I watched the Oscars and all I got was this lousy hangover

So the Oscars. Blah blah blah.

I enjoyed the ceremony. I thought Hugh Jackman was a good host. I thought all the winners were deserving. I cried when Heath Ledger's family accepted his award. I smiled when the lovely Kate Winslet finally got a trophy. I thought all the dancing Indians were great.

And I was drunk off my ass. So of course I loved everything.

The problem with the Oscars is the seven-second delay. It takes all the fun out of it. Imagine if Mickey Rourke had won, for example—the orchestra wouldn't have stopped playing at all. They would have played him onstage and right off. Before the stupid safety delay, all kinds of fun shit went down at the big ceremony. In celebration of the land before Oscar night censorship, let's take a look back at the best unexpected Oscar moments in history

Cher (1986)
No one does bad fashion like Cher...and she does it fabulously. We would expect nothing less. And the most infamous example is the feathered headdress, showgirl glitter-strap crop top, zig-zag skirt and matching wrap thing she wore to

Angelina Jolie (2000)
Nine words: "I'm so in love with my brother right now.

Greer Garson (1942)
Greer won Best Actress for Mrs. Miniver and she also wins for the longest acceptance speech in Oscar history. The little stick man wasn't around to cue up the orchestra while Greer pontificated on the nature of competition for SEVEN FUCKING MINUTES.

Sacheen Littlefeather (1973)
When he won the Best Actor Oscar for The Godfather, Marlon Brando sent a Native American woman to publicly reject the award and not because beached whale Brando couldn't get his giant beluga ass off the sofa to make it to the ceremony. It was a boycott in protest against the mistreatment of American Indians in movies and on TV and at Wounded Knee. Backstage, Sacheen read Brando's 15-page speech to the press. She later took off her Apache garb for Playboy.

Robert Opel (1974)
Robert is a photographer, gallery owner and gay rights activist, but you probably know him as the guy that ran naked across the stage while David Niven was presenting an award. The timing is impeccable—Niven says "And now to divulge the contents of this year's most important envelope is a very important contributor to world entertainment..." then BAM! Peen and a peace sign! For some reason, the music starts up. The Niven quips, "Isn't it fascinating to think that probably the only laugh that man will ever get in his life is by stripping off and showing his shortcomings." Oh, Niven, you lovable old queen you!

Joe Pesci (1990)
I've said it before and I'll say it again. Pesci is my all-time favorite Oscar moment because of what he didn't do, and that is go on and on in his speech thanking his golf caddy, his masseuse, god, buddah, allah, mohammed, xenu and his 50 lawyers. Instead, he accepted his award and said, "This is an honor and a privilege. Thank you."

The end.

RoL 3.3-3.5: Make it stop

I've just about had it with RoL. I never thought I'd see the day, but this show is sucking my will to live. Bret is totally phoning it in, the skanks are the most disgusting bunch of festering boils ever to infect my television and I'm kind of worried about more important things right now. Like Rihanna. I'm totally worried about Rihanna. Do you think she's OK?

Anyway, the name of the show is bugging me, too. Couldn't they have come up with a better name than Rock of Love Bus? What about Rock of Love: Road Burn? Or Rock of Love: Skid Marks? Or why beat around the bush: Rock of Love: Sluts on Wheels?

So since we last left our (g)road crew, Porny, Brazil Nut and Random Blonde #57 (who wasn't "there for Bret") got voted off. Big whoop

The next ep starts off with Squishy Barbie Doll Face and Random Blonde #2 (or is it #8?) talking about Natasha, the one who said she wanted to be a madam on the first episode, and speculating on the size of Nat's peepee. They think she's a dude. I guess she's going to have to get bigger implants to convince these two that she's female. These chicks look like they got boob jobs from Octomom's doctor.

Meanwhile, Bret's riding in style on his personalized Bret Bus, complete with a giant bed, acoustic guitar for making hits and what look like cymbal lamps, and he's deep in thought. On the other RoLs, he was "hot and heavy" with some of the girls by this point in the season, but this time around things are moving too slow for his liking. So in true Bret fashion, he decides to get things cooking...by taking the skanks to Larry Flynt's Hustler Club.

All the Random Blondes go nuts. "I see all these poles and I'm like, I'm home!" one screams. "The lame skanks haven't been in a Hustler Club," another shrills. That may be true, Random Blonde, but the library is free and has far less bodily fluids on the walls (we hope).

OK, I thought they may have hit rock bottom on the challenges with the "marry Bret and write meaningful vows" contest, but this one is even dumber and more meaningless than that. Upon entering what appears to be the Champagne Room, Bret presents three frumpy chicks an announces that the skanks will have to divide into teams and make over a frump. The team that makes their nottie the hottest hottie wins a super-awesome Bret Date. That's right: it's a fucking makeover challenge.

Naturally, the skanks all start laughing at the frumps and my first thought is, you can totally tell that all three girls are strippers wearing glasses, sweats and no makeup. It's sort of like that stupid movie with Freddie Prinze Jr. where the chick is totally cute but because she is wearing glasses and overalls we're supposed to believe she's a nerd.

Anyway, here comes the Aqua Net and blue eye shadow. Brows are drawn on with Sharpies. Sweats are discarded in favor of skinny jeans. Hair is teased and fluffed to appropriate trashiness. When the girls come out, they actually look kind of cute. We have Jamie, who is about the size of a plastic cocktail sword and who earns Bret's approval for bralessness; Jenny, who looks a bit like the older sister on The Wonder Years; and Kami, who Squishy says looks like Rosie O'Donnell in makeup.

Well, good job, girls. Bret likes what he sees and he simply can't make a decision, so he's just going to take all three team captains on date And, oh, by the way, would Jamie, Jenny and Kami like to join the "tour" and compete for Bret's heart? Sure!

Wait a minute! Did I just hear a record-scratching sound? Here's the big ol' monkey wrench Bret was talking about! For some reason, some of the skanks start clapping at the news while others just look pissed. Squishy, for one, is not going to take this standing up, so she marches onto Bret's bus to lie down...and talk. Bret thinks this is a sign that Squishy cares and immediately starts gossiping about the other whores with her. Here's Squishy's chance to share her man theory about Natasha, and, boy, does she take it, adding that she thinks Nat wears tutus to hide her bulge. Bret is intrigued and makes out with Squishy. Meanwhile, she's got a Hello Kitty tattoo and he's wearing that ridiculous "American Outlaw" airbrushed cowboy hat again.

So now it's date time and Bret takes Mindy, Natasha and Random Blonde #37 on a riverboat! I'm kind of bummed that they didn't all get dressed up in riverboat attire, with Bret donning a fake handlebar moustache, Colonial Sanders string tie and garters on his sleeves. It would have helped add a bit of interest, because this is likely the most boring date in RoL history. He makes out extensively with Mindy and considers asking Nat about her alleged dick, but decides she must be a girl because she freaks out when a bug lands on her. I'm really starting to hate Bret.

And this confirms it. As soon as he returns from the date, Bret summons Squishy and invites her on his personal Bret Bus. He plays a bad power ballad for her on his acoustic guitar and tells her he likes her "in a really hot, sexy girlfriend way." Jesus Christ, what is this...study hall? Plus, it must be noted that Squishy is hideous and is wearing a trucker hat that says "Beautiful Disaster" on it. Bret starts swallowing her, then takes her to the back of the bus, where he probably put on his American Outlaw hat and then engaged in adult interaction with Squishy. You and I are not the only ones shuddering. Bev's there, too.

The next day, Bret takes the three new girls on a bowling date and this is officially the most boring RoL date ever, even though Bret thinks it's awesome.

Once they get back, though, something interesting happens. Bret hits the hotel gym for a little workout and Dimples decides to use it as a chance to get some alone time because she's "shy." As she says this she's saunters into the room wearing what is essentially a napkin used as a halter with another napkin used as a skirt. Bret calls it the best motivation to work out ever and asks her to "tell me stuff." At this point, you can practically hear the wind whistling through her empty head. Bret goads her to talk several more times, but she just sits there like a dead plant with pierced dimples, Sharpie brows and skank suit smiling in that way that people smile where they hear a joke they don't understand. After what seems like an eternity of awkwardness, she gets up to leave with her boob hanging out and interviews that she thinks the physical connection is there but "I'm concerned that the other...what's that called? Mental? Emotional?...like isn't." Bret scratches his balls.

It's elimination time and let's make it quick and easy like ripping off a Band-Aid: Nat the possible man gets the boot. Over and out. I can't take it anymore.

Next week: Nashville, Mud Bowl 3, boobs and possible sex. A beautiful disaster indeed.

UPDATE: Gwynnie says F.U. to the non-diamond shitters

Hot on the heels of yesterday's post, I find this little tidbit from OK! Magazine. It's an excerpt from a Gwynnie Paltrow interview in the upcoming issue of Elle UK. Apparently, she just doesn't understand why everyone hates GOOP!

Gwyneth Paltrow wants to get a few things off her chest. First, she's aware of the negative reviews her new web site, GOOP, has received from critics, and she's not taking them lying down.

"Fuck the haters! I saw this blog of people writing horrible things about me and, for a second, your ego is so wounded," Paltrow, 36, says in the March issue of Elle UK. "How could people hate me, my intentions or what I'm trying to do? I'm a good person and I'm trying to put good things into the world."

All together now: A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! She really honestly thinks her stupid little website is doing good in the world! It's kind of cute.

Pomposity, thy name is Paltrow

I have a red-hot hatred of Gwyneth Paltrow. Ever since I saw her in Seven, I've hated her anemic guts. That was back when she was still engaged to Brad Pitt and everyone was creaming about her being the next Grace Kelly. Give me a break.

When I first saw Gwyneth in Seven she reminded me of a whimpering puppy, then I decided she reminded me more of a scarecrow, complete with the rod shoved up its ass. Now I'm getting more of a wet mop vibe, and maybe it's because she's such a wet blanket.

But it's not necessarily her wispy, straw-like looks that annoy me: it's the fact that she seems to think she's smart, sophisticated and worldly and that everyone needs to hear her opinions and recommendations on everything that pops into her pea brain. Every time she opens her mouth it's something pretentious, pseudo-intellectual and superior. She whines about not being able to get facials every day now that she's a parent and pontificates on how she'd rather "travel economy" than sell out. And then there's all the musings about how much better England is than America. To refresh your memory and ignite your ire:

I love the English way, which is not as capitalistic as it is in America. People don't talk about work and money. They talk about interesting things at dinner parties. I like living here because I don't tap into the bad side of American psychology, which is "I'm not achieving enough, I'm not making enough, I'm not at the top of the pile!"

I'm very happy here [in London] and I really like the way the film industry works. Everybody cares. I like that it doesn't have this big capitalistic feeling. When you do something in L.A. you really feel the crew are punching the clock.

I find the English amazing how they got over 7/7. There were no multiple memorials with people sobbing as they would have been in America. There, they are constantly scaring people but at the same time, people think nothing of going to see a therapist.

Brits are far more intelligent and civilized than Americans. I love the fact that you can hail a taxi and just pick up your pram and put in the back of the cab without having to collapse it.

Pram! Well gollleee, I wish I could be as sophisticated as Gwyneth Paltrow. But here I am just a slack-jawed yokel who don't care 'bout nothing but meat pies n' money! Well, it looks like all us rubes are in luck because Gwynnie has graciously decided to share her worldly wisdom with us pleabians in the form of GOOP, her new "lifestyle" website. Now we, too, can learn how to live like the crunchy granola queen of show-biz!

Seriously, you have to check this site out. It shows just how unintelligent, elitist and out-of-touch she really is. Bear in mind that she launched this site in September, in the midst of an economic collapse, with the intro line, "My life is good because I am not passive about it." I mean, the cluelessness is staggering.

And then there's the ever-present stink of pretentiousness that hovers around everything Gwynnie says and does. The site's subtitle says it all: "Nourish the Inner Aspect." Buckle up and get ready for a puke-inducing ride into the seventh circle of New Age hell. Gwynnie's all about yoga and acupuncture and wheat germ and all manner of pseudoscientific tripe. But don't let me tell you about it. Why don't we explore Gwynnie's magical life and what she thinks we should Make, Go, Get, Do, Be and See...and rip this bitch a new one?

Make
"It is that time of year, folks. I need to lose a few pounds of holiday excess. Anyone else?" Duh, of course, Gwyneth! I'm fat! And I'm dying to be pin thin like you! How do I do that? With a detox, of course. Dr. Gwynnie recommends drinking fresh fruit smoothies (organics only!), beet juice, broccoli and arugula soup and other boring veggie mush mixtures that look like throw-up. But what happens if my bowel movements get sluggish? "You can accelerate things by drinking half a cup of castor oil or using a mild herbal laxative. Bowel elimination is paramount for correct detoxification." Do this and you will shit diamonds like Gwyneth.

Go
Gwynnie is a real jet-setter and she cautions that the hotels that she recommends in this section are "a little on the pricey side" but assures us that her "GOOP girls" are researching some cheaper places and that they will personally try them out before recommending. When the cheapest room available on the list is $350 per night, Gwyneth's paying, girls. We'll all be sure to do din at Riva where the food is "on par with the deliciousness of the amuse." Whatever the fuck that means.

Get
The life of an ak-toor is filled with luxury, luxurious goods and luxurious clothes and fabrics. Gwyneth is oft referred to as a modern fashion icon. But she wasn't always a stylish and pulled-together princess. After she had her pretentiously-named children, "It all kind of went out the window. For a few years I was basically in sweat pants and I didn't mind it. It's a fine line, however, between being comfortable and being demoralized by being frumpy all the time." Gwynnie recommends that all the frumpy hausfraus of the world should avoid demoralization by establishing a "uniform"—something that is easy and stylish at the same time that you can just throw on. Like a Tod's trench coat. Or Rag and Bone jeans. Just grab your Balenciaga clutch and you're on your way! You look like a million bucks for...several thousand bucks.

Gwynnie also recommends some great gifts so that we can all share luxury with our friends and family, including a $1,850 Hermes watch, a $1,400 man purse that you know Chris Martin personally carries, a $500 Dean & Deluca gift basket, and a $40 pair of salad tongs. But they're really luxurious tongs, so they're totally worth it.

Be
If you didn't know, Gwyneth is super-spiritual and holistic. In this section of the website, she "thought it would be inspiring to periodically ask a question to a group of thinkers from various traditions on the subjects that confound" her. This GOOP meeting of the minds includes Deepak Chopra, "Michael Berg of the Kabbalah Centre" and the founder of "The Threshold Society & The Mevlevi Order." Do I really need to comment on this?

See
"I feel a bit swallowed up in January," laments Gwyneth. "The days are so short, the sky is so close and gray. The best way to escape (not to mention the least expensive, most hassle-free way) is to curl up by the fire with an amazing, transportive novel." Amen! Please tell us what you and your "most literary-minded" girlfriends recommend for a gray day of transportation? Of course, there's Anna Karenina, which is a great choice. And there's the hipster classic A Confederacy of Dunces, which Chris Martin probably read to her on their third date. And don't forget the Oprah's Book Club favorite Their Eyes Were Watching God. Did you know the author "died working as a domestic with no money to her name?" Whoa, watch it there, Mrs. Henry Lafayette DuBose!

Gwynnie's personal favorites are Jane Eyre, Crime and Punishment, and The Sheltering Sky, which was given to her by Ethan Hawke after he "correctly intuited that I needed some perspective, some grounding, a sort of literary bringing down to size." What I wouldn't do to have been a fly on the wall at the Algonquin Round Table of Gwyneth Paltrow and Ethan Hawke.

Well, those are the lowlights and I've just about had it with this piss. Of course, there's plenty more well-deserved vitriol to hurl Gwynnie's way, but why waste the time? Last week, 68,000 people lost their jobs in the U.S. in one day, and Gwyneth posted a recipe for turkey meatballs and green peas requiring no more than "a squeeze of lemon juice, torn basil, a drizzle of good olive oil and a little Maldon sea salt for good measure." All I can say is that Gwyneth Paltrow needs to Make some time to read the news, Go outside of her privileged crystal ball once in a while, Get her head out of her ass, Be aware of her own intellectual shortcomings and See all the middle fingers that are pointed in her direction, thanks to GOOP.

P.S. Shout-out to Karen and Amanda!

RoL3.2: Something borrowed, something used

God, here we go again. I've decided that I'm not even going to bother learning these skanks' names because they all look alike. Bev is the only one...she's kind of cool. Which means she doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning.

So today the gang boards the Whoremobiles to travel the long and lonesome highway east of Omaha to go to Indianapolis...where they're all going to marry Bret. Jesus christ. Just when you think these challenges couldn't get any dumber and more meaningless, the contestants are being asked to write wedding vows for Bret and bring him a gift that shows him who they are. What is Bret going to do with 13 pairs of crotchless panties? I guess we'll see...

Porny, for one, is taking this challenge very seriously. She interviews that she's truly in love with Bret for the rest of her life and they should fly on their beautiful wings of love to make the world a better place. I don't know what's scarier—her comments or her nose job. It reminds me of a decomposed Bo Derek.

While she's off being creepy, the others are bent over notebooks writing their vows in bubble letters and dotting their i's with little hearts. The New Age kook plans to dazzle Bret with her mysticism and spends the trip to Indy practicing a ridiculous undulating dance of love.

So the Slutmobiles pull up in front of a church and the gals are directed to a rack of outfits and accessories to create their wedding looks. It's a blur of tulle, fishnet and hot pink stretch satin. Meanwhile, Bret's waiting at the altar wearing a sleeveless tuxedo t-shirt and his ever-present bandanna. The church (must be Unitarian) is decked out in burgandy and black and there's even a leather-clad biker lesbian with a Stratocaster to play "Here Comes the Bride." It's enough to make every stripper feel like Cinderella.

First up is Porny and she's on a mission to put every single one of her feelings out there on the table...with five pages of vows. There's terror in Bret's eyes as she mentions kissing away tears and being an umbrella in the rain. Cue Psycho reet-reet sound effects.

While she's treating this as if it really is her big day, some of the other girls are opting for a different, and more obvious approach. Random Blonde #1 writes her vows in verse and notes that if Bret buys the cow, he can hit it from behind. Brazil Nut promises to love, honor and never wear panties. Penthouse Pet Girl gives him framed pictures from her pictorials and some lingerie. Random Blonde #2 gives Bret an Ed Gein-esque plaster model of her torso. And Dimple Piercing Girl gives him her fucking vag stud. I mean, hygiene is getting compromised here.

Finally, we have the breath of fresh air known as Bev who comes down the isle wearing jeans and some kind of motocross t-shirt. She gives Bret the shirt and a helmet. We all know how one way to this man's heart is with dirt bikes, but the main way is with boobs, and Penthouse, Dimples and Random Blonde #1 win.

Back on the bus, Porny collapses on the couch in tears and whines "Am I not good enough?" Yikes. I sense and awkward evening. If anything, at least it with be whimsical, too. The gang is staying at the world-famous Fantasuite Hotel, a joint that features themed rooms. There's an Alien Invasion room with a spaceship-shaped bed and a Venetian room with a gondola. Everyone oohs and ahhs over the rooms and then gathers outside for a Tahitian-themed "reception." There's pigs-in-a-blanket, pineapple and ham poppers and booze a-flowing...and then the lap dances start.

Everyone takes turns writhing and undulating and snaking around Bret. Everyone that is, except Porny, who is sitting alone and sulking because Bret didn't appreciate her book of vows. So she decides it's time to turn her game up a notch. She dashes into her room and changes into what appears to be a child's bikini, slathers orange bronzer all over herself and makes her grand entrance with a shake and a shimmy and a "WHOOOOO!!!" Then she crawls across the lawn to Bret and stands on her head and sticks her crotch right under his nose.

Well, now that this party has been killed, the gang moves indoors where Bret announces that they're going to play a little game called Are You Smarter Than A Rock Star. The skanks can earn VIP passes for alone time with Bret by answering questions correctly. Security Goon Big John, who looks like he's starting to really hate this gig, starts reading off the questions and Bret keeps shouting out the correct answers. Since he can't give the passes to himself, he just hands them out to the three chicks that look the hottest: Penthouse, Natasha and Random Blonde #3.

Once again, Porny loses it and screetches to Natasha that she only got a pass because she's black. Dun-dun-dun! It's on, bitch! With accusations of racism flying Porny defends herself by screaming "My grandfather's black! He's a beautiful black man!" Is this really happening? I mean, they are all in a room with a spaceship and aliens so maybe where in an alternate universe of some kind. An alternate universe that reeks of regurgitated champagne.

So the next morning, Bret takes the wedding challenge winners on the world's most boring date in a fucking pumpkin patch. It's painful, so let's skip this BS. Upon returning to the hotel, Bret decides to meet with some of the randoms he hasn't had the chance to French yet. One of those randoms is the New Age freakshow. She immediately starts in about what a passionate, sexual person she is and how she thinks about sex all the time and sex, sex, sex. But, she also thinks the body is a sacred temple and...has vowed not to have sex for three years. Sorry, New Age...pack up your bindis and saris and get off the bus.

Elimination is anticlimactic, too. Of note is Porny having yet another breakdown where she interviews that she's not this "crazy, wild, naked person anymore" and it's becoming clear that her entire future, feelings of self-worth and, frankly, life is hinging on this show. Lucky for her, she's invited to stay around another week.

Next week: the Whoremobiles roll into Illinois, the gals play hockey with Hatchet Face, Random Blonde #4's implant pops and someone has a boyfriend back home and is accused of not being "there" for Bret. AGAIN.

RoL3.1: Open up and say...gahhhhhh

Hellooooo, 2009! Time to start anew. New resolutions, new plans, new things to look forward to...and the same old shit on this blog.

That's right, kids. Just in time for the third anniversary of Stupid & Contagious (yay!), my favorite reality train wreck Rock of Love is back for a third stab at making us think Bret Michaels really just wants a nice girl. The RockitKing has already given up on all of the Of Loves (thanks for nothing, Flav). But I, being mentally ill, am right here again, plopped in front of the TV and hating myself for the entire hour.

And what an hour it is. During the first ep of the last season of RoL, I mentioned my first impression was that I'd never seen so much bad hair in my life. Well, this time my first impression is that there are some plastic surgeons in this world that are on the run to South America as we speak, because what was done to some of these chicks can only be defined as criminally disfiguring. I mean, Michael Jackson's surgeon wouldn't say no and his nose fell off. At least half of these girls are struggling to stand upright. Bret seems to have gotten a little refresher, too. I'm guessing permanent cosmetics and a little chemical peel...

So once again, Bret kicks the show off by taking photos of the girls "for their backstage passes" and makes the same stupid joke for the third time about getting a look at their souls through the lens. The lineup of skanks this time around looks like a fucking sideshow. One girl, Gia, makes a big stink about how she loves being tied up. Another stunner named Brittanya has her dimples pierced and describes herself as "a little bit not too smart."

The first ho to step up and get her picture taken is Brittaney (not to be confused with Brittanya) and she looks a little familiar to Bret. Surprise! She's a porn star! And Bret, of course, is familiar with her "work." She hopes Bret won't hold her past against her. Seriously.

Then we have Constandina who hails from the "Appalachian mountains" and has a master's degree in storytelling. She references her "third eye" and I can already tell she's not going to win so let's not waste too much time on her. We also have Ashley, who Bret says looks like Juliette Lewis, but looks more like a Barbie doll, but when you squish its forehead into its chin, to me. Next in line is wild animal trainer Megan; brothel-madam-wannabe Natasha; Brazilian nut Marcia; a 40-year old with chicken cutlets for cheeks named Maria; Poison groupie Beverly; a Penthouse Pet named Taya who shows Bret her ass; and finally Mindy, who recently had her face sharpened.

And then there's Nikki, or as she calls herself, DJ Lady Tribe, or as I like to call "her," The Thing. The Thing makes Daisy and Frenchie from last season look like pillars of class and sophistication. I mean, she is seriously the most disgusting hot mess of melted plastic, synthetic hair and goofballs I've ever seen in my life. To tantalize Bret, she sings him a rap that she wrote herself...on two pieces of paper with the headings GENITAL HERPES and GONHORREA. I wish I was making this up. Then she appears on camera slurring that everything she's on "is legal" before belching into the camera. And it only gets worse from here, if you can believe it. Just you wait.

So this season, Bret decides that he can't keep a girl because he can't find someone who can hang on the road. So he's loading all the hobags on tour busses and dragging them around the country with him on his solo tour. Of course, he makes the same wisecrack about rock n' roll being the cause of and the solution to all his relationships. Thank god he doesn't reference rock as his "bitch goddess" again, though. The bitches load up on blue and pink tour busses, with help from our old friend Security Goon Big John, who is shown emptying a trash can that seems to be filled to the brim with tampons. Oh god, please bleach your hands after that, Security Goon Big John.

As soon as the busses hit the highway, the drama begins. Squishy Barbie Doll Head and Brazil Nut start fighting right off the bat all the way to the first stop in Louisville. There, they meet Bret at his concert and are immediately brought out on stage to skank it up for the crowd. All manner of drunken antics take place including make outs, boob reveals and ass lickings. About three-quarters of the girls act like mega-sluts in front of the audience while the rest interview their disgust. Then if that wasn't bad enough, the real action starts in at the after-party.

OK, when I say real action, what I really mean is likely the skankiest thing to ever happen in the history of reality TV. I mean, it's so skanky that even the skanks were grossed out. Want me to tell you what it was? OK, brace yourself. Gia the Masochist announces that she's not wearing underwear and hops up on the bar to prove it. The Thing announces that she's horny and proceeds to...how shall I say this? OK, she has a test tube shot, and she puts it in the test tube rack, and then she drinks from the test tube...oh hell, we don't get to see it, and thank god, because even Bret looks disgusted.

Ick, yuck, blech, gahhhhhh...anyone know how to do an at-home lobotomy?

Anyway, moving on from that unpleasantness...

The next day (?), the miscreants are allowed to leave the cramped shittiness of the tour bus and move into cushy hotel rooms, stocked full with all the booze one could ever hope for. Brazil Nut is in heaven with her bottle of tequila. She's like a chain smoker, except with shots. She's dancing around, whistling, doing cartwheels and you know what's coming next. That's right: vomit on the first episode!! A RoL first! And to make it even better, she staggers out of the bathroom, lurches up to Bret and Frenches him. Toilet seat to Bret's lips—this may be the best RoL episode ever!

After that traumatic experience, Bret pulls tomboy Beverly aside for some alone time and instantly takes to her when she says he's the only one on her free pass list, not including Edward Norton in American History X. Is that before or after the curb stomp scene, Bev? Of course, Bret doesn't ask that or any other important questions. He just immediately starts giving Bev a tongue bath.

Next Bret is accosted by Porn Girl, who looks like an even more broken down Jerry Hall, and who starts showering him with neediness. Last season, Inna the Tank introduced herself to Bret with the immortal line, "My father was never there and I just want someone to love me." Porny says essentially the same thing and adds, "If you want me to be bisexual, I will" which is even more pitiful. Bret actually interviews that she's coming off too needy and wisely gets the hell out of the situation ASAP.

After a couple more fights, it's elimination time, and The Thing is wearing a red bathing suit and can barely stand up. Bret says there's urgency in the elimination ceremony this year because "I have to be in Indianapolis by morning." Better get moving, Bret! It's a long haul from Louisville! To make it snappy, Bret calls the names of the girls on the chopping block and it's all the ladies that caused the most drama on this ep. Of the group, Bret decides to keep Brazil Nut and Porny around for another week, which means Gia's out and, goddammit, The Thing is gone! The Thing is splayed out on the floor of the studio while the PAs are tearing down the set around her. Two hapless assistants have to drag her off the set. Oh, Thing, no one will ever forget you. You and your test tube shots...

This season: boobs, ass painting, bikini hockey, boobs, Hatchet again, "bitch," "I'll knock your ass out," boobs, Mud Bowl 3, and big john saying "I specifically asked you guys not to be slutty." Happy new year!

Time for joy and time for cheer

So here I am in Hometown at the RockitFolks' house contemplating what this time of year means to me. Then some dudes that appeared to be from some kind of village "crew" pulled up in front of the house and started tearing up the front yard with a backhoe. I tried to get a glass of water and when I turned the faucet, brown sludge trickled out for a few seconds and then something down in the plumbing made a sound like gay foghorn.

So I decided to find something to watch on TV and it was the Dateline When Caylee Vanished episode again. As if I haven't seen it 5,000 times already. I could probably join the prosecution team, I know so much about that case. The point is, I ended up watching Blades of Glory and laughing like a hyena, even though I've also seen that 5,000 times.

I wonder what say, the Kardashians are up to today. Are they ripping open packages containing Seven for All Mankind jeans, custom made to accommodate their butts? Did their private chef prepare them a delicious holiday meal of sashimi salad and dry-aged cote de boeuf roti with potato-leek torte? Do they realize that anyone knows their names because (a.) their dad helped inflict OJ back on society, and (b.) one of them "accidentally" released a stupid sex tape?

They're probably musing over what a successful year they had and what exciting projects 2009 will bring. For example, Kardashian stepbrother and douche extraordinaire Brody Jenner is getting ready to kick off his new reality show Bromance, which features possibly the most pitiful band of reality hos to ever grace my TV set (and that's saying a whole lot) vying to be Brody's friend. It's supposed to be the guy version of Paris Hilton's My New BFF. At least with Paris you might get to go on some cool shopping trips. Brody is managed by Spencer Pratt. He's dating some Playboy Playmate. His own reality show with his brother called Princes of Malibu was canceled after only two eps, making even Sean Stewart's pre-Celebrity Rehab reality show more popular.

So on this holiday season, I'd like to leave you with an inspirational thought to keep in your heart during the coming year:
You may not have clean water, or good TV, but unless you are a contestant on Bromance fighting for the chance to be Brody Jenner's friend, things will always get better.

Merry holidays, bitches!

You think Bronx Mowgli Wentz is bad?

This is not going to be one of the usual "OMG, did you hear what Star X named their baby??" posts. That being said, of course I think Bronx Mowgli Wentz is a stupid name for a baby. Everyone knows that kid's going to grow up to fill the Sean Stewart "my parents never loved me" role on Celebrity Rehab Forever. But look who his folks are: Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz, two of the biggest fucking douchenozzles on the planet. Even if they named the kid John Charles Wentz, he's still going to eventually be taken down in a hail of bullets after a seven-hour standoff with cops, waving a harpoon gun in a crack-addled haze in a Ralph's parking lot. In other words, when douche sperm meets a douche egg, the resulting zygote is doomed no matter what.

The onslaught of celeb baby births lately has brought with it the usual crop of stories on names. In the last few months, we've welcomed Zuma Nesta Rock Rossdale (Gwen and Gavin's second boy), Felix Griffiths (Gillian Anderson's son), Sophocles Iraia Manasiadis Clement (son of Flight of the Conchords' Jermaine Clement) and of course Knox n' Viv Jolie-Pitt. This means the media must bring up the old faves, like Moxie Crimefighter Jillette (Penn's girl), Pilot Inspektor (son of Jason Lee), Audio Science (daughter of Shannyn Sossamon) and Kal-El Cage (Nicholas' son). One of my all-time personal favorite celebuspawn with a stupid name has turned into quite the little tabloid ho herself: Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof. Peaches has three sisters named Little Pixie, Fifi Trixibelle and Heavenly Hiranni Tiger Lily Hutchence. I'm also a big fan of the names director Robert Rodriguez gave his five kids: Rocket Valentin, Racer Maximilliano, Rebel Antonio, Rogue and Rhiannon Elizabeth. 'Cause I like the name Rocket!

As is usually the case, real life is far more unbelievable than the fictitious world of Hollyweird. At least all these kids have famous parents and money, so what do they care what they're named? Some poor kids not only get saddled with a name Mom and Dad came up with after smoking a bowl behind Mikey's Lick n' Wash Ice Cream and Laundry Emporium, they also have to go to public school and then try to get a half-way decent job with monikers like these at the top of their resumes.

The brilliant website Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing calls out some of the most common "creative" mistakes parents make when devising a name for their spawn:

• Giving a common name a weird spelling. Just because you name your kid Maedysynn, Aethan, or Ilyssebyth doesn't mean you didn't just name them three of the most popular names in the U.S.

• Naming girls cutesy widdle girlie names that virtually guarantee them a future in Wonderland or the sex industry (Ambriana, Brinley, Kaylana, etc.)

• Naming boys hyper-masculine romance-novel names that virtually guarantee them a future in the Old West or the sex industry. (Cash, Colt, Beowulf, etc.)

• Going Gaelic, particularly if you're not. Because Gwyneira Arwen Ivanovich just sounds stupid.

• Going Native American, particularly if you're not. Because Sitting Bull Buttafuoco also sounds stupid.

• Not thinking the combo of first and last name through. Everyone knows some poor kid named Harry or Dick or Harry Dick with this problem.

• McNames. McKenzie, McKenna, McKaty, McCarthy, McKayla. Dear god. Fucking McKnock it off with this shit.

Here are a few more choice ideas BNABBT trolled from expectant mom message boards around the internets:
Catatonia Calliope
Meloncholia Francessca Antouinette
Aemezolina Mercedes
Legend Haakon
Blakely Grayben
Maston Greene
Young Quinley
Brighton Dade
Steele Gage
Kage Rodan
Celestial Rage
JaCobi Terriyon
KenAira LaTissa
Dayzunique Tylettrell Deiondrianiece
Sloe Harlotte
Tequila AnJanette
Tierrainney Mackanzie
Santiago Joeazie

BNABBT gives one good test to run your name idea through before deciding. Plug the name into the following sentence, "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States [NAME]." Done and done.

Love always,
Rockit McKingston Shiloh Briannalynne Redcloud Queen

When Doorbusters turns deadly

I've never understood the Doorbusters phenomenon. Perhaps it's because I'm not a morning person, or because I opt to do all my Christmas shopping on-line to avoid the onslaught of crazed frumps tearing each others' hair out for a Hannah Montana Malibu Beach House. Getting up at 2 a.m. to line up outside of Radio Shack for an extra 20% off of the three XBox 360s they have in stock sounds like a situation cooked up by Old Scratch himself.

I wondered if this year's Doorbusters sales might be a little less animalistic than years past, because maybe, just maybe, the financial crisis/gas prices/stock market bullshit would lead people to scrimp and pinch a little more. Not so. Turns out the crumbling economy instead made the usual crowds more bloodthirsty for deals. Yes, folks, Doorbusters has turned deadly.

Today a hapless Wal-Mart temp was trampled to death by mooing herds of shoppers who literally broke the doors down and stampeded into the store, hell-bent on consuming. The poor employee was crushed by hundreds of jackasses for "several minutes." When police were finally able to get to the man to administer first aid, the crowd continued to jostle and push the officers. Other shoppers caught in the melee sustained sprains and bruises and a pregnant woman who fell was rushed to the hospital.

It's being reported that the crowd began to form lines in front of the store at 9 p.m. Thursday. You want to know what for? A fucking $800 plasma screen. That's what this poor 34-year-old temp's life is worth. How many of those lunatics do you suppose had their houses foreclosed on this year? Stupid selfish fucks.

How many of us have experienced vulgar displays of mass consumption on Black Friday that have changed our view of humanity forever? This is the worst it can get, but I found many, many other examples of Doorbusters-incited mayhem on the Internets. Here are just a few horror stories I came across:

My cousin worked in a Wal-mart in the mid-90s, and one holiday season they decided to hide a Tickle-Me Elmo in the store and announce it. People were tearing down shelves, destroying merchandise, and physically attacking each other to find the stupid thing.

I work loss prevention at Best Buy in Humble, Texas. Before we even opened the store we had a streetcorner preacher in line and two guys arrested for wrestling. They were wearing luchador masks. They weren't in line—they just wanted to put on a show. Unfortunately, their wrestling was for real, not a choreographed show, so all it did was get them some shiny silver bracelets.

My friend went out to Wal-mart to snatch up one of those $300 32" HDTVs they had on sale. Upon opening the door the entire line flooded through the door and a woman fell to the floor, being trampled by a few people stepping over her back with her child crying next to her. My friend, being a good Samaritan and an aspiring law-enforcement officer, stepped back to help her up. She was worried about him not getting an HDTV and he was only concerned for their well-being. Needless to say, the 7 HDTVs they had in stock were gone in mere seconds after the rush, but the fact that that woman was nearly trampled was a travesty.

I did get to watch two 60ish year old women hit each other with canes over Beanie Babies for their grandchildren. One of them fell and started to bleed before the loss prevention guys actually tackled the winner. This is why I no longer shop on this day.

[This shopper told of standing in line at Best Buy for hours, hoping to get a voucher for a sale-priced laptop; an employee of the store was handing out vouchers for various items to people waiting in line.] As I waited for the employee to walk back to where I was to inquire about the laptop, I witnessed something I’ve never seen before. At the front of the line were two Mexican men in their 30s. They were grabbing every coupon that was offered. Then, it happened. A white mother in her 40s and her teenage son got out of a black BMW 7 series, walked to the front of the line in place of the Mexicans, and the Mexicans handed their sale tickets to the woman and went back to their beat up car and drove off. THIS WOMAN HIRED THESE MEXICANS TO WAIT IN LINE!! Can you believe this? (Well, it IS Orange County!)

I worked at Wal-mart one year on Black Friday. I had to unwrap a pallet of coffee makers and cheap gizmos. I got knocked over. That same year a manager of mine got a shopping cart rammed in his crotch and also broke his watch.

I was working at a Wal-mart the year of the Tickle-me Elmos. Our store had a police substation in it, and I was given a pair of uniformed officers as escorts to deliver the pallet of Tickle-me Elmos to the floor. This was to insure I wasn't accosted on the way to the department, and that I would be given ample time to get my pallet jack out of the pallet and head back to the recieving area before they pounced on it.

Here's a fun story: Three years ago, when I was working for Circuit City, people outside were selling their tickets that guaranteed them a $600 (normal price $1,100) TV to other people in the line. Several of the tickets went for over $1,500. To recap, tickets for a TV that was $600 that normally sold for $1,100 were being sold for $1,500+. Think about that.

Bloodbath on isle 12! For the record, I'm not picking on Wal-mart. Nearly all of the stories I found just so happened to have taken place there. Weird.

13 craziest examples of rock star creativity gone horribly wrong

I had a dream the other night that Guns N' Roses played at this local watering hole called Andyman's Treehouse. It was Guns from back in the day, but with Matt Sorum on drums. Cowtown readers will immediately understand why this can be translated as a stress dream for me. The "stage" area at Andyman's Treehouse is about the size of a large peanut and has a tree right in the middle of the room. In my dream of course, I was trapped behind the tree and unable to see anything that was going on. I woke up in a sweat, as you can well imagine.

Don't ask what that story has to do with today's post. I just wanted to tell it in the hope that getting it out will prevent it from recurring. All I need is for that to join the one I have about twice a week about having to go back to junior high for a do-over...I'm on the brink of insanity, mind. Just let the GN'R at Andyman's dream be a one-shot deal.

OK, I guess today's post does have something to do with my dream. It involves rock stars taking their craft to a place that we all wish we'd never seen. Like Axl does...Mr. Obsessive-Compulsiveness took 13 years to release the Chinese Democracy because he can't get along with anybody. But low and behold that album comes out next week and lemme tell you, it's well worth the wait. But besides that point, let's get to today's fun, shall we?

13. Prince
I love Prince. Love him, love him, love him. Who doesn't? But now that he's a Jehovah's Witness, he's not the Mr. Lovesexy we all used to know and love. He won't perform some of his racier songs anymore. And when he hired director Kevin Smith to make a documentary about the release of his album The Rainbow Children all the footage poor Kevvie got was of Prince lecturing fans about religion. So basically it turned into a video version of the Je-Wits showing up at your door, literature in hand, to spread the gospel. After weeks of filming and getting nothing, the documentary was shelved. (Note: If you want to hear the whole hilarious story straight from Kevin Smith's mouth, I highly recommend renting the DVD An Evening With Kevin Smith...it's worth it just to hear this one.)

12. U2
Remember in Spinal Tap when Derek Smalls got stuck inside the pod onstage? Well, that very thing happened to Bono and the gang on their 1997 Popmart Tour. Only with a giant lemon.

11. Warren Cuccurullo
You would think that being a somewhat accomplished guitarist who's worked with Frank Zappa, Missing Persons and Duran Duran (he even wrote one of my favorite D2 songs "Come Undone") would be enough to make a boy happy. But not Warren. He wants to give his fans more...more than they ever could have imagined. Like the Rock Rod, a dildo modeled after his own wang. The toy did wonders for Warren's rep: he quickly became a gay icon, did a little nude modeling and is currently an outspoken 9-11 truther.

10. Rick Wakeman
Rick is the keyboardist in one of the most keyboard-rific bands of all time Yes. Ricky's a wizard on Ye Olde Casio...literally. He dressed like a wizard and performed his concept album The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table with a full orchestra, two choirs and PERFORMERS ON ICE! The Yes Capades! The ice-stravaganza was a big hit, but it was also supa-expensive. Rick nearly went bankrupt bringing his vision to life.

9. KISS
Have you ever longed to hear Gene Simmons sing "When You Wish Upon a Star" or wished he'd done a duet with former girlfriend Cher? Ever thought Paul Stanley should do a cover of the '50s hit "Hold Me, Touch Me (Think of Me When We're Apart)"? Felt Ace Frehley never really got a chance to shine? Wondered what Peter Criss' singing voice sounded like? Well, then the four simultaneously released KISS solo albums are all you need to make these dreams come true!

8. Pat Boone
Charles Eugene Boone was the face of '50s shiny happiness. Singer of happy ballads, preacher, Christian activist, conservative talking head, Mr. Family Values. But then in 1997 he decided to show everyone his saucy side. That's when Pat released In a Metal Mood: No More Mr. Nice Guy, a collection of metal covers, and showed up at the American Music Awards wearing a leather daddy vest and a dog collar. The album includes Pat's versions of "Panama," "Enter Sandman," "Paradise City," and "Crazy Train," which you may remember as the opening theme to The Osbornes reality show.

7. Happy Mondays
If you've seen the movie 24 Hour Party People, you'll be familiar with the Happy Mondays who were staples on the Manchester doll scene in the late '80s. Problem was, the Mondays were a little too into the doll scene and their label hoped to clean them up to record their follow-up to the hit album Pills, Thrills and Bellyaches. The solution was to fly the band to Barbados to record, but little did they know that while the island was heroin-free, it was crack heaven. The band members went ape shit, smoking up to 50 rocks a day, selling their clothes and gear for drugs and holding the master tapes hostage. Which would have been good because the resulting Yes, Please album is, not surprisingly, really shitty.

6. Brian Wilson
The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds is widely considered one of the best rock albums of all time, so of course expectations were very high for the follow-up. So when he started recording SMiLE, Brian Wilson went balls-out: he created a gigantic sandbox inside his house, he made his band wear little fireman's hats and then, sadly, had a nervous breakdown. The end of this story is happy, though: Brian took the project back up and performed it live in 2004 to critical raves.

5. Julian Cope
You may have never heard of Julian before reading this, but you'll never forget him! The British songwriter is the king of wild n' wacky creative ventures. Among his more interesting endeavors:
• He recorded the vocals for an entire album while crouched on the floor wearing only a giant tortise shell.
• He protested taxes in London by dressing up as an alien named Mr. Sqwubbsy and plotted to assassinate Margaret Thatcher.
• He wrote several books on prehistoric monuments of ancient England (all got rave reviews).
• He stabbed himself in the gut with a broken mike stand on stage.
• He lived on a traffic island.
Ah, Julian...the lovable scamp of music kooks. Gwar has nothing on this guy.

4. Madonna
If you've ever wanted a look into the mind (and pants) of Madonna, then look no further than her much-hyped 1992 book Sex. Believe me, you'll wish you hadn't. Some choice passages:
• I think for the most part if women are in an abusive relationship and then know it and they stay in it, they must be digging it. I suppose some people might think that's an irresponsible statement. I'm sure there are a lot of women in abusive relationships who don't want to be, who are trapped economically; they have all these kids and they have to deal with it. I have friends who have money and are educated and they stay in abusive relationships, so they must be getting something out of it. The difference between abuse and S&M is the issue of responsibility.
• Sex with the young can be fun. One of the best experiences I ever had was with a teenage boy. But he gave me crabs.
• My pussy is the temple of learning.
If these zingers wasn't enough to induce flaccidity (and nausea), be sure to check out the pics of Madge romping around in the altogether with Vanilla Ice. Seriously.

3. Michael Jackson
Let's say hypothetically that you have just been let off the hook after being very publicly accused of playing hide the sausage with a prepubescent boy. The details of your utterly insane life and vivid descriptions of your naughty bits are now being discussed at watercoolers around the world. Everyone in the universe thinks you're a major freak. What do you do? Why, spend $30 million erecting giant statues of yourself near famous European monuments, that's what! Don't forget to put one on the hill overlooking Prague...on the exact spot where a giant statue of Stalin once lorded over the landscape to show people how smart and sensitive you are!

2. R. Kelly
Mr. Pee Pee Man's epic 22-chapter hip-hopera goes a little something like this: Married man cheats on his wife with married woman, married woman's husband comes home and catches them then reveals he's cheating on her, too...with a man. Married man goes home to his wife, who's in bed with another guy. Someone gets shot. Everyone is sleeping with everyone else. Then a midget shows up. R also dresses in drag. It's hard to tell if R's being serious or if the jokes on us, but remember this is the man that peed on a teenager and said of his subsequent arrest, "Osama bin Laden is the only one who knows what I'm going through." It would be number 1, if it wasn't for this:

1. Garth Brooks
In 1999, the pudgy, balding country singer from Oklahoma adopted the alter ego of a heroin-thin, emo-haired alt-rocker from Australia for a movie that never came out called The Lamb. A whole backstory combined with guerrilla marketing campaign were cooked up, and included a fake Behind the Music, album, phony Grammys and a staged "comeback." Instead of wonderment, the public reacted with confusion, disinterest and plenty of mockery. Poor little fatso Garth...one imagines him sitting at the kitchen table in his little farmhouse thinking about Ziggy Stardust and Spinal Tap and then telling his old hound dog, "Dag-nabbit, I'm one talented sombitch and I'm gonna show the world that Garth Brooks ain't just a one-hit wonder. No-siree-bob! I'm a-gonna become one-a them gee-runge boys and show 'em all what I can do! Yee-haw!"

YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!

So my usual surly demeanor has fallen by the wayside out of excitement, pride and enthusiasm! CONGRATULATIONS, PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA! I don't know about you, but this is the most hopeful I've felt in months...what an amazing day!

And, for those of us in OH, we've redeemed ourselves...we're a blue state again!!! Yee-haw yippiee!!

Damnocracy in action

Ah, the election and booze—two great tastes that taste great together. For now...in an hour or two I might change my mind.

This has been an interesting one and right now things are too close to call. At a time like this, I think who you have backing you will be a good indication of what kind of president you'll be. I know who I'm backing, but my opinion doesn't matter. The opinions that really matter? Celebs.

Let's take a look at who the stars are putting their valuable support behind:

Barack Obama
Eric Avery, Halle Barry, Jessica Biel, Judy Blume, Zach Braff, Warren Buffett, George Clooney, Cindy Crawford, Taye Diggs, Dennis Haysbert, Samuel L. Jackson, Scarlett Johansson, Eddie Murphy, Leonard Nimoy, Edward Norton, Sidney Poitier, Ellen Pompeo, Will Smith, Bruce, Springsteen, Will I Am, Oprah Winfrey. Note: Obama's camp also turned down a public endorsement from Lohan.

John McCain
Burt Bacharach, Wilford Brimley, Joe Eszterhas, G. Gordon Liddy, Heidi Montag, Spencer Pratt, Tom Selleck, Rip Torn.

So if you're a last-minute undecided voter, hopefully this information will help you make your important democratic decision. Good luck! In the meantime, I'm gonna grab another Schlitz...

I don't think you can handle this!

So Beyonce has apparently changed her name to Sasha Fierce. Is this real? God, I hope so.

She explains, "I have someone else that takes over when it's time for me to work and when I'm on stage, this alter ego that I've created that kind of protects me and who I really am. Sasha Fierce is the fun, more sensual, more aggressive, more outspoken side and more glamorous side that comes out when I'm working and when I'm on the stage."

She's even started a Myspace for Sasha Fierce...her top friend is Tom! She's holding a Sasha Fierce contest where one lucky winner gets a personal message from Sasha Fierce "when she is ready to reveal her identity" and a $500 gift bag. She has a French phrase on her page that translates to "I walk among holds the first role," according to Babelfish. She's uploaded pictures of cosmos, palm trees and a robot hand.

Sasha Fierce! It's the stupidest and best thing ever! It sounds like a nickname Flav handed out to her. I can't stop saying it: Sasha Fierce! Sasha Fierce! Sasha Fierce! I'm totally getting one of those Sasha Fierce t-shirts she's selling on her Myspace page and I'm going to wear it at all times.

So is she now going to take on a whole new persona, a la Garth Brooks and the whole Chris Gaines debacle? Is she going to release albums under both names? What does this mean for her sister Solange? Is she now going to change her name to Shasta Intense to compete? And does Jay-Z call her Sasha Fierce? I would think that he would frown on such stupidity, but it's adding some spice to their sex life so he just quietly tolerates it.

She'd better watch out for Tyra Banks...fierce is her word! Sasha Fierce! Sasha Fierce! Sasha Fierce!

Tricky treats

Halloween is the greatest, most bestest time of year! I've been formulating a gazillion Halloween-themed post ideas and wasn't sure where to start. Then I read this bullshit from Yahoo and had to comment.

This is a "witty" eats column on the worst Halloween treats. I don't know who this "Erin Zimmer" food snob is, but it seems she hates everything that as long as it's delicious. I hate lots of things, too, but if they are delicious, they get a pass. This is one batch of choices that makes no sense whatsoever. And it's not at all funny, to boot.

Among Erin Zimmer's picks:
• Candy Corn. Zimmer calls them "the fruitcake of Halloween." What?? Candy Corn is fucking delicious! Of course, if you're rolling around nude in a pile of Snickers bars and Reese's Cups (see below), I guess Candy Corn might seem inferior to your tony trick-or-treat tastes.

• Dum-Dum Pops. Zimmer quips that these wouldn't even be good if they were "deep-fried and served at a fair." Once again, candy snobbery. They may be small and cheap, but Dum-Dums pack a bold punch. Name me another lolly brand that offers such awesome flavors as root beer, cream soda, orangecicle, buttered popcorn (which is really, really tasty, by the way!) and the elusive Mystery Flavor.

• Necco Wafers and Smarties. Zimmer derides both as being "too chalky." Clearly, she has never smashed them into powder and snorted them like any self-respecting child of the '80s does.

• Fun size candy bars. I find this to be the most shocking of all, because her reasoning is that the folks that hand out "fun size" items don't know the meaning of fun. Ms. Gourmet would rather trick or treat in the rich neighborhood to get a bag full of FULL-SIZE candy bars. What a greedy pig! How many goddamn candy bars does this hog need?

• Tootsie Rolls. Proof positive that this bitch is crazy. She whines that Tootsies will strip the fillings right off your molars. Hm, weird...I love Tootsie Rolls and I have never had a cavity, Zimmer! Coincidence? You decide.

Certainly this was all done to get some yuks from the lowest common denominator, but I take this shit seriously. I am a firm, steadfast supporter of all the treats listed above. What I find far more disturbing than Zimmer's distaste for the sublime, are all the other, far nastier, items that are absent from the list. But then again, Zimmer probably thinks these are all awesome:

• Circus Peanuts. Down with Circus Peanuts! I'd rather eat circus barf than this orange fluff that was probably emitted straight from Beelzebub's ass. Have you ever met anyone that actually likes these things? If so, let me know and please specify if they are able to feed themselves.

• Pal Gum. With Bazooka, at least you get the stupid comic. With this piss, you get a mouthful of pink sugary slime that disintegrates in seconds. Pal Gum is most definitely NOT your pal.

• Bean Boozled jelly beans. These have since been rebranded as Harry Potter jelly beans, probably as a way to get rid of leftover stock. With flavors like booger, earwax, rotten egg, vomit and soap, you'd be hard pressed to get even Gene Simmons to endorse these.

• Saltwater taffy. Every year, you'd find a handful of loose taffys rolling around in the bottom of your treat bag. They lure you in with their pretty colors and traditional candy wrapping. But then you eat one. And it's like that time you tasted Silly Putty (you know you did!).

• Brach's Jube Jels. This is what you get when you leave Jell-o squares out for too long.

Where do you even go to get a full-size candy bar on trick or treat night? Have you ever even heard of such luxury? What's next? Louis Vuitton treat bags? Vera Wang-designed princess costumes for 5-year-olds? Our country is on the brink of collapse and this is how people choose to spend their money. GAH! I refuse to let this ruin my Halloween!

On a side note, do parents still check their kids' candy for razor blades? That was a big thing when I was a kid. Allegedly, some kid in my hometown got an apple with blades shoved in it. One question always remained unanswered: why? Like some nefarious group of toughs was out putting bear traps in treat bags and handing out cyanide-laced Good n' Plentys for the sole purpose of ruining Halloween for youngsters. If only I knew then...

Pride: the sin we all let slide

How do you like my cool new header? Pretty sweet, isn't it? I did it all by myself! Just preparing the blog for impending fame. Anyone who would like to advertise on S&C can just leave me a comment or something and I'll get back to ya.

The financial crisis has me in a major twist lately, as it has many people. Thus, I urge you to support the Financial Crisis Half Marathon, which will be held in Cowtown on October 20. Support for this race means you are a true American and a professional thwarter. I'll be there, with my AK-47 in tow, wearing an American flag bikini. Made out of a real American flag! Take THAT, bureacracy! Pew, pew!

Love and tortilla warmers

Joshua Duggar, the oldest of the 17 (soon to be 18) Duggar kids and one of the stars of the avalanche of Duggar-themed shows on the Discovery Health channel, got married last weekend. That's them in the picture, almost touching.

And so it begins.

If you'd like to see more pictures of them looking wholesome and participating in wholesome activities (but none that require Wholesome Swimwear, thank god), take a gander at their website.

Josh and Anna are both 20 years old and met at a homeschooling conference, a.k.a. the singles mixer for kids who get to leave home once a year to go on vacation to a homeschooling conference. They both really, really, really love Jesus. And they also love wearing matching brown, striped polos. And they want to have as many children "as God gives us" (prediction: the first kid is born nine months to the day of the wedding).

I want to know more, but the site is incomplete. I was especially looking forward to the "Marriage Tools" section, but unfortunately, that too is "COMING SOON!!!!" But they did take the time to inform readers how to find their true purpose in life. I bet you can't guess what that is. By the way, if you think you can get into heaven by being a good person, the correct answer is NO. You have to give Jesus "the right to be the boss in [your] life" first.

I was trying to think of something funny to say about who the boss in my life is, but then I noticed that Josh and Anna conveniently included that they're registered at Wal-Mart and Bed Bath & Beyond. Of course, I just popped right over there to see what these two crazy kids asked for and found some very shocking items on their list:
• Springmaid 400-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets!
• A $130 digital picture frame!
• Pringles, Sprite, M&Ms, Swedish fish and several types of beef jerky!
• An iPod touch!
• A $350 Uniflame gas grill!
• A $500 Dyson vacuum!
• Another $300 Dyson vacuum!
• TWO Kitchenaid mixers!
• A tortilla warmer!
• and a gazillion other things that any normal college student would already have by now!

I'm flabbergasted. This is by far the greediest gift registry list I have ever seen. And last I checked, GREED was one of the seven deadly sins! I mean, who needs a fucking tortilla warmer?? And who puts junk food snacks on their wedding gift registry?? And who tries to sneak an iPod touch in there?? Greedy, greedy, greedy.

Not only that, but the pastor and the church prepared the food for the wedding, according to their site. "Hey, happy church community, to save money on food, we'll take you up on your offer to prepare the 80 pounds of shredded chicken, 100 pounds of potato salad, 100 pounds of macaroni salad, eight hand-carved watermelon baskets with sliced fruit inside (don't forget, Josh likes seedless grapes!), 40 pies of different flavors and loads more country goodness for the 10,000 guests at our wedding (9,000 of whom are Duggars). And don't forget to bring us gifts! We really, really need two Dyson vacuums! Praise Jesus!"

The Duggars need to be exposed. They have no problem whoring themselves out for TV and probably accepting money for the appearances. I mean, did you see their fucking house? The one they built themselves, "by hand." They flaunted the fact that they used the slave labor of their own underaged kids to build that monstrosity!

I'm shooting off an angry e-mail to Discovery Health right now to alert them to this ungody gift registry. We'll see if the Josh and Anna get that Duggar wedding special that I'm sure they're banking on!

How do I feel right at this very moment?

Exactly like supertramp Kate Moss and anorexorcist Allegra Versace Beck in this picture. I've been without internet and cable TV for over a week. That's seven Rockit years. I am completely out of touch and drooling at this point. My power was out for three days. I felt like Abe Lincoln. By that I mean I started reading by candlelight and wearing a top hat at all times. And I think I started growing a beard but it retracted when the power came on.

Anyhoo, things seem to be back to (ab)normal and I'm now once again able to obsess constantly about Blohan and Samro, Project Runway and the Caylee case. That family is a bunch of kooks, aren't they? Major weirdos! But would they make fun of Allegra Versace's eating disorder like I did? Who knows? And who could blame her for having one? I mean, the girl had a feeding tube up her nose for christ sakes and you could pretty much see why. First, she grew up in the always-supportive and accepting world of fashion. Her mom is a vacuumhead who looks like Janice the Muppet during the world's longest Electric Mayhem tour. She's named after an American allergy medication. Where are the "Free Allegra" t-shirts? The girl's only 22 years old and she's palling around with Kate Moss, ex-galpal of Pete Doherty, a.k.a. King Crackus the Seventeenth. She's also worth half a billion fucking dollars (Donatella was left 20% of Gianni's estate; niece Allegra was left 50%).

Allegra, you need better friends. Hang out with ME. I might not have power or internet or cable, but we can have mozarella sticks and cookie dough Blizzards for dinner. We can totally watch Gossip Girl. It'll be FUN!

Criminy, I'm rambling and completely delusional from lack of media stimulation. Please forgive me. I'll be back shortly with my regularly scheduled commentary. But right now I need some tranqs...

I sense conspiracy

Every year I insist on watching the VMAs even though I know it's going to be a geyser of shit.

I do it because I still believe I'm going to miss something big, like somebody falling, a drunken meltdown, or a drug-induced performance fuck-up. Like last year, for example. Remember, if you will, the dazzling spectacle of Britney with her budget weave, lurching around the stage dazed and confused and having either forgotten the lyrics to her own song or forgotten how to lip-sync, her paunchy belly jiggling with each faltering misstep. Now that was some quality television! There's nothing I love more than seeing people humiliating themselves on live national television—unless that person is Britney. Then that is officially the best.

This year, hype indicated that Britty would be attempting her comback *again*, so I was hoping for another glazed, bot-like performance disaster. I waited with baited anticipation for more fabulous Britney embarrassment.

Instead what do we get? We get canned pre-show banter between Brit and Jonah Hill in which Britney is treated as if she is hot again. Come on, people! Have we forgotten already? The weave may have been upgraded just a notch and she got new caps and she may be slightly less bloated than last year, but we all know what's underneath that spackled-on Bobbi Brown Creamy Concealer. We all know the truth!

Next we have the highly-anticipated show opener. But this time, there was no disaster. Instead, Brit simply shuffled out on stage, woodenly repeated some lines off the teleprompter, then turned it over to Rihanna, who launched into a Grace Jones-lite impersonation. Letdown #2!

Then to make matters even worse, the braindead MTV "voters" awarded Britney with three trophies, including Video of the Year for "Piece of Me." OK, letting her have a second chance to embarrass herself less on TV is one thing, but giving her pity trophies is something else all together! Conspiracy! Did you even see that video? It's the shittiest, most phoned-in piece of film of all time. Keep in mind that past winners of Video of the Year include such innovative classics as "Money for Nothing," "Sledgehammer," "Nothing Compares 2 U," "Virtual Insanity" and "Hey Ya." Not to say that other winners of this so-called top award are all sick, as the kids these days say, or even memorable, but "Piece of Me"? Jesus christ...pity awards! Next year, Britney will probably be on trial for chloroforming her kids and they'll give her Video Vanguard.

Ug, my temples are throbbing. It's time to move on from this topic, and discuss the other ongoing theme of the evening that got me in a twist: purity rings.

Yay, hurray for the Jonas Brothers and Jordin Sparks and Hannah Montana for wearing their NoMoHo chastity belt buckles and keeping their no-no holes in their pants until god or Pat Robertson says it's OK. They all probably had a prayer circle backstage and congratulated themselves for winning the lost through pure, innocent song. Kind of makes you want to put in their CDs and fuck someone seven ways to Sunday just for spite. But that's impossible—those songs are real mood-killers.

I especially liked when Jordin stood up for the Purity Police by saying, "It's not bad to wear a promise ring because not everybody—guy or girl—wants to be a slut." What am I, in 5th-grade health class and the school nurse is reminding everyone that it's very important to care about your reputation? Jordin was going to encourage everyone to maintain good posture by walking around the Paramount backlot with a books on their heads, but the orchestra cut her off. Then the Jonas Brothers were supposed to come out and tell us that we're going to get hair in new places on our bodies and Hannah Montana was going to give a lecture on different types of maxi pads. Don't wear a tampons! You won't be a virgin anymore!

I don't know who Russell Brand is, but he's the best for calling that shit out.

Goofus & Gallant: The S&C True Hollywood Story, Part 1

One was a pretentious, moralistic brown noser with a compulsion for rule-following and a steel rod up his ass. The other: a devil-may-care loner who lived by the motto "rules were made for breaking."

Together, they personified right and wrong, good and evil, virtue and sin—two icons of ethics that polarized the world—until a spectacular fall from grace demolished the empire they created and threatened to destroy them and everyone around them.

This is their story.

The Goofus & Gallant S&C True Hollywood Story.

The golden boy
Gallant Quentin Barclay Godard was born on January 1 to Dr. Quentin X. Godard and Viscountess Elizabeth Barclay of Cranborne, an only child who was extremely gifted at birth.

"From the time he could walk, he was already opening doors for people, brushed and flossed his teeth twice a day and ate his brussel sprouts without complaint," says nanny Alice Leeds. "He was almost compulsively polite."

Gallant was a voracious learner who excelled in school. "When I asked him to start his homework, he'd always reply, 'It's finished and in my backpack, Mrs. Leeds. May I help you finish the dishes?' He never brought home less than a 100%. We ran out of room on the refrigerator!"

While Gallant had many friends, Leeds says some of his peers didn't understand him. "Many of the other kids' parents used him as an example of how they should behave, and that made him a target on the playground," she recalls. "It's not easy for a youngster to hear, 'Why aren't you more like that nice boy Gallant?' all the time."

"He was a major tattle," says former elementary school classmate Sally Wheedle. "You couldn't do anything fun without Gallant ruining it. Once we stole cigarettes from corner market and met behind the school to smoke them. Then here comes Gallant sauntering around the corner and lecturing us about how stealing is wrong and smoking is bad for you. We kept smoking anyway and he went and told Principal Dunkleman on us! Me and Matty and Gary and Hannah got detention for a month! And all Gallant had to say about it was, 'I'm just trying to do the right thing for everyone.' Fucking jerk."

One of the classmates serving detention was born the same day as Gallant and wound up being the golden boy's greatest foil.

The bad seed
Gary Ray Goofington was born to footstool factory worker Mike Goofington and his waitress wife Bev. The Goofingtons worked hard and scraped by as best they could, but little Gary Ray was often left to his own devices. "Gary Ray liked to use the bathroom in my begonias," remembers former neighbor Marva Cleary. "Whenever I told him not to and that it was bad, he would stick his middle finger up at me. And this from a four-year-old!"

Even as a child, Gary Ray had a heady influence over the other children in the neighborhood. "Why, they would follow him around like he was their guru," Cleary says. "And he could talk those kids into anything! Eggs in the mailbox, graffiti on the side of the house, Roman candles on the front porch...any mischief-making going on in our neighborhood had Gary Ray Goofington behind it."

The neighborhood kids had a nickname for Gary Ray. "We called him Goofus," says childhood pal Matt Duffy. "He would triple-dog dare you to do something right off the bat, and if you didn't agree to it you'd get the most brutal titty-twister of your life. I smoked my first cigarette because of him, I smoked my first joint because of him. I even rode Cape Fear-style under a bus to Fort Lauderdale with him. 'Free vacation!' he said. But I now have this exhaust pipe impression on my chest that will never go away."

Goofus' troublemaking wasn't just regulated to the playground. "He would make these little noises like a cricket in the classroom," says teacher Arnold McMann. "You would hear this sound coming from his corner of the room and before you knew it, other kids were joining in. Soon the entire class would be filled with students following his lead and making these 'eep eep' sound effects." Then entire class, that is...except for one student. "I had no idea it was Goofington until Gallant informed me after class," McMann recounts. "He was concerned that Goofington's antics were disrupting the other students and preventing them from learning about photosynthesis."

But it was when Gallant turned Goofus in to school authorities for smoking that a bitter rivalry was born...a rivalry that would rocket both boys to worldwide fame and, eventually, catastrophic ruin.

To be continued

60

Nomi Malone's Skool of Self-Esteem

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Sex, drugs and Saved by the Bell

This sordid little tale comes to us courtesy of RockitSis, who I tortured for years by trying to force her to watch Saved by the Bell with me. What I felt was a harmless and hilarious way to get my lil' sis riled up has turned around to bite everyone in the ass in the form of a tell-all Saved by the Bell book penned by none other than porn star and Harvey Walden III-annoyer Dustin "Screetch" Diamond!

According to NYMag:

Sometimes a book deal comes along that you never knew you were waiting for, but, once it's announced, you realize it has been your secret wish all along. Which explains our reaction to the news that Dustin Diamond, whose high-pitched nerdy exploits as Samuel "Screech" Powers figured prominently in nearly thirteen (!) years of Saved by the Bell incarnations (plus that infamous sex tape), has jumped on the tell-all bandwagon. Behind the Bell, which Gotham Books preempted from Objective Entertainment's Jarred Weisfeld, promises to detail "sexual escapades among cast members, drug use, and hardcore partying," and for those of us who spent untold hours in our formative years memorizing "I'm So Excited" and the entire back catalog of Zack Attack, this is the greatest book deal in the history of the universe.

But Diamond, with an assist from veteran ghostwriter Alan Goldsher, will really strike pop-culture gold if he can answer our most burning question: What if Miss Bliss had moved to Bayside with the SBTB gang instead of Principal Belding? The course of television history might have been irrevocably altered.

Sexual escapades? Drug use? Hardcore partying?? Only if it's Belding!

Freaks like myself will remember that many of these gossipy tidbits were already revealed in the Saved by the Bell E! True Hollywood Story. We already know what became of most of the kids on the show:
• Tiffani-Amber Theissen was bitchtastic Val on 90210 and Billie on Fastlane.
• Mark-Paul Gosselaar was on some cop show and starred in one of the most underrated comedies in my twisted mind Dead Man on Campus.
• Mario Lopez continues to be everywhere although I don't know why. He played Greg Louganis. And didn't he supposedly rape someone at some point?
• Elizabeth Berkley followed her dreams to Vegas to make it as a skanky topless showgirl, eat hamburgers and push Gina Gershon down a flight of stairs.
• Dustin Diamond, of course, made one of the only celebrity sex tapes that I refuse to watch and almost got is ass kicked by drill sergeant Harvey on Celebrity Fit Club
• I think I saw the girl who played Lisa in a Lifetime Moment of Truth movie once.

And we also already know that they pretty much all screwed each other (except Screech, of course) and smoked weed in their dressing rooms. So I hope it's not just that kind of stuff. And I did always wonder what happened to the biker lesbian Tori.

Anyway, more to come as this story develops! B-buh-B-B-B-Go Bayside!

Yay Freedom! Let's blow some shit up!

In the U.S., the Fourth of July means many things. It means history. It means patriotism. It means getting drunk and catching the grill on fire.

But most of all it means independence. Sovereignity. FREEDOM.

So on this day, let's celebrate by reflecting on the man who is the personification of these words: Count Grishnackh.

Oh wait, I'm sorry...I got it backwards. Count Grishnackh is actually the personification of the opposite of those words. Why, you ask? Because his fucking parole was revoked again! Hahahahahaha!!!

According to Norway's Aftenposten news the Count's harrowing escape attempt in '03 and his commisseration with neo-nazis didn't work too well in his favor. Of course, poor Count just doesn't understand it. He insists he hasn't talked to his SS pals in a long time and is upset that the cops are trying to make him apply for welfare. "They want me to make arrangements with social services, even though this is unnecessary," he bitched. "Must I be on welfare in order to be released? I have a house, a job and a family waiting for me."

A house? A job? A family? Ah, yes. I may have mentioned it in passing once, but the Count's got a kid. According to him he's only seen the little lassie twice since she was born in 1993. And, oh my god, if his Wikipedia page is to be believed, some lucky gal had his son in 2007 AND he's married! Excuse me for a moment while I clean the puke off my keyboard. What the living motherfucking fuck?? That prison is like the Eliot Spitzer high-class ho hotel! Conjugals, meds, carpeted rooms...it's better than my house! I think we should all move to Norway, commit crimes and then whoop it up in the party pokey for 21 years.

Now I'm all pissed off. I need something to make me feel better...oh, here we go: a documentary about the Count! Finally! And it's a pretty good one. In Satan Rides the Media, we're treated to the usual story about Count's crimes, plus some new details from the case (at least ones I, the president of the Norwegian Black Metal Research Commission, haven't heard before). Most notable is a media frenzy over a cave that was dubbed the Count's "catacomb." Local newspapers speculated that this cave was filled with gnawed-on human bones, weapons and other Satanic goodies, but it ended up being just full of swamp sludge, which is kind of funny.

Also worth noting is the really awesome Burzum video we get to see. Basically, it's just camera-phone footage of clouds, forests and forests with clouds over them. I expect this is meant to depict Norwegian pride because I think they have a lot of forests and clouds or something over there, but it could have just as easily been filmed at Keemosahbee Boy Scout Camp in Eastford, Connecticut.

Also watch closely during the coverage of the Count's trial, particularly around the 39:20 mark. You'll see some sad little groupies in the courtroom who all gasp when the Count waltzes in and...tosses his hair like he's filming a Pantene commercial. It's fucking hilarious. What a media whore.

It's all pretty entertaining, but my favorite part is when they mention Kiss as a black metal influence and show Gene rocking out to "I Was Made for Lovin' You." From the fucking Dynasty disco album. Brilliant. Also, check out Anton LaVey's cute little devil outfit, complete with plushy little horns. It's adorable and I want one. I think I'll have my Grandma make me one for Halloween.

Happy 4th, wackadoos!
XOXO, Rockit