. Even Bono has to be scratching his grossly inflated head. It’s like we’ve been surrounded by an army of pundits, reverends, rappers, and crackers – all spewing their morally superior, ego-stroking rhetoric at us. Now I know how the cookie feels in a circle jerk.

Who would have thought, in a story of supposed national importance, that we would be hearing Snoop Dogg’s point of view? We already know he ain’t got love for ho’s. What else did we expect to get from him?

Who takes any of the news networks seriously after they wasted thousands of hours covering the “story” of our beloved sweetheart Anna Nicole Smith and her poor, fatherless child? It was like the Maury Povich show had turned into a miniseries. Either that, or some kind of Who Wants to Father a Millionaire reality show contest.

“Love Sauce, you are not the father. You may say goodbye to the other contestants, but then, you must hang up your testicles and go home. Next week, tempers flare in the house as Shawn Kemp eats Larry Birkhead’s peanut butter and Larry gets pisssssed.”

News doesn’t exist anymore. Only gossip.

There’s no way this Imus story should be getting so much publicity. As far as racial incidents go, the Michael Richards story was far more inflammatory and sensational than this one – and that story didn’t get nearly as much play. Want to know why? It’s because white people can actually repeat what Don Imus said. That helps with the gossip. Being able to say it equals being able to talk about it without feeling awkward. When the Imus story broke, it was so easy. I called all my black friends:

“Hey, did you hear what Don Imus said? You didn’t? Well, he said – and I quote…”

I couldn’t make that call when the Michael Richards story broke. That was a completely different conversation:

”Hey, did you hear what Michael Richards said? You didn’t? Oh…you want to know what he said? Well, he said, umm...uh…he said, uh, you know what, check your e-mail. Yeah, check your e-mail – I’m going to send you a link. As a matter of fact, go to YouTube and type in ‘Kramer N-I-G’ and then stop typing. For the love of god, don’t type another letter. Just hit enter.”

Every day, I expect this Imus story to disappear, and every day it just gets bigger. I don’t know if it will ever go away. I do have some hope, though. Don Ho died today. His name is basically a combination of the first and last words in every article written about this stupid, irrelevant story. That’s got to be symbolic of something.

Either way, this story will have no legacy. No improved race relations. No awareness. No changes in those dreaded rap lyrics. Nothing. It will just blow away like a piece of tumbleweed as soon as the next scandalous “news” story hits.

In the meantime, I’ll just sit here and wait for the day when something good actually comes out of women’s basketball.

Friday, March 09, 2007

They Say I'm Crazy

A couple weeks ago, Bobby Brown was thrown in jail for not paying child support. He’s been thrown in jail lots of times, for lots of reasons. Basically, he’s crazy. I know, after that reality show, it’s obvious Whitney was the real problem in that family, but Bobby married her. And only a crazy person marries a crackhead.

A couple weeks ago, Britney Spears went nuts, shaved her head, and did the rehab hokey pokey three times. Basically, she’s crazy, too. I know, after seeing Federline “dedicate this one to the haters” in one too many interviews, it’s obvious he’s a moron. But, Britney married him. And only a crazy person marries a backup dancer, with two kids, who releases a lead single called Popozao – which boasts the lyrics “I want to see your kitty, and a little bit of titty” (Disco D, producer of the track, recently killed himself…coincidence?).

What does this all mean? I’ll tell you. It means:

WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T SING ‘MY PREROGATIVE!’

I don’t care if you’ve got a record deal, if you’re singing karaoke, or if you’re humming along to the muzak at your local CVS. The second those lyrics come out of your mouth, your life will take a giant shit. That song is cursed.

Picture Bobby Brown before that song…happy, smiling and affable. He was like the boy next door. After that song? Humpin’ Around, pissing in police cars, driving drunk, getting high, and doing jail time. If he wasn’t famous, he would be that uncle who “we don’t talk about.”

Britney covered the song for her Greatest Hits album. Soon after, she was getting sloppy drunk and flashing her snatch to every photographer she could. If she wasn’t famous, she’d be banging David Faustino right about now.

That song is evil.

Nothing says “Watch this, my life is about to get fucked up” like singing My Prerogative. It ruins everyone it touches. It’s like saying “Bloody Mary” in front of a darkened mirror. Every copy of that song should be thrown into a big pile and burned under the guidance of a Catholic priest. That’s the only way to break the curse.

Maybe we can convince Nickelback to cover it first.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

They Can All Sleep Soundly

People everywhere need help. Right now. As you read this, there are people all over the country, desperate to improve some facet of their pathetic little lives. At least that’s the message you get if you watch as much TV as I do. It seems like 70% of television shows these days center around ambitious losers who are dying to turn their bad luck around. They all need something – a date, a new wardrobe, a makeover, a remodeled room, help raising children, a nicer car, bigger house, their dream job, fame and fortune.

And who holds the key to everyone’s happiness? Gay guys and British people. That’s right – gay guys and British people, roaming the countryside, building gazebos, fixing your hair, and telling you how to tango. Television is littered with show after show featuring carpenters, designers, nannies, life coaches, and talent scouts; experts in every field, trying desperately to scrape some of the shit off of what you've become.

I can’t flip through five channels without seeing some gay guy dolling out fashion advice or upholstering cushions to turn your boring garage into a Spicy Spanish Paradise. Nor can I flip through five channels without seeing some British dude giving a reality check to talentless dreamers who think the only requirement to singing and dancing well is the desire to do so.

Who’s behind all this? Probably Elton John, but that’s not even important.

What gets me about all these life-improvement shows is the bullshit affirmations the people give at the end - as though their lives have actually been positively altered by something as trivial as new drapes or cooking tips. I mean, if you’re on American Idol, okay fine, your dreams have just come true. Good for you. But, if the only thing that changed in your life was a gay guy showing you how to walk like a diva, stop smiling; you won’t be seeing a new tax bracket any time soon. You’d better try getting used to your shitty existence.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. Pimp My Ride lacks both gay guys and British people. But, it still has that horrible life-affirming moment at the end. There’s always some 20-year-old idiot in tattered jeans and a tight t-shirt saying, “I just got a disco ball in my Mazda. Now I can go to law school!” Only if it’s offered at DeVry.