Monday, February 28, 2011

Christian Bale Reacts to the Charlie Sheen Situation

"You think you're a fucking badass, Charlie? You're a small-screen trained monkey whose audience is far from discerning. They're gonna replace you with John Stamos, for Pete's sake. I'm Batman, Patrick Bateman, John Rolfe, John Connor, and a boxer from Boston.

"I grew up in Wales and even though you're nine years older than me I was chewing kids' ears off in the park for no reason at all ever since you were in short pants. I beat-up every single person I see, just so they know not to fuck with me. Your Dad is Martin Sheen and mine was a pilot (who later married Gloria Steinem). My Mom was a circus performer. I had to be exponentially more crazy than you could ever imagine in order to escape my humble beginnings and beat you out for all the good roles and all the good girls (the kind you don't have to pay for).

"I think we all know it's been a long time since Platoon + Men at Work, but still you were the highest-paid actor in television history until the other day and I guess that is a commendable accomplishment for somebody in your field. It takes dedication to put up with the grueling schedule of a television show. I know I would never want to do it, that's for sure. I prefer to do my work in intense chunks, in exotic locations, and then take several months off to drink vintage wine and fornicate with native women on a white-sand beach somewhere warm while the footage is edited in preparation for a lavish premiere and I marinate in Cuban rum, fresh pineapple, and rare orchids.

"But I no longer need to fake my respect for your humble dedication because you were fired by your boss--an ugly guy who made even more money than you, had more than enough of your annoying bullshit, and put you in your place on the world stage.

"How does a man respond to this? There isn't one good answer, granted, but surely none of the answers are 'doing the talk show bitch circuit and proclaiming yourself a warlock who's "tired of pretending like [he's] not bitchin."'

"Boy, that must be fun. Can't wait to watch you get shot-down by Barbara Walters on The View before your on-air pedicure even begins to dry.

"Oh! You think you got a comeback for that one? You don't. You never will. You're a puff pastry at heart. You'll never have the fire your dad has and it kills you. Even with a full arsenal of Hollywood stylists at your disposal you look about as bad-ass as an Olsen twin. Proof:

"In conclusion, shut up and go to bed, Charlie Sheen. You're wearing out the world's patience. You're tired. You're broke in every manner of speaking other than financially. Make sure you get a good long sleep by finishing the entire bottle of pills and I promise everything will be better in the morning. The whole world will be a safer, happier place for everyone--especially those closest to you--and it will help set-up another Oscar win for my 'vicious,' 'lifelike' portrayal of you in the made-for-TV movie of your pitiful life."

[Disclaimer: Nothing in this post was written or spoken by Christian Bale although he may have thought it at some point and nobody can prove he didn't. -Ed.]


Friday, February 25, 2011

Homeless Men of America's 'Great Depression Redux Charm Initiative' Still Going Smoothly

Dispatch from The Michigan Front:
PONTIAC, Mich. — A homeless man in southeast Michigan says a woman accidentally gave him a gold ring laced with diamonds when she handed him a handful of change.
Michael Secaur tells The Oakland Press that he was panhandling at an intersection in Pontiac on Monday when a woman pulled up in a vehicle and handed him some money. He says the ring was among some coins, and that he thinks she "did an oops."
Secaur says he would recognize the woman if he saw her again.
He says he quickly dismissed a plan to pawn the ring. The owner of a shelter where Secaur often stays has locked it in a safety deposit box.
Secaur says he has lived on the streets of Pontiac for nearly two years.
(courtesy HuffPo)

Could you imagine a rich person doing that? Hard enough to squeeze some spare change out of them. You gotta get creative, get your finger poopy, and make quaint signs that say things like "Homeless Veteran Father of Three Mongoloid Preemies Who Can't Catch a Break. God Bless." just to get your hands on some Diet-Coke-greased pennies from the polished-walnut-lined cupholder between the cabretta leather-skinned bucket seats of some old bag's Bentley that could fetch enough bank at auction to feed an entire town for a year.

The kind of old bag that doesn't realize for weeks she lost an extraordinarily expensive ring during one of her 5000 daily moments of carelessness--if she ever noticed at all.

And this guy's who's been living in the street for a year is begging to give it back to her. Shades of that Homeless Radio Announceritis outbreak not that long ago.

Thank you, Homeless Men of America, for keeping it classy.

Seriously, though--how bad do they need to make us feel about ourselves before this increasingly derivative hubbub is over and the homeless men are once again a phantom population everybody pretends is already dead, thinks of as naught but a swarm of charming and smelly holographic reminder of the desperate lives people lead when they don't work hard enough or get born to rich parents.

I'm getting too worked up about this. I might just have to forget about it, erase it from my brain by going to Disneyland til it blows over--tickets are only $100 per day for Southern California residents and they apparently have "carts that sell big turkey legs (fried, I think) for $7 each."

See ya there!


Thursday, February 24, 2011

For Those a Y'all About to Get Romantic

Clock this, dawg--you done got showed-up fo-show!

And I bet when you woke up this morning curled up under your 2000-thread-count Hermês duvet with a soiled Playboy/girl stuck to your paw you thought you had this little boy right where you wanted him, totally out of contention for Romantic Person of the Year.

But the votes are in and you lost. 7,000,000,000 to 0.

¡Lo siento, cabron!


Wednesday, February 23, 2011

A Man and a Woman, Indeed

Although he's been directing movies for almost fifty years, I had never heard of Claude Lelouch until the other day, when I rented a movie he made called A Man and a Woman (1966). This exquisite romance was nominated for four Oscars® during the 1966 season and declared Best Foreign Film and Best Screenplay. Not exactly a lightweight.

Much like Michaelangelo Antonioni, Lelouch was a documentary man who found success in art films, although it appears he did not find as much success as good ole Antonioni. Despite having only seen one (1) film of his, I feel comfortable saying that for two reasons:

1. I had never heard of him before the other day and I heard of Antonioni before I uttered my first word (almost).

2. Despite a prolific fifty-year career, he appears to have only made two movies of enduring quality: A Man and a Woman and the 1981 musical Les Uns et Les Autres (aka Boléro). The fact that a 23 year-old Sharon Stone has a bit role in the latter film only piques my curiosity and fear not--it is already on my Netflix queue.

Please do not think I mean to belittle Lelouch's contribution to the world of art, however. Anybody who contributes one exquisite book, painting, poem, photograph, motion picture, building, or sculpture to the global treasure trove can hold their head high in my book.

We should all be so lucky as to be responsible for the crafting of something enduringly beautiful, something strangers the world over can enjoy indefinitely, something that never would have existed without their unique efforts.

In other words, Joseph Heller can rest easy after 38 years of painful (trust me) failure post-Catch-22 and Claude Lelouch certainly has no reason to be ashamed of his cinematic hit ratio.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

A Cinematic Revolution in Sleep Technology

Congratulations, The Lincoln Lawyer; not since 2006's The Wind That Shakes the Barley has the mere title of a movie made me slip into deep REM sleep with such immediacy.

Even if Matthew McConaughey were naked the entire movie and I was a raging homosexual with only McConaughey on the lower brain I would still avoid this movie like the plague.

Who needs to pay for a nap these days? Even if you wanted to, would you choose to take that nap while upright in a chair next to an old woman who smells like diapers? Don't answer that, perverts; you probably would.

In case you think I'm being too harsh, here is the one-line synopsis that elevated this turd from the page to the (now even more tarnished) silver screen:
A lawyer conducts business from the back of his Lincoln Town Car while representing a high-profile client in Beverly Hills. 
(courtesy imdb)
Hahaha! I get it! It has nothing to do with Abraham Lincoln at all! What a curveball! He just works out of a Lincoln automobile! A really old one, from back when they actually had personality! And it's still running really well because in Hollywood things always go according to plan!

Oh, man--me and the fellas totally gotta sneak away from the wives to see that on Friday, March 18...unless I can hack into the Lionsgate servers and get my jollies ahead of schedule...though I would still probably wanna see it on the big screen anyway...


Monday, February 21, 2011

Chink in Travolta's Armor

The real John Travolta, on a hammock, in repose, with minimal make-up.
(Photo courtesy The Superficial)

You know what they say about dominoes, right? As soon as one falls, they all knock into each other and make a mess or something. I think Sartre probably said it better in the original French, but you get the idea.

Yesterday, in a manner of speaking:
After decades of being an asshole in obscurity, John Travolta was finally outed as a Scientology freak who not only generously supports one of the world's largest, fiercest cults (blackmail's a bitch) but also--allegedly--would rather let his son die than have the medical care he needed. Both those links are must reads, by the way, so take your time on this one.

Today, in the same manner of speaking:
Travolta is outed as hiding for years and years what I would officially consider 'not-that-bad baldness' (see photo above). Apparently, Johnnyboy didn't think he should wear his cute little widow's-peak hairpiece to the beach one day and he was dead-wrong. A guy who demands reshoots of publicity photos because his piece ain't workin' right just doesn't make a mistake like this, folks. Is he slipping? Is he cracking? Are we on the verge of something big here?

[I must insist we also discuss how pale, flabby, and death-like JT's face looks in this photo. Are you trying to tell me those are human eyes? If so, you're wrong--that is clearly a robot from space sent to eat medium-rare hamburgers and destroy squirrels for a greater purpose we will never begin to understand (Dianetics, page 317). -Ed.]

Travolta at his most naked, his most honest, his most creepy. Coincidence?

What can we expect? Will His Travoltaness finally be broadcast live in streaming HD blasting some beaverboy between the buttocks on a beach in balmy Bermuda?

Well, as they also say, in Hollywood anything is stay tuned, people of the ether!

And a special message to all the beaverboys out there: Please do not underestimate the seriousness of your task to capture your delicious deeds on digital video. Truthseekers and anti-cult crusaders (whose memberships admittedly overlap considerably) everywhere are counting on you; you're our only hope.

Image courtesy LucasMonster Egocentric Vanity Enterprises, Inc


Sunday, February 20, 2011

Nothing is Ever Easy

For those of you that have been in a coma for the last five weeks (you know who you are, I hope), please catch up on Nothing is Sacred Field Correspondent Fabio Sandrelli's "Operation Minsk" right here or none of the rest of this will make sense and you'll wind up calling the authorities on me and that just ain't cool. I'd much rather you just sat back, picked your teeth as you read a few stories, and delivered me a good steak, a case of wine, or something pretty for the wife. So, you know, put that in your pipe and smoke it.


Independence Day in Minsk looks like fun

19.02.2011 - OPERATION MINSK - DISPATCH 0003

Okay, readers, I guess this is going to be more of an "every three weeks" kinda thing, just to keep it sounding regular and not scare you away with its actual, frightening randomness.

I am trying my best over here, but things move slowly when you're poor. Seriously. The other day I watched a wrinkle form on a ladybug's cheek. I had been staring at her (him?) for a while and I guess it was a longer while than it should have been, in polite company, because I actually saw that otherwise-inconsequential insect age before my very eyes.

I couldn't help but notice the precise onset of world-weariness in a breathe-eat-shit-procreate-die mindless insect and I'm still talking about it. That's how much time I have on my hands. I'm fucked.

Needless to say, the ladybug experience (and several others like it) made an indelible impression and I have all the evidence I would ever need to conclude that time is not to be wasted, that life is precious, that things that must be said must be said no matter the cost.

As soon as I can save up for a servant with younger legs than toothless old Mikhail to run these illicit missives across the border without the need for a nap every fifteen minutes, I assure you I will keep better pace with both your expectations and my desires (a weekly column rich with charming insight?).

It's depressing to think I not only had to hire Mikhail--a gnarled old coot I found muttering to a pet dead bird inside a garbage can in the park where he was "staying warm"--but also some strange enterprising young woman in Vilnius--Vita K.--with internet access, discretion, and a dangerous desire for the finer things in life.

I haven't made a penny in six weeks and I never even had one to start with yet here I sit master of two dedicated servants helping me upload these letters to the Nothing is Sacred servers indefinitely in exchange for a pair of Levis each.

That's all! How desperate are these poor Belarusians? What does it say about their station that they are willing to risk so much for so little? Do they hear the footsteps of Lukashenko's hounds chasing me through the Minskian sewers? Will they do any and everything to silence those hounds once and for good and live like normal people for a change?

If so, they may be gravely disappointed when I sneak away as the road to freedom becomes more arduous; I am way too selfish to actually risk my life for anything other than the perfect croissant. I came over here on an adventure and I was rewarded with way more than I bargained. As soon as I can get out I will be out and I will never come back. If I see an officer of the law I will run as fast as I can and I will never think killing somebody is a good idea, even when it is.

Regardless of all this depressing bunk, though, this recent spate of involuntary internet silence due to my being the target of a relentless government-funded manhunt has been as bad for my general health and happiness as it has been for my porn consumption--i.e, the worst.

While out from behind my desk these past few weeks, floating knock-kneed through a pock-marked landscape reeking of the dark side of human resilience, virtually alone, I've been robbed, beaten, intimidated, and completely cut-off from my family and friends. If I have two coins to rub together before exchanging them for a shoeful of porridge it is only due to the kindness of peasants.

Life is never easy, I guess. Like they say. Except, of course, for the people in underwear and fragrance advertisements, whose pure enjoyment of the simplest things the world has to offer is always effortless and delightful. I'd say they were lucky if I didn't know they earned it; they are beautiful beyond reproach.

By the way, I saw legendary gymnast Vitaly Scherbo outside a gelateria the other day. He had some swooning young model on his arm and drove a glistening Audi A8 coupe. I drooled on myself a little and then a wave of embarrassment washed over me as I realized how vital he is at 39. Will I even live that long? Am I doomed to end my days frozen to a park bench in Gorky Park, my pants around my ankles?

Well, since I can't predict the future and I'm not sure what else to do right now, I think it's high time I finish this can of paint thinner, strip down to my finest suit, and paint the town naked like I just don't give a damn. I'm worth it.

Over and out,




Monday, February 7, 2011

My Favorite Movie of 2010

Although Black Swan was a fantastic cinematic experience--the best ending since There Will Be Blood?--and a just-in-time tour-de-force effort from Darren Aronofsky (I also loved Requiem for a Dream, but that's about it), after watching the vast majority of the movies I wanted to watch from this past year I can confidently state Blue Valentine was my favorite.

Sorry, Clash of the Titans, but I don't need to see you to know you suck and that says a lot about what you are!

Much like the equally-brilliant A Prophet (2009, France), Blue Valentine is gritty, real, and uncompromising. The actors are allowed to breathe in the frame, the camera records the action free of any agenda, the audience feels like intimate participants in a drama with limitless possibilities. There are tears-of-joy-inducing moments of beauty and there are moments that hurt your soul a little bit, irreparably. In short, it is a lot like real life--which is astonishingly difficult to recreate onscreen even when that is your goal.

Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams are both reliably-talented actors, but there is something particularly engaging about their performances in this movie, something about the air that exists on-screen between these two fictional lovers that is truly something special.

How was this delicate feat accomplished? Well, an insightful piece from HuffPo Entertainment Editor Katy Hall today--reprinted in its entirety--explains a lot about the method behind such success:

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Every Little Bit Helps

 "What do I look like, the President?"

He was a moron. A friendly-enough-seeming guy with fantastically devious puppeteers and a name enough dumb people recognized to sweep him into the highest office in the land by a whopping...oh, by a questionable margin, actually; perhaps even a negative one. Twice.
Bonus Trivia:
The 2000 US Presidential contest was the closest in US history since Rutherford B. Hayes up and stole that shit in 1876. Huh. Same old shit...
This being the case--especially once you throw in everything else that transpired from 2000-2008 and consider that I am a man with blood coursing through my veins--I always enjoy hearing tell of every. single. slight. to His Idiocy George W. Bush, no matter how trivial.

These small gems certainly don't make up for what should happen to W--Navy SEALS should hold him on the bronze knee of the Lincoln Memorial while everybody in the world gets three whacks on his bottom with a weapon of their choice--but they are gratifying nonetheless and life is about the simple pleasures, right?

The Best Movie of 2009?

Malik & Cesar, who both deservedly won Césars

Finally watched Jacques Audiard's gritty 2009 2hr35min masterpiece, Un Prophète (A Prophet). Yes, I said masterpiece and I am aware that is not a word that should be used as often as it is.

What made it so good? Well, it's interesting you ask because I was about to tell you...

Let's start with something a lot of reviewers neglect to mention about movies they are discussing: the feel. This movie opens unapologetically in medias res--gritty fly-on-the-wall footage of a young man entering prison for a six-year stretch. The camera lingers, unhurried, soaking up every detail, every expression, every nuance. We don't need to know why he's going there--the point is he is headed to prison and we are going to watch what happens as it happens. The audience is instantly cast as voyeurs who have no idea what to expect, no desire to have their hands held through predictable plot devices, no fear to watch unapologetic and sometimes-gruesome reality unfold in front of their eyes without mercy.

Un Prophète was one of those rare movies that picked me up by the collar and stared deep into my life-force without blinking, without promising anything but a raw, beautiful, visceral experience I will carry with me forever.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Minsk, the Pearl of the Tundra?

Imagine this cell, but much smaller and pitch-black.

Finally got another missive from Nothing Is Sacred Field Correspondent Fabio Sandrelli, currently stationed in Minsk, Belarus for 2011. For those of you that missed his first dispatch, check it out here.


04.02.2011 - OPERATION MINSK - DISPATCH 0002

My most sincere apologies for the delay in my second dispatch from this frozen hellhole, but I spent the last three weeks in a damp prison cell only slightly larger than my body and darker than a black steer's tuchus on a moonless prairie night.

As it turns out, Dictator Lukashenko has very little patience for people who write things down or have opinions on things. The trial was brief and consisted of little more than a billy-club blow to the head, but my guilt was never in question.

Did I learn my lesson? No. I don't learn lessons. That is why I had to volunteer for this unpaid internship that puts my life in danger every second. Let this be a warning to all of you out there in the ether--learn how to learn lessons and learn them well. Get a job as a pencil pusher in the back office of some corporate laundromat empire based in Omaha, Nebraska.

It may sound boring, but at least you can go home to your rented trailer after work and watch reality TV while getting fat on deep-fried Doritos-flavored donuts. That sounds fairly heavenly right now, in fact; save me some.

Instead of living the dream--getting fat, masturbating obsessively, making excuses for myself, and taxing the bloated US health care system with my diabetes-ridden walking corpse--here I sit under a camouflaged blanket in Chelyuskinites Park, burning stacks of Communist propaganda to stay warm, hoping the wind doesn't blow away the pile of leaves hiding my satellite dish, wishing I had purchased a round-trip ticket, regretting the fact that I agreed to surrender my passport at immigration.

But, as it is with most people who have no other option, I grin and bear it. I persevere. I am young and strong and smart and fortunate my assignment here is as vague as one could imagine and I can write almost anything.

For example:
Earlier today, tasting my first moments of freedom, I watched two old women wrapped in wolfskins play chess on a blanket under a nearby tree for over four hours. By the time I realized my eyelids had frozen in place and I had an alogical erection that would not go away, it was too late--they decided to pack up and head back to the brothel to catch the lucrative rush that always happens when there's a shift-change at the neighborhood police station. When you live on $0.85 a day, after all, a Zip Loc™ bag full of leftover chili tossed in your swollen face can mean the difference between survival and a life of (relative) luxury.
But it's not all loneliness and poverty here in Europe's last Cold War outpost. There seem to be a number of trendy vodka bars, dumpling houses, limbless street vendors spooning stew into unwashed plastic bags in the alley, discothèques full of lusciously-emaciated prostitutes, rich corrupt assholes in furs, persecuted collegiate intellectuals, etc. I occasionally hear laughter, even, although I never know for sure if it's just in my head.

I wish I had enough money to join the party but, alas, I blew most of my graduation money on the decommissioned Soviet icebreaker to which I'm now too afraid to return. I really hope I don't have to wear the same pair of underwear for the next eleven months, but a guy's got to do what a guy's gotta do, right? Right?

Anyway, I'm going to roll up some of these dead weeds I found buried under the snow, have a smoke, and think about what sort of black-market activity I can engage in to make my time here more comfortable.

Until next time,



Common-Sense Cagematch #1: Castro v. Berlusconi

Question: Who's more out-of-touch with reality--an 84 year-old oft-hospitalized Communist dictator under a decades-long trade embargo or a womanizing Italian billionaire president?

Answer: Silvio Berlusconi

"I hope that in Egypt there can be a transition toward a more democratic system without a break from President Mubarak, who in the West, above all in the United States, is considered the wisest of men and a precise reference point," he said.
-Silvio Berlusconi
"Mubarak's fate is sealed, not even the support of the United States will be able to save his government. The people of Egypt are an intelligent people with a glorious history who left their mark on civilization. 'From the top of these pyramids, 40 centuries of history are looking down upon us,' Bonaparte once said in a moment of exaltation when the revolution brought him to this extraordinary crossroads of civilizations."
-Fidel Castro
(courtesy HuffPo)
The wisest of men does not do...hmmm, let's see...just about anything Mubarek has been doing recently. Does the wisest of men reap millions of dollars from running a nation and then insist on sticking around to get his head chopped-off?

I think not.

If what Berlusconi said were true, Chateau Mubarek in the south of France would be bustling with activity right now, dozens of humble servants preparing for the master to retire there indefinitely and enjoy his spoils.

Instead, 'rental guillotine' has been the most searched-for term on Google Egypt for weeks now--among those with pirated internet access, of course.

Bon voyage, imbécile. May your blood stain the sands of Egypt sooner rather than later. I hope it was all worth it.

And somebody in charge of such things please grant Fidel Castro +16 cool points right now for understanding the will and power of the masses. Bravo, señor.


Men Just Shouldn't Strip

I'm not saying there aren't any women out there who enjoy a good ole-fashioned heterosexual strip-tease, but what I am saying is I've never met one. So I have to assume those types of women are rare.

Mostly, male strippers work bachelorette parties (aka the most boring parties ever) and the girls get really drunk and red in the face and pretend like they are enjoying what is happening, when really they are supremely uncomfortable, perched on the end of their seats, every cell in their body on high-alert, hoping he completely ignores them, living in fear that he might try to touch them.

And so they sit on the fringe of the group and watch their one "whore" friend (apparently there is always one) have some strange man grope her breasts, as he dances like a tone-deaf arrhythmic epileptic and throws his briefs in her face.

In case you've never seen this sort of thing in person, here is a delightfully-vintage video I shot during the Eighties that illustrates what I'm trying to convey here:

Notice how she never uncrosses her legs? There is no way she's giving him anything to hold on to down there--and it appears she is some sort of adult model or porn actress. Imagine how your average woman would react to that dude...

[Thanks for the tip, Videogum]


Thursday, February 3, 2011

I Think I Won't, Thank You

Okay, so longtime friends Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston have paired together for the first time (!!!) in a please-go-to-it-on-Valentine's-Day romantic comedy called Just Go With It.

Could that title be any more on-the-nose?

All you need to know, America, is that Jennifer Aniston, Adam Sandler, and some hot chick in a bikini are in a new movie where some schlub has to decide which sexy woman to marry. Just go with it, buy your tickets, and maybe you'll even enjoy a few parts of it!
"Help! The multinational corporate conglomerates running the studios need your support!" -Corporate Flunky #3102
It is interesting that recent-box-office-dud Adam Sandler (I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, Funny People, Grown-Ups), who also exec-produced this turd, chose to align himself with an actress who has the same problem (Love Happens, The Bounty Hunter, The Switch) in what is apparently an effort to make a successful movie.

Or is that not even the goal anymore?

Maybe simply making a movie is enough for them these days, regardless of quality. I mean, they both got paid millions of dollars, right? They got to spend some time in Hawaii on somebody else's dime, eat some killer free food on-set, have a few laughs, feel like they're being's the little things in life that they are concerned about at their age, I guess.

"Haha--all you stupid people make us rich, America!"
 "There's always gonna be haters, Jen, so what the fuck? Let's just hang out in Hawaii for a while and wipe our asses with 35mm film." -Adam Sandler

"As long as I can bring my yoga instructor, hair-stylist/best-friend, a couple lap dogs, and my scrapbooking supplies I don't give a shit what we do there." -Jennifer Aniston
Jennifer Aniston craps shitty romantic comedies in her sleep and I guess just enough overweight women with cats watch them that her gravy train continues its incremental slide toward the fiery pits of hell. So, what does she care what anybody thinks about them? The 'elitist' critics will always hate on her; jealous women will always hate on her; men will always hate on her; she just needs to persevere and eventually some happy accident will redeem her in the end.

Right? Well, that's what she's hoping for, no doubt. Let us ruminate on what that happy accident may be, shall we?

Possible entertainment-rag quotes from the future:
At age 56, Jennifer Aniston has finally found her niche--and Oscar gold--as a bronzed, sultry, embittered Miss Havisham in Baz Luhrman's dramatic retelling of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations. With a guaranteed 14-year contract on Broadway and a traveling ice-capade in the works, Miss Aniston finds it bittersweet that the secret to her happiness lies in the glorification of the loneliness that has dogged her for what seems like centuries.

Former actress Jennifer Aniston, 52, was spotted dining at the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills over the weekend. As always, her characteristic printed-silk Gucci bandages obscured her entire head but there was no doubt in anybody's mind as to who was living it up with Jesse Eisenberg during a jovial four-hour martini-and-painkiller lunch. Was having acid thrown in her face by Angelina Jolie the best thing that ever happened to her? Probably. Her besties freely admit "we've never seen her happier."

After a marathon 14-day bidding-war cage-match atop the CAA Death Star, Jennifer Aniston, 68, has finally outlasted the competition and secured the rights to Angelina Jolie's unfinished autobiography. Who will play Hollywood's most notorious vixen, who took her own life as soon as she showed sign of aging? Why, Jennifer Aniston, of course. "I'm thinking no make-up on this one," the wrinkly old actress quipped.
Regardless of how things turn out for Jen in the end, one thing is certain: Just Go With It will suck and you should probably hang out at the mall next weekend to intimidate/eliminate anybody interested in purchasing a ticket. After all, a tragic opening weekend box office tally is the best way to ensure this sort of bunk won't tie-up our silver screens in the future.


Tuesday, February 1, 2011

We Haven't Talked About Dorks Enough Lately

If you're a middle-aged man who loves trikes, you'll love the Uno!

If you believe every famous actress/actor/musician/model--and I do, unequivocally--they each used to be "such a big dork in high school."

So, clearly, all the dorks grow up to be sexy, cool, and rich...okay...but what becomes of the meatheads who major in football/cheerleading and minor in autoshop/blowjobs-under-the-bleachers, you ask?

Well, they all grow up to be dorks who buy an Uno to get around town. Probably.

Is that the perfect revenge? Some 19 year-old dork designs the Uno and gets rich--and cool--as all the cool kids from his high school lose their hair/wives/looks and buy Unos to impress the fat Leather Mommas smoking outside the biker bar?

Hmmm...assuming we all have to be a dork at some point in our lives, I'm glad I got that out of the way in high school and can have been able to spend the rest of my life basking in an unrelenting torrent of coolness, soaking in my oceanside saltwater hot tub, telling jokes to eager supermodels and making fun of Emeril as he grills my dinner.

Oh, and I definitely need to look into getting Biff to detail my entire collection of classic automobiles on a daily basis, while I'm at it, since I just never know which one I want to drive ahead of time...

Thanks, Biff--now go home and suck an egg!


Don't We All, Christian. Don't We All...


Gwyneth Paltrow Finally Gets Her Due

Yes, she sometimes has a penis; she's that talented.

In a ceremony presided over by Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II this morning in the throne room at Windsor Castle, everybody's favorite shining star Gwyneth Paltrow received what is heretofore considered the United Kingdom's highest honor--the title of 'Renaissance Woman.'

Since I know you are all wondering, yes--QEII was looking particularly fine in the early morning British fog, her devilishly toned flesh frustratingly obscured by a brown chenille Alexander McQueen muumuu that flew off the shelves at Harrod's by lunchtime.

Gwyneth even once mastered the art of pretending to use crutches in a photo

Flush from the thrill of receiving a meaningless honor she created for herself, Ms. Paltrow bubbled-over as she addressed legions of fans from atop the tall tower while twirling her lustrous blond locks and inadvertently calling to mind a much-more-beautiful, modern-day Rapunzel:
Call me crazy, but I think 'Dames' are so old-fashioned. I'm a modern woman! Who just happens to be a throwback to Leonardo Davinci because I work so much harder than everybody else and I'm blessed. This is fun for me, but mostly it's great to think that the whole world now has a decorated role model that doesn't smell like Judi Dench and exhibits mastery in everything she touches but isn't afraid to still giggle and fart.
At that, Ms. Paltrow began launching rice cakes into the rowdy throngs of worshippers below, occasionally posing for the paparazzi with a million-dollar smile (literally) as the starving masses at the base of the stone tower tore each other limb-from-limb for a taste of the good stuff.

Scotland Yard helps quell the ruthless rioters (Photo courtesy Reuters)

Nothing Is Sacred Editor-in-Chief Goodtime Charlie had the pleasure of sitting down with Her Paltrowness for a few moments today once Scotland Yard was able to sublimate the rioters and enforce a thousand-meter safe zone around a nearby Jamba Juice with three artillery battalions and a few studs on horseback.

Goodtime Charlie: My dear Gwyneth, you look ravishing--but you probably already knew that.

Gwyneth Paltrow: Haha. I did. But that doesn't mean it isn't still nice to hear. I love positive things, I just really love being positive.