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2010 Oscars Liveblog

March 8, 2010 by Katie

Oscar Liveblog

8pm- Red Carpet Coverage

Katie- Man, Kathy Ireland’s really fallen on hard times

Mark- You still don’t speak English, Penelope Cruz.

K- George Clooney’s girlfriend doesn’t speak English!

Tomb- He doesn’t feel good right now

M- He may be drunk

T- He’s at least severely hung over.

8:13 Pete- Man, they could at least give Zac Efron a stool or something so that he’s eye to eye with Kathy Ireland

T- She won’t even lower the microphone for him.

K-All the announcers are so bad!

M-Morgan Freeman is drunk too.

8:15 P- Hoo, Sarah Jessica Parker is looking rough.

T- The Oscars are about fun, not finance.

K-Oh, wow, Precious IS nominated for best actress.

T- I thought you were sayin’ Oh, she IS fat. Man, look at those arms though, holy shit. Imagine having an argument with her and having to slap her around, I don’t think so.

Nominees for best acting come out:

T- Slow down, Precious can hardly waddle up.

8:31 K- Neil Patrick Harris gets on my nerves.

P- I heard him in an interview though, and he was like way cooler than any other time I’ve seen him.

P- Man, he’s not even the host, and they still had to bring him in for a musical number.

8:32 T- If this was anybody but Neil Patrick Harris, he’d have a big boner the whole time. That’s why you get a gay guy, you can do the sexiest shit.

8:35 Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin take the stage for a monologue.

[crickets]

K- They put Precious in a corner all by herself. Maggie Gyllenhall’s really keeping her distance.

T- She’s like: “Her breasts are the size of wombs.”

T- Is this comedy thing gonna be the whole Oscars?

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Survivor Heroes vs. Villains Episode 4

March 7, 2010 by tomblikebomb

A group of heroes, otherwise isolated, will tend to cooperate–if neither for Cooperation’s sake nor their own individual, then for the sake of the whole and whatever noble objective it undoubtedly shares; conversely, a group of villains compete as deceptive self-servers. But if that were the whole story, there would be no explanation for the current state of Survivor: Heroes vs. Villains save that the Dictionary is wrong. So what explains ”Villains” like Coach, who’s killed as many dragons as old King Arthur without grizzling the sopping wet sensitivity of a man as many centuries futuristic? What about “Heroes” like Shutchomouf James? Why, immediately after learning of the Hidden Immunity Idol, does the “Heroes” tribe disintegrate without even the pleasantness of a “good luck”? Why do the “Villains” thumb their noses at any Idol that would turn them into gamecocks by being too small for common ownership? Perhaps there is some instability to persons in such configurations. In the absence of a Victims tribe, it is the villains reflexively who suffer their consequences. In the absence of Beneficieries, the heroes themselves are rewarded. Simutaneously, the villains gain more and more need of heroic qualities, the heroes less and less. So defines the cyclical Survivor moral-economic complex. Russel’s food-burying, intended to make the fat man king, instead made the Idol-hunter outcast. Conversely, watch Schemin’ Cirie’s body glisten from the fat of coordinated chicken-catching:

All of this begs the question: is there any significance to the names of the tribes, or are the “Heroes” and “Villains” divided only by the timing of their judgment and the equally temporary moral statuses of past tribemates? After the following recap, I’ll leave the reader to ponder.

Who’s a wittle baby? It’s Coach, crying over not sticks and stones but the opinion of a half-thinking psychopath.

Tyson considers repairing his self-confidence but learns (Coach: “There’s never been anybody like me out here, excepting present company, and there’s never gonna be. Excepting present company, I’m the only person out here who will not compromise.”) it’s already in primo condition, so he decides on another route. What follows is a browbeating that won’t be topped until minutes later, when Boston Rob calls Coached a pussy and makes him trust him.

Tyson: If you want me to Coach you through it, I may tell you things you don’t like but it’s gonna turn out better for you.

Coach: Like what won’t I like about th–

Tyson: “Don’t wear feathers at Tribal, it’s empty ballsack. The Indians didn’t play Survivor. Do you see Chief Probst wearin’ a fuckin’ headdress? No, he wears cargo shorts and he laughs at you with us…Do your dancing in private where no one can see it. No one believes it’s Tai Chi…You’re still a little chubby even though we can’t find the food…”

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Beating the News As If It Happened: Rush Limbaugh advocates he has a right to be an entrant for the 2010 Macy Day Parade

March 3, 2010 by T Mac

New York, New York:

Every Thanksgiving, since J.H. Macy and television’s perfect union, The Macy’s Day Parade, the mother of all “floatillas,” airs on NBC, providing millions of viewers with a festive event that caters to all ages and features its signature armada of oversized floats and falloons.  Amid preparations of the 2010 festivities, however, there exists an unsettling controversy brewing over one such applicant’s float in this year’s parade.

The “I Can’t Believe Its Not Butter” spokesperson and conservative shock jock, Rush Limbaugh, has laid out plans to include a full-figured falloon of himself riding high and judgmental over Broadway, Manhattan this November.  If granted, it would mark the first time in the parade’s history that a falloon represented an actual living Right-Wing personality.

Rush Limbaugh, when interviewed about his intent to “blow himself” a hundred times over with helium and float along the packed streets of N.Y., had this to say: “If liberals like Homer Simpson, Charlie Brown and sidekick Snoopy, and even Santa Claus can rake in free P.R., why can’t I reach out to those same lemmings lining the frigid Manhattan sidewalks?”  For Limbaugh, it seems that by representing himself via a hundred foot by fifty foot falloon, he will be able to expose himself, in a big way, to a larger audience.

Many are critical of Limbaugh’s plans, including the Director of Event Planning for Macy’s Day Parade, Ms. Sandra Snowball.  “You know I am not exactly sure why Rush would think himself to be qualified to have a float entered in this year’s procession.  This shouldn’t really be a topic of discussion in my opinion.  I mean seriously, he has no qualifications, he’s full of hot air, projects no sign of intelligent life, and is nothing more than a bloated demagogue who floats above everything as if he is beyond reproach.”

Veteran Hollywood actor and Parkinson’s advocate, Michael J. Fox, countered the prospective larger than life Limbaugh falloon by entering his own M.J. Fox Falloon, scaled at roughly half the size of Limbaugh’s float, into the parade to raise awareness about the Parkinsonian disorder to a broader public.  He ran a commercial to convey the reasons for having a float that symbolizes the need for public support against Parkinson’s. Rush’s response during his Thursday’s airing of ”The Rush Limbaugh Show” was irate to say the least.  In a desperate vie for his place in the parade; he questioned the very symptoms of Parkinson’s, calling its representative a sham and shameless for overacting the complications of Parkinsonian symptoms.

The Limbaugh M.J. Fox hullabaloo only elucidates the biggest issue for most critics, the political “snowball” effect his approval might have on future Parades.  States Ms. Snowball: “If we approved the Limbaugh balloon, it would only open the floodgates for every political sect in this country to assert their rights to be represented in the Parade.  And that, I am afraid, is an untenable situation.  You must excuse but I am in a rush … you know where I stand.”

When our SIJ correspondent contacted Limbaugh for a response to Snowball’s statements, he was told to call back later.  The reason she gave, “his mouth is full of those delectable Hostess Sno-balls.

More to report as the Parade Falloon Application results near.

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Survivor Heroes vs. Villians Episode 3

March 1, 2010 by tomblikebomb

“You know Tom, I don’t know if this game is for me,” confided Colby as he gazed down at his big Texas boner. But it was week 3, and he was probably the least horny Survivor. The rest of them had grown accustomed to at least one sexual experience ever, and Villains camp in particular was now devolved into a frustrating reward challenge whose reward was pussy. ”I Wish That I Had Russell’s Girl” was the name of the tune as Boston Rob and Coach, the latter utterly disgracing a nearby Jerri, glared ringside at the unthinkable: Poverty and Russell were having a giggling fit and steamrolling (snuggling when one person’s fat and the other isn’t) like crazy. ”If he goes in for a kiss, this party’s over,” quoth the armchair Survivor, but in truth nobody knew who they was messin’ with…

Come morning, Russell revealed that he’d been faking it. The night of funny passion was only part of his bat-shit plan to lower the general quality of Villain tribe-life, which we’d be cocksure to assume he even thinks is somehow advantageous to him. Thus, Poverty was merely the banginest tool in the shed, and laughing was easy because only he knew the whereabouts of the missing chicken-wrangler (just southeast of the missing rice, and about a foot shallower; as for the other 21 grams, you’ll have to ask his god).

On another part of the proverbial island, come-to-find Girls Soccer Coach genuinely claimed it was “unbelievable” how everybody was smitten with Sour Grapes. “The team’s only as good as its weakest player,” he said, quoting Martin Luther King’s visionary Villain’s Handbook, adding after pause, “A lot of these people think they can get by on just a pretty vagina,” his thoughts now escaping the proverbial Survivor island.

Randy was doing a little playerhating, but he was mostly just upset that people weren’t sucking his dick over the clam he’d caught. Of the rest of the full 10-man roster, only Sandra saw no problem with sharing a slimy half a clam with the man one would soon be voting off and–in her case–repeatedly slitting the throat of with her eyes.

Meanwhile, B-Rob was scareder than shit as he tried to sell the cameras a bill of goods about romantic alliances being a bad idea. “When the honeymoon’s ovah, you still have to Suhvive with the puhson fuh anothuh thuhty days uh so.” He thus confirmed to Ambuh the seed that had been planted by the little free Poverty-sitting he’d done while Russell was burying or something (say we Monday Morning Survivors as we try to think of ways to trick our penniless wives onto diets).

Rob and the Kingsway’s-New-Hotshot-Goalie-Slayer conspired, and it was resolved to tighten Russell’s curfew. Resentful of their presumption of authority but approving of their decision’s lack of a reason, the crazy dice landed on his immediately agreeing to break Poverty’s heart.

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Attack of the Killer Whales

February 26, 2010 by Mark

So today’s shocking animal news is that a killer whale has lived up to its namesake and ate its trainer.

A killer whale killed a trainer Wednesday afternoon at SeaWorld’s Shamu Stadium in Orlando, Florida, a public information officer for the Orange County Sheriff’s Office said.

The 40-year-old woman, identified by sheriff’s spokesman Jim Solomons as Dawn Brancheau, was in the whale holding area about 2 p.m. when “she apparently slipped or fell into the tank and was fatally injured by one of the whales,” he said.

But a witness told CNN affiliate WKMG-TV that the whale approached the glass side of the 35-foot-deep tank at Shamu Stadium, jumped up and grabbed the trainer by the waist, shaking her so violently that her shoe came off.

Yikes. Now we all know I love to proselytize here at SIJ about how wild animals should not be held in captivity, and this will be no different, but I do feel bad for the trainer. Nobody wants to be eaten. And for the most part humans are stupid, like every other animal, and naturally treat things not like them as play things, like the whale did with the trainer, so again we should have sympathy. She was raised in a world wide social environment that said keeping animals in captivity for both amusement and scientific research is acceptable. The girl was just doing her job to put food on her table for her babies.

But with all stories like these battle lines begin to be drawn. PETA, as always, has treated the situation like the class-act that they are:

“…we have also been asking the park to stop forcing the animals to perform silly tricks over and over again. It’s not surprising when these huge, smart animals lash out.”

Basically giving a wink and a nudge as they say this girl deserved to die. That’s a bit much. Clearly they haven’t been reading said remarks up above. The trainer was a largely innocent victim, a minor cog in the greater machine that is animal exploitation. But then again, the whale has no idea what the fuck a cog is. It’s a killer whale. It’s going to kill shit like gangbusters.

It’s probably a bit distasteful to debate the issue of animal captivity at this point in time, and even though I’ve been known to go by Mark “TOO SOON” Schmidt, I do have some respect for the dead. OK, I’ll give a hint as to which side I stand behind. Let’s just say I currently am working on a script for a Disney cartoon about a gladiator (our noble hero) who is enslaved and is forced to perform at a coliseum called “See the World” in front of villainous, angry crowds (boo! crowds) filled with fat Romans. All the parts are played by animals and the gladiator is a killer whale voiced by an Australian. That’s all I’m gonna say.

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Spoiler Alert: Orphan

February 24, 2010 by Peter

In the wee-hours of the morning when the night is winding down and the beer has run out I often consider adopting a child.  Perhaps it’s empty nest syndrome starting early, maybe it’s pangs of social responsibility for the less fortunate.  Either way I never act on these urges to adopt for a myriad of reasons, none of which are fear of accidentally adopting an aged psychopath, that is until now.  After having watched the movie Orphan (working title: The Orphan) I now am assuredly never even going to look at a child that  I don’t know personally.

Peter Sarsgaard and Vera Farmiga play John and Kate Coleman (no apparent relation to the makers of fine camping products) a perfectly happy, successful, WAPSy family that lives in a house that looks as if it was designed by Frank Lloyd Write.  They of course have dual awesome jobs to pay for this charmed life.  He’s an architect and she’s a piano player, and neither of them have to work for more than 15 minutes a day which leaves plenty of time for them to cultivate the nice WASPy skeletons in their closet.

Early in the film the couple jumps into the decision of adopting a third child with out being really sure if they want to do it or not.  They just up and adopt Esther, a smooth talking eight-year-old loner from Russia that starts out speaking perfect English as well as being an accomplished painter (in 8 year old terms).  They take their newly acquired family member home and everyone takes to her right away.  That is except their xenophobic biological son, Daniel.

Having pulled the wool over all their eyes, with the exception of the easily intimidated Daniel, Esther starts her reasonless, poorly planed killing.  The mother nearly immediately jumps to the conclusion that something is odd about this little girl, perhaps clued into by her accent which begins to regress back into Russian as her evilness increases.  She pleads to the figuratively deaf ears of her husband (as opposed to the literally deaf ears of her biological daughter) who has taken a shine to the newest member of the family.

At this point in the film no one seems to have any reason or deliberate thought behind their actions and entire pages of plot seem to be left on the cutting room floor.  The husband somehow relates Kate’s dislike of Esther to her previously shameful actions as a two-bottles-of-wine alcoholic.  She retorts with the fact that he cheated on her ten years ago and that he currently didn’t tell her about how he turned down the advances of some random woman in the park that day.  (I told you there where plenty of rich-white versions of skeletons in the closet.  I mean two bottles of wine?  Come on!)

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Survivor Heroes vs. Villains, Episode 2

February 23, 2010 by tomblikebomb

With no one to blame but themselves, the Villains began Episode 2 the same way they will likely die: each cowering under his own useless palm leaf as a jaded Survivor crew blackens the sky with military-grade helicopters eager to be relieved of their toilet water cargoes. Boston Rob, the only one whose boredom seemed to outweigh his utter disregard for his fellows, was alone holding together the entire monstrosity of a tribe. But suddenly the ”bright shining star” whose hatred of mankind had seemed not quite powerful enough to prevent him from obtaining food for himself and the rest of the jackals, revealed himself to have been engaged in a fierce internal battle. Walking down the beach one day, Rob’s true identity–an impossible dick–could no longer abide the slightly-less-of-a-dick facade that was the better strategic choice. Exhausted from minimal civility, Rob collapsed.

He awoke crying like a babe. It took all of Probst’s strength not to laugh, not to give any indication that Rob’s pain was anything other than reasonable. But it didn’t really matter what Probst thought anyway. There was no fucking way Rob was quitting the show. The show was his life. Before Survivor Rob wasn’t even rich. And what of Ambuh? Before Survivor Ambuh was just an idea, a concept, a dumbass pronunciation.

When it became clear that Rob was serious about literally pretending the rest of the tribe didn’t exist, there was a short period of fear. Courtney even tried to step up and build something, but Randy, ever suspicious of volunteerism, berated her for not having previously made money doing what the fish-out-of-water-concept game show required. It was a kibosh that would doom the oblivious tribe to many more sleepless, insanity-increasing nights. Jerri, the chief complainer that night, would in the morning appear on the verge of acknowledging the irony. But the bitchy tone of “there was a lot of complaining last night” only made her guilty of more. Sensing mass death on the horizon, Probst and company airdropped blankets and shitloads of rice along with a note: “You get rice, but not for free. We went into Heroes camp commando-style and stole Colby’s Bible.”

Speaking of Heroes camp, Rupert suggested “popcorn”, a dish probably consisting of charred coconut chunks that Rupert probably invented after returning drunk from his Survivor: All-stars reward challenge reward. Stephanie, a victim of her own heroics, dutifully attempted to satisfy the beast; however, her concoction still identifiable as coconut when finished, Rupert wanted nothing to do with it. Then, reaching for another with which to start over, Stephanie discovered that he had drunk the rest and used the empties as latrines. Rupert clearly had it out for this pretty girl, but why? I think you just answered your own question. Rupert had deftly realized that Stephanie was a potential Ambuh, a siren who could make even a Villain like Rob think love is more important than money, not only taking him out of the game but then convincing him to be her doting husband. Excuse Rupert for not wanting to be surrounded by a whole tribe of romanced zombies whose futures included staring into space as he tried futilely to explain to them that when they write “Rupert” they write their own names.

Using a play from Richard’s book, Rupert took himself out of the reward/immunity challenge. A lot of these kids want to be heroes like you get bonus points, Rupert seemed to observe. Meanwhile, it’s hard to vote for he whom you forget is in your tribe.

He likely made a better decision than even he realized, as mad contestants were smashed to pieces in this ill-conceived yet oft-repeated crate-stacking challenge. For the second time in a row, the Heroes’ poor puzzling skills fucked them over.

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Beating the News As If It Happened: Anonymous source states famed miracle on the Hudson pilot has “skeletons in his closet”

February 23, 2010 by T Mac

Danville, California:

The man ranked second in TIME Magazine’s Top 100 Most Influential Heroes and Icons of 2009, who piloted Flight 1549, a.k.a. the Miracle on the Hudson, to safety, who goes by Hero to most red-blooded Americans and just “The Sullster” around friends and family, three-time middle weight boxing champion of the world, and the proud recipient of the Noble Peace Prize and two Michelin Stars, Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger, has skeletons in his closet.

Police arrived at Sullenberger’s home Monday morning after receiving an anonymous tip that the 57 year old former fighter pilot and safety expert was harboring the remains of “something or someone” in his bedroom closet.  The police were reluctant to reveal details surrounding the case or the name of the source, who they stated desired to remain anonymous.

Chesley Sullengberger quickly demanded the police give forth the identity of the informant claiming that few outside of his home ever ventured into his room much less went snooping around in his closet.

“We did respond to an actual call, and I must say, he has an impeccably clean and safe home … the kind we would expect from a national hero and icon,” stated Detective Grabolskolofski.  “Even his closet, at first glance seemed perfect, almost too perfect … I mean flawless.  It was not until further inspection, having dug behind the molding and dry wall, did we in fact find actual skeletons … and several lewd magazines.”

The public, needless to say, was shocked after hearing the news.

“He is … such a great man.  To think his legacy might be tarnished by some old mangy bones floating behind his closet wall, its just awful,” stated Linda Waldo of Danville.

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Black History Month w/ G-mom

February 22, 2010 by tomblikebomb

“Answer me this: is there a white history month or a Latino history month?” Her smile was exaggerated by a sense of clear victory. 

It’s gonna be a long fuckin’ February, I thought to myself. It was January 31st. NJN’s For Love of Liberty had yet to debut, and I seemed to be checkmated. I bit my tongue and played along: “Yeah, G-mom. Black people ain’t shit.”

But I knew that was only half the story. And NJN was about to get half a black woman, Halle Berry, to tell the other half. Fast forward to February 14th, my annual birthday dinner at Don Pablo’s. This time I was the one with the shit-stain smirk on my face…I had the whole night planned.

“We’ll start with a couple Modelo Negros,” I said to the waitress, preempting her introduction. She was obviously horrified by my translating the name of the new dark beer out of PC-ese and back to its original Spanish.

G-mom, sensing as much, tried to order her favorite brew. “I’ll just have a Coors Ligh–”

“Excuse my mother, she’s a dreadful racist. Now, it’s my birthday, it’s Black History Month, I want a glass of what I think black people would drink if they could afford it, and the last thing I want is to look to my immediate left and see my dinner date slugging away at some hick beer whose consumers require a picture of the Rockies to turn blue before they know the thing in their goddamn hands is cold.”

“…Do you want regulars or talls?”

“Think blackjack, honey: the closest to 40 without going over.”

Back at Casa del Gringo, G-mom was buzzed enough to have an open mind but not so drunk as to be overly confident in her prejudices. The time was right for a star-powered setting straight. G-mom reheated the sopaipillas while I found NJN. Halle Berry was walking on the graves at Arlington, swinging her hips generously. She was introducing a segment on blacks in Vietnam.

“For the love of liberty,” G-Mom complained from the kitchen, “is it still February?”

“Just finish skimming your funky fifty and watch the fuckin’ miniseries.”

She entered powdered with sugar and tossed the remains of my complementary dessert onto my lap. Will I ever have a decent birthday? I wondered.

“Is that Connie Chung?”

Oh wait, I’d have to get another G-mom before that would ever happen.

“No, G-mom, not every Asian-American TV personality is Connie Chung.” She’d been referring to an otherwise accentless Melissa Tang’s reading of a ridiculously oriental VietCong leaflet:

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Russian ice skater talks shit on other skaters like a real man

February 19, 2010 by Mark

So it turns out that the 2010 Winter Olympics are happening and most people could care less. Which is understandable because on the surface the Winter Olympics are pretty boring. All the best sports were swooped up for the good, original Summer Olympics, leaving nothing but the embarrassing scraps that are winter sports.

But they make do with what they have and try to pretend to be professionals. For instance, a Russian figure skater has recently adopted a bad-ass demeanor and is talking shit after his probably awesome quadruple spin:

VANCOUVER (Reuters) – Yevgeny Plushenko was the only skater on Tuesday to nail the hotly-debated quadruple jump but even so he only gained a tiny lead over his closest rivals who by his reckoning are stuck in the 1990s.

The Russian has long said it should be impossible to win Olympic gold without the draining jump, which requires getting enough height and pace to make at least four mid-air rotations.

“Speedskating has new record times, biathlon has new times, short track has new times. I think we have stopped,” he told a news conference after scoring 90.85 points for his short program to lead American Evan Lysacek by a slim 0.55.

“In the 80s there were doubles, then skaters were jumping triples, triple axels and then the quadruple.

“I did triples in 1994.”

That is pretty awesome. I like how “1994″ has become the new insult for something outdated. It’s like no one even remembers 1994 now. If it ain’t post-9/11 no one could give a shit. Triples are like the first tragedy and we’ve done been over the second tragedy for like 9 years now. Get with the times, judges. Stay awhile and take off your Starter jacket and stop spending all your time surfing the World Wide Web.

But I pretty much support Yuvy’s quest. People be old. The only way figure skating is going to maintain its awesome rep is if quad spins get more respect. Like Plushneko said, “Without the quad it’s not men’s figure skating.” But I don’t think he’s pushing the envelope enough. If he wants the gold he’s got to think about 2014. Next thing you know you’re wasting time doing quads while some hot young thang is doing shit you couldn’t even imagine saying shit like “Quads are SO 2010.” You better start copying Hollywood now and pull some Blades of Glory shit before its too late.

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