Abracadouchebag LIVE!: Blaine's latest fiasco as it happens

David Blaine: magician, stuntman, douche. He brings people together with his douchey stunts, as we learned in my post last week. For the past week, he's been living in a giant snowglobe and tonight he is going to attempt to break the world record for holding breath underwater. And I'm going to attempt to sit through it and blog this event AS IT HAPPENS! That's right: it's Stupid & Contagious LIVE! Well, OK, I'm not actually AT the event, but it's LIVE on TV, so, same difference. Anyway, let's get it on:

8:00 p.m.: David trains and looks edgy. "It all comes down to this final moment."

8:04 p.m.: The Nirvana baby submerged in water. David brags about how he could hold his breath longer than the other kids. Houdini shout-out. I think Blaine is stoned. Either that or he sustained some serious brain damage in that plastic box in England.

8:06 p.m.: Gross! David looks like that fake dead body they found in the Hudson River on "SVU". Chris Rock, the Cox Arquettes and Rev. Run are all forced to say nice things for the camera.

8:11 p.m.: A hunky doctor wearing scrubs (I guess that makes him legit) says Blaine's suffered from liver failure. What?? "He could come out a different David." My god, this might actually be good.

8:13 p.m.: A retrospective of Blaine's douchey stunts. There's the buried alive event that brought Arabs and Jews together. There he is in ice—the stunt that made blacks and Klan members hold hands. Now he's up on the pole. That's the one that made Paris and Nicole be friends again. There's the plastic box and the Brits are harrassing him. "That one almost did me in." But it brought people together.

8:23 p.m.: Some guy is trying to get Blaine to do lamaze exercises. Oh, he's a diving coach. Some diver says Blaine doesn't have the ideal body type for this stunt. Suspense is building.

8:25 p.m.: Blaine is working out and looking edgy. Breathing exercises. Magic helps him focus. OK, I'll admit the tricks look kind of cool.

8:30 p.m.: Blaine's personal trainer. He looks a little out of it, too. I think weed was a huge part of this training regimen.

8:34 p.m.: Someone has created a Blaine snowglobe to honor the event. I think it's the same chick that released the doves at the reading of the Michael Jackson verdict.

8:35 p.m.: Something about Angola prison. It's filled with violent inmates. Blaine entertains them with magic. Jesus christ, he's bending the bars! Now the prisoners accept him. He better run because he might get shanked.

8:39 p.m.: He's in Vegas at the Palms (of course). He's banned from gambling all over town. He helps some skanks win $3200.

8:46 p.m.: "Carmina Burana". Blaine bursts out of the water looking edgy—relax, it's just a promo. Another doctor who is "concerned." More tension and suspense. The divers say they are going to blow on Blaine's face and then make him breathe.

8:48 p.m.: Blaine meets the hiker that cut his own arm off to escape after a boulder fell on him—remember that story? Blaine is wearing a short-sleeved shirt in the snow. Hiker Guy says it "recalibrated what pain means" but it was also "beautiful." I don't know who's crazier. Blaine calls him a "magic man" (another pot allusion?).

8:51 p.m.: Evel Knievel gives advice. Man, that guy's been knocked around. Evel says, "We are what we are. We can't help it." Blaine holds his breath for Evel. Oh my god, Evel's on oxygen! Who said irony was dead?

8:59 p.m.: This thing is only halfway over? Cripes. David talks about sharks. "I wanted to put myself in the most extreme situation—alone with 27 sharks." I thought it would be in a room with Scott Stapp and a video camera, but whatever. Back in Vegas: fake bystanders demand David hypnotize someone. He starts eating a martini glass—damn, his teeth are white. He pulls a random girl's tooth out then spits on her or something. Her teeth are back! I don't get it.

9:06 p.m.: LIVE! The crowd goes ape shit for some reason. The "applause" sign must have flashed on. Blaine's been underwater continuously longer than anyone ever. A cop gets in the snowglobe to chain him up. I guess the cop is supposed to make it authentic, like he'd have real cuffs or something.

9:14 p.m.: The doctor is back to discuss David's "vitals" and create more suspense. He pretends to talk to the diving coach about the skin situation. Apparantly, Blaine's skin is peeling off. Grody!

9:16 p.m.: Blaine runs through the surf and looks edgy. He's training with Navy SEALS. Wasn't Van Damme in that movie? "Pain is nothing but a cancer. There is no pain." What? The SEAL guy calls him "magic man"—there's that reference again. I think Blaine might seriously have some brain damage. He seems kind of slow. Now they are making him lay in the water and sing. I think these guys are better than the Brits.

9:18 p.m.: LIVE! The chains are heavy and the doctor is again concerned. He mentions nerve damage. Blaine may never be able to do magic again! Now they are showing his "diet"—it's basically just Gatoraide mixed with water. Electrolytes are brought up. Wait, was that product placement?

9:24 p.m.: Breaking: the weight of the chains is creating "havoc." Don't try this at home. "This is as dangerous as it gets." Eat your heart out Hitchcock.

9:26 p.m.: Some story about a "beautiful marine biologist" who does free diving, which is when you dive deeply into the sea and then shoot up on one breath. Who would want to do that?? I mean is that seriously fun? This chick tries to break the record, but there is a malfunction and she is underwater for eight minutes. She died! Now that's some serious suspense.

9:29 p.m.: Blaine's diary. He has to put his whole body to sleep to achieve this stunt. He occupies his mind by running through the alphabet naming friends and family for each letter. There is some weird shot of him standing on the bottom of the sea. He's got Jesus crucified tattooed on his back. "In my dreams, I can live underwater forever."

9:36 p.m.: LIVE! David is "stabilized" but the chains are heavier than everyone thought. The doc is back with a table full of emergency supplies. Two free divers wearing silver unitards are going in to help David. Air bubbles mean unconsciousness.
More commercials. I'm craving pizza, but I'm afraid to eat it because I might have nightmares about this.

9:42 p.m.: It's go time! The diving coach starts babbling and doing lamaze breathing again. He says "focus" about 852 times.

9:45 p.m.: OK, here he goes. David's saying his ABCs. The diving coach needs to shut the fuck up. Some weird "under the sea" new age music starts up for some reason.

9:46 p.m.: "Focus", "relax", "nice n' easy"...wait, was that another product placement?

9:49 p.m.: I hate the diving coach.

9:50 p.m.: "There is a delicate balance between saving energy and using energy." Blaine starts working on the handcuffs. Apparantly, he can't see anything. He breaks one restraint.

9:51 p.m.: The crowd starts chanting "David! David!" I think the crowd has less of a life than I do. Another set of cuffs comes off. He starts struggling. The divers jump in to help him.

9:52 p.m.: He doesn't do it...his face is blue. The doc runs up with oxygen. The diving coach says, "We're flowin'." Blaine waves. The new age music swells. The camera pans onto some skanks in the crowd.

9:55 p.m.: The Unitard Twins pick Blaine up. Someone yells, "We love you, David." They show his brother, who looks nothing like him.

9:56 p.m.: David speaks: "I am humbled so much by the support of everybody. This was a difficult week, but you all made it fly by." He's crying...great. Now I feel bad for making fun of him.

9:58 p.m.: "An emotional night, an emotional week." Blaine is leaving the snowglobe with help from the Ambigiously Gay Duo. The announcer compares this to an astronaut returning from space. I hate the announcer, too.

10:00 p.m.: Looks like he made it for 7:50. His hands look awful. "No one thinks David Blaine failed." Over and out. Thank god. I'm never blogging an event again.

Music videos that make me want to cry

This isn't entirely fair, 'cause money talks and it seems to have been pretty quiet for some of these vid shoots, but who cares? They deserve it! Remember this post and refer back when you are having a bad day. I guarantee you'll find at least one laugh here.

"Cherry Pie", Warrant
White room. Red instruments. Jani Lane in polka dots. Drummer hitting pies with drumsticks. Guitars and clothes flying out of the back of a red convertible. Bobbi Brown, the video skank (who by the way went on to marry Jani and fuck such rock luminaries as Tommy Lee and one of the Nelson twins), hosed down by band members dressed as firemen. "Looks so good makes a grown man cry." Slice of cherry pie dropped directly into Bobbi's crotch. Point hammered home.

"Heartbeat", Don Johnson
Don is a photographer who seems to be stuck in the middle of a war-torn fashion shoot. He hurls a kid over an embankment (I'm not sure the kid survived) and he falls in love with a video skank he captures through his lens. Then suddenly there is a gang beating some guy up, a photo shoot with a model in huge shoulder pads, Dweezil Zappa...my god, it doesn't make any sense! It's all interspersed with Don wailing away on a soundstage and attempting to "get into" the music. Which ends up looking more like someone's drunk boss on karaoke at happy hour. Keep an eye out for Don's stylin' sleeveless jacket with Tony the Tiger on the back...hilarious!

"My Sacrifice", Creed
Make your own Creed video in five easy steps:
(1) Film entire video in slow motion.
(2) Show Scott Stapp looking skyward and clenching his fists about 10 million times.
(3) Show Scott Stapp in some kind of quasi-resurrection scenerio after which he spreads his arms wide in a crucifixion pose.
(4) Show rest of band looking suitably impressed.
(5) Hold Scott Stapp's head underwater until he stops kicking. Sadly, they forgot step five in this one.

"Hello", Lionel Richie
Lionel and his enormous hair and padded-shoulder jackets creepily stalk a blind chick that is supposed to be his student. He keeps showing up in all of her classes and crank-calling her at night. Then in one of the most hilarious moments in video history she reveals that she loves him, too—by making a lumpy clay bust of his disembodied head. "This is how I see you," she says. Also, her hair looks just like his.

"Grim and Frostbitten Kingdom", Immortal
You may have forgetten about my favorite band Immortal, but I challenge you to forget this, because it is quite simply the most asinine—and fucking awesome—thing I've ever seen in my life. First off, I doubt McG was behind this because it appears to have all been done for less than $100 (counting travel expenses). The main bulk of the budget seems to have gone toward ice. They're standing on it...and singing through it. Never has the title of a song been taken so literally in the theme of a music video (with the exception of "Hot For Teacher") and I'm sure it's meant to symbolize their cold, desolate souls. Secondly, spiked shinguards...AGAIN. Thirdly, that is the worst, most ridiculous headbanging I've ever seen. Lastly, do they really expect us to believe that THAT jackhammer-style drumming came from that Fisher Price kit? Sorry...not evil enough.

"Separate Ways", Journey
Try to watch this without completely cracking up. It looks like some 80s high schoolers shot it on Dad's camcorder for extra credit in music class. This gem features all the fist pumping and angonizing facial contortions from Steve Perry you can handle. Who's got him so fired up? A power bitch with winged blush and a Darryl Oates hairdo, that's who! Lots of brisk walking toward the camera, the dumbest solo break you've ever seen and the band pretending to play instruments that aren't there. Also, presents best evidence to date that Journey is quite possibly the ugliest band ever.

"Rock Me Tonite", Billy Squier
I'm holding the people behind the camera personally responsible for not putting a stop to this embarrassing mess. Billy leaps out of bed, throws on a ripped-up tee and drawstring sweats and then proceeds to crawl on the floor, march around, sing into his fist and dance like he's a 10-year-old girl and "Like a Virgin" just came on the radio. Then he RIIIIIIPS his shirt off, puts on a pink tank (!) and starts shredding away on his pink Telecaster! I haven't been this uncomfortable watching someone dance since "Silence of the Lambs."

"Lick It Up", KISS
This is my personal favorite. A band of video skanks are inexplicably living in some kind of Mad Max-ish burned out auto salvage and suddenly all hell breaks loose when the band—sans makeup—shows up wearing the funniest fucking outfits ever. Paul Stanley is wearing some kind of leather cord tied around his nut bulge and a red belt he probably stole from Lark Voorhies' dressing room on the set of "Saved By the Bell". Gene is attempting to look sexy even though he seems to have just stepped out of Chess King. Someone is wearing ladies' leopard print boots; I think it might be Paul, but I'm not sure. Then suddenly they are all partying and spraying food and drink into each others' mouths. There is a slow motion jump, and...jesus, I was laughing so hard I almost peed my pants.

Stupid & Contagious 13 Most Hottest '06

Better hightail it to the market, kiddies—People Mag's highly-anticipated "Most Beautiful People" issue hit newsstands this week! And this year's list is full of surprises! Angelina Jolie is on the cover! And she and Brad, Maddox and Zahara were named "Most Beautiful Family"! Also on the list are Scarlett Johannsen, George Clooney, Halle Berry, Eva Longoria, and...oh, fuck it. Is anything on this stupid list ever a surprise to anyone? The same assholes are on it every year! How many times to we have to be reminded that Scarecrow Paltrow is beautiful? Hey, ugly, don't you think for one minute you can compare to CHARLIZE THERON! Or JUDE LAW! Because they are BEAUTIFUL. You are not! And don't you forget it! And there is a lot of yelling in this post!

Then there are the people that make it year after year that I just don't get. Like I think someone is playing a joke on the public by saying, "Let's beat it into the media how hot these people that so not are and see if the peons buy it." Like Aniston. Or Affleck. Or Julia Horseface Roberts. Or Seal. SEAL???? You've got to be kidding me.

And another thing: supermodels shouldn't count. They're beautiful. We get it already.

Goddammit, I'm doing my own fucking list. So here it is. Sorry there aren't any chicks on it. OK, I'll admit I have a few girl crushes, but one of them went to jail this week, one of them is going to drop Gavin Rossdale's spawn any day now, and the other, well, it's Angelina Jolie and every straight girl in the world would go the other way for her. Anyway, number one is number one and the others are in no particular order; take them any way you want. I would.

Bam Margera
OK, I'm saying it out loud: I'm hot for Bam. He's such a little bratty shit, and I want to punch him in the face...and then do him. He's so awful to his poor parents. He starred in what is probably the dumbest sex tape ever (don't bother watching it—it's so dull that even he and the chick look bored out of their skulls). But never underestimate the power of a mischevious nature, nor the deadly combo of scruffy black hair, fair skin and a nice smile. And he's really good friends with Ville Valo, so, you know. Well, I can just imagine.

Benicio del Toro
I find him disgusting and attractive—the same way I feel about Vin Diesel and Michael Pitt. So gross, yet so sexy...Remember in "Traffic" when he went into the Mexican gay bar and pretended to pick up the guy he wanted to arrest? On the DVD, there's a scene selection option that goes right to it. Not that I've watched it over and over or anything...it's just so you know. In case you want to watch that scene. Or something. And you should, because he looks really hot in that scene.

Chris Meloni
On "SVU" he's caring, dedicated detective Elliott Stabler. On "Oz" he's sociopathic nutball Chris Keller. In "Wet Hot American Summer" he's camp chef/shellshocked Vietnam vet Gene. And you can totally believe him as all these men. He's an awesome actor, who is unafraid to take risks in front of the camera (i.e. full-frontal and make-outs with boys, which more hot actor boys need to do by the way), and he's wayyyyy sexy to boot. Even when he's humping a refrigerator.

Dean & Scott Winters
I'm echoing Lola on this one—either, both, rightside up or upside down. Preferably in their "Oz" prison garb. And you should know that there is ANOTHER Winters brother! My god, I think my head is going to explode. I need more info immediately.

Gary Dourdan
Note to the writers of "CSI": we need more shirtless Warwick! Make it happen. We get to see Nick shirtless all the time, but Warwick always seems to be wearing a tank or tee underneath his button-down shirts. This is not fair and also not convienient. I speak not only for myself, but for the throngs of other female viewers of CSI. I'm guessing you didn't hire the guy because his pronunciation of scientific terms was better than anyone else's.

Ice Cube
He was in NWA...and "Are We There Yet." He did "AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted"...and "Anaconda", one of the best bad movies ever. He proclaimed himself a "crazy motherfucker" straight outta Compton...and he was in "Barbershop," which was such a cute little movie. I fear him...and I heart him.

Joaquin Phoenix
In "Quills," Joaquin plays a kind priest who is tortured by his love for a servant girl, played by Kate Winslet. When she is discovered sneaking de Sade's manuscripts out of his prison cell to be published, she is ordered to be whipped in front of all at the asylum. Joaquin, unable to bear seeing the girl he loves in such pain, leaps up on the gallows, rips off his shirt and robes and demands to be whipped in her place. Um, yeah.

Leland from "Dog the Bounty Hunter"
Not many will agree with me on this one. He's totally white trash and I love it. And check out that bod...holy shit. On one episode he gave the shirt off his back to a crackhead. I could take him home to meet my daddy, go shoot some pool at Beers n' Steers and then throw him down in the back of a pickup. As you can see, I'm kinda white trash, too, so it all works out.

Nacho Figueras
I usually don't go for the model-type pretty boy, but I actually saw Nacho at a polo game and was transfixed by his perfectly groomed stubble and white, white teeth. He must use Crest WhiteStrips. If so, he could totally be their spokesperson. He's so hunky! I bet you're jealous that I got this close to Nacho. That's right, I took this picture! OK, I didn't take THIS one...but I did get a pretty good picture of him at the polo game. And I knocked out a couple of autograph-seeking kids to get it, too.

Nick Stahl
On "Carnivale" Nick plays an angry, dirty roustabout for a traveling circus. In "Bully" he plays a...well, bully. Who is dirty. I have yet to see the movie where he plays a hustling rentboy, which I'm sure is gritty as well as dirty, but come hell or high water you better Hong Kong believe I'm going to see that one. Any combination of Nick and dirt is acceptable—ooh, how about a movie with Nick doing dirty construction work and then it STARTS RAINING? Brilliant. Maybe Ratner can direct.

young Robert Plant
Old Plant rocks and I love him to pieces, but young Plant...holy god, was that man hot! He has the best hair, the sexiest moves, the best voice. And he wears the tightest pants ever, for easy go-go groupie action. When that levee breaks, no one's gonna have a place to stay.

And now for the STUPID & CONTAGIOUS MOST HOTTEST '06 (sound trumpet):
Ville Valo
Hey, this is just like the real "Most Beautiful People" list...absolutely no suprise at all.

Injected with a poison: Petey sins again

The 11th Commandment: Thou shalt not shoot up groupies passed out on your filthy kitchen floor. And if you are Pete Doherty, thou shalt not allow cameras or picture phones within a mile of your premises or person.

Also, thou shalt not claim that you were not smacking the bitch up, but actually put the needle in her arm to draw blood out for a lovely painting you're planning. According to the Sun newspaper, "A source said, 'First he said he was joking around and was planning to spurt blood around to create a mess for the picture. Then he made out that he was taking a syringe of blood to keep for future use. He likes to make paintings with his own blood and he was going to use Laura’s for one of these blood paintings.'”

That Pete—he's always up to something! In other junkie news, the Sun is also reporting that spindle-shanked mannequin and Doherty fuck buddy Kate Moss is trying to kick a 50-ciggie-a-day habit. Ouch. That's tough. May I suggest switching over to meth? It's cheaper and also helps clean those unsightly nicotine stains right off your teeth. Since she and Petey are still allegedly secretly dating, they can get matching teeth for the upcoming wedding. That would be too cute!

I bet you're wondering what Britney would say about all this. When reached for comment, she noted, "The baby fell down off the kitchen counter and went boom, didn't you, peanut? Hey, y'all, this Cheeto is shaped kinda like Kevin's thingie!"

The Real World: McLean Hospital*

As if there needed to be more evidence of my lack of life, I'm going to go ahead and admit that I still sometimes watch "The Real World." I'm not proud of this, but I can't help myself. The worst is when MTV runs a marathon on the weekends; if I had a nickel for every beautiful Saturday or Sunday I have wasted because I was sitting slack-jawed and drooling in front of the TV, unable to tear myself away from some asinine MTV marathon, I could buy out Trump.

Take last Sunday for instance. Sunny, low 70s, not a cloud in the sky...and yet, there I was beached out on the couch in my pajamas with a bag of chips at my side in the middle of day. If that wasn't bad enough, I was hypnotized by the latest eps of the Key West installment of RW—not because it's good or engaging or even fun to make fun of, but because I think that they may finally have a certified mental patient in the cast. And I thought Frankie the Cutter from the San Diego season had issues—I honestly can't figure out if this chick has some truly serious issues or is simply an attention whore of the highest order. Either way, I haven't felt this uncomfortable watching someone on TV since "The Ashlee Simpson Show."

First off, let's meet Paula. She's a 24-year-old desk jockey who claims to be from "a padded room" in Connecticut. If her virtually unreadable MySpace page is any indication, she's a party girl! Who loves to drink! And loves to party! WHOOOOOOO! She only looks sweet and innocent! She can go from zero to bitch in 1.3 seconds! In other words, she was a shoo-in to become one of the Seven Strangers. Other things you can learn from her page is that she loves Nicole Ritchie (who she seems to be taking diet tips from), she deperately wants to meet the "inventor" of Miller Lite, and she appears to be a drunk of the "You'rrrre my bethst friend!" then starts sobbing variety. (She also loves annoying avatars and ridiculous "Which 'Sex and the City' gal are you"-style quizzes. Warning: I almost had a seizure looking at that page, so prepare yourself.)

Her MTV profile describes her as "Confrontational, yet sensitive; bitchy, yet likeable; damaged, yet self-aware; attractive, yet insecure." You may sarcastically say (as I did), "Wow, what a brave new avenue for RW to cast someone of this ilk." But seriously, this chick's issues are on par with those in a V.C. Andrews novel. In the first five episodes, the following things have happened:

• A clip from Paula's try-out video is shown where she says, quote: "I'm kinda, a little bit bulimic." As opposed to completely, full-on bulimic, I guess.

• She continues to call her mentally and physically abusive ex, who once beat her up to the point that she had to be taken to the hospital, and she drunkenly tells everyone unfortunate enough to be within shouting distance about it. Unless that person is, of course, actually qualified to help her deal with these issues.

• She whimpers to one of her roommates that she thinks she is not pretty or smart and doesn't want anyone looking at her, which I'm sure is why she signed up to be followed around by television cameras every day for five whole months.

• During an argument with roommate John, she accuses him of having a small dick and he retorts that she has small tits, leading Paula to sob hysterically and begin hyperventilating to the point that the car they are riding in must be pulled over so she can get out, crumple to the ground and fan herself dramatically.

• She announces that eating a slice of pizza would make her depressed.

• She takes diet pills and then drinks alcohol on top of them, on an empty stomach mind you, and then passes out by the pool area.

• She compulsively cockblocks John.

• She declares that her biggest fear is becoming "pudgy, fat, single, alone forever." However, doesn't seem to think that having crimped hair is problem.

• She downs bar snacks and then starts sobbing

Roommate Janelle described Paula as "a wet puppy" that you want to help, and this is perhaps the most coherant and insightful observation ever made on this show. Yes, she is a pitiful little lost yappy lapdog, but I also loathe her. There's nothing worse than a crying drunk with 99 problems. "Hey, everybody, let's party! WHOOOOOO! Look at me! I'm dancing on the bar and making out with other girls! I'm so fucking fun and wild and out of control...but I hate myself and want to die! Everyone just sees a skinny blonde party girl! But I'm crying on the inside!" I know I'm a big uncaring meanie, but I feel like I should be getting paid $95 an hour just to watch.

In other "news," the Real World's hunchbacked stepsibling Road Rules is being resurrected with a "new format." Unless that involves a gladiator tournament to the death, I'm not watching.

OK, I lied. I probably will watch. Because I have serious problems.

* Disclaimer: I'm mean. I know this. But understand that I'm not making fun of this girl's serious issues; I am making fun of (a.) the fact that she chose to air them on a reality TV show, on MTV no less, and (b.) MTV's drooling willingness to air them, with nothing but an arbitrary message "to find out more" at the end of each Very Special Episode. And, again, if my time is being wasted in this manner, I should at least be getting paid.

Abracadouchebag

Fucking David Blaine. Somebody needs to put a stop to this guy, stat, because he's got another stupid stunt up his sleeve, and I've had just about enough of it.

If you don't know who David Blaine is, count your blessings, as he is officially one of the most useless and annoying people in America. It's true. The National Center for Useless and Annoying People (NCUAP)'s offical logo is a picture of him. Anyway, this guy's deal is that he performs these asinine feats in an attempt to become a modern-day Houdini. But unlike the great escapes performed by the legendary magician, Blaine's stunts are not even really stunts—it's basically just him doing *things* for a long period of time. Like standing on a pole. Or laying in a box. Or sitting in ice. For a long period of time.

"So what?" you say. "Big deal! Who cares?" E-fucking-xactly.

Not only that, but he performs these superfluous feats with a smugly heightened sense of seriousness and importance. He "practices." He prepares. He broods. And he still finds time to wax his eyebrows. After performing a stunt in which he was "buried alive" in a plexiglass coffin in NYC, he pretentiously had this to say: "There were Chassidic Jews standing next to Muslim cabdrivers who were next to black kids. Businessmen in designer suits stood beside heavily pierced street kids. Every conceiveable social type was represented. I saw something truly incredible. I saw every race, every age-group, and every religion gathered together smiling, and that made everything worth it. I saw magic." Take that, Blackstone! Blaine solves the world's problems with his magic. What have YOU done lately? Nothing quite so monumental, I suppose.

Not surprisingly, few take David Blaine as seriously as he takes himself. When he encased himself in ice for 62 hours on a New York City street, Howard Stern sent the Wack Pack down to flip him off, flash him and generally shower him with the harrassment he so richly deserves. When he suspended himself in a glass box over the Thames in London for 44 days with only water to drink, the Brits pelted the box with anything they could get their hands on, flew hamburgers by him on a remote-controlled plane and held delicious-smelling barbeques under the box. The Brits—they are the best! They sure can take the piss out of anyone, can't they?

Anyway, Blaine is back with a brand new ridiculous stunt: he will float around for a week in a "human aquarium" at Lincoln Center. Allegedly he will stay under water the whole time, breathing through a straw and recieving nourishment through a feeding tube. What fun is that? It would have been better if the aquarium is also filled with sea creatures that he has to catch, kill with his bare hands and consume—now THAT'S enterainment. Or what if they introduced a new, deadly ocean beast into the tank every day? On the first day, a blue-ringed octopus. Next, a Portugese man-o-war. And for the grand finale, a sea wasp—the most dangerous creature in all the sea! Let's see him break the world's record for holding breath under water (which he plans to do his final day in the aquarium) with stinging tentacles, snapping piranha teeth and octopus ink all up in his face.

Unfortunately, it appears we will only be getting Blaine in all his glory, prancing about in his big, stupid aquarium, all satisfied with himself. Naturally, his big breath-holding extravaganza will be televised, and I for one will NOT be watching. I'm sure if something really good happens (like he gets the bends), it'll show up on the 'net somewhere.

For his next stunt, I'd like to see him go trick-for-trick against Doug Henning. Nobody can sit on a rainbow like Henning can. Nobody.

Four twenty: Hey, bud, let's party

Four and twenty blackbirds, baked.

ANOTHER EXCLUSIVE: No, sir, the TomKat fetus doesn't like it

Good day, RockitQueen, and Happy Easter! Did the Easter Bunny visit you? Unfortunately, he seemed to have skipped my house. I'm sure Scientology has some kind of retarded edict banning marshmellow peeps and Cadbury creme eggs so the thetans don't get too hopped up on sugar, because my mom hasn't been consuming anything delicious like that. Guess I'll have to do without this year.

I just wanted to say thanks for letting me bitch. My current situation is less than satisfactory and if you haven't noticed, the shit hasn't just hit the fan—it's splattered all over the walls and is soaking into the carpet. Believe me, I'm trying to figure out a way that I can just stay in Mom's belly, not only because I know the world is going to be scrutinizing me upon my emergence, but also because my dad is batshit crazy and is preparing to use me on some kind of PR jag to promote his stupid new movie.

In fact, he's already started. First, there was the publication of this embarrassing picture in GQ magazine with his hands all over my mom trying to look manly and like he's way into chicks. Come on, I'm not stupid and neither are you. I'll be raised by this guy and I'll call him "Dad" and everything, but you and I both know that my real father is a turkey baster. Seriously, remove your hands from Mom and knock it off with all the mania and mind-melding.

My mom is not exempt from this rant, and I'm going to be frank here: bitch is greedy. All you need to do is show her the money and she's a vacant-eyed Stepford girl with built-in robotic responses and a permanent glazed expression. Yeah, yeah, I love her and all that jazz, but let's face it: she wasn't going to win any Academy Awards and, now that Michelle Williams is a Hollywood golden girl, the chances of a "Dawson's Creek: The Post-College Years" series are pretty much nil. What's a girl to do? Hmm, how about get embroiled in a freaky high-profile "relationship" with a fading A-lister, fake like you're in love with each other and gallavant around the world awkwardly kissing and making well-calculated public appearances. Then, just add a baby (me!) and voila! Instant tabloid darlings!

Which brings me to the most humiliating portion of my week: my dad's overenthusiastic public declarations about how great it is to do it with my mom! Let me tell you, the embarrassment I feel at his eager blatherings is unparalleled. In the same GQ article he shoots off at the mouth about how "spectacular" you-know-what is and how they have such great communication, yada yada yada. Gross! Imagine hearing your dad talk about what a great lay your mom is—that's bad enough. Now imagine he says it in a national magazine to be permanently on record for your friends to pull out and use against you later in life. I know how it is, and this is just setting me up to be mocked and ridiculed. As you can well imagine, I'm not happy about it!

I guess there is not much I can do at this point, but you better believe I am fully prepared to save the most spit-up and bad poopy diaper incidents for him. Hopefully, I can drop a good load on the red carpet or at an auditing session or somewhere else of equally bad timing.

I also think my first word will have to be "help". Lord knows I need it. Thanks again for listening. You rock.

Sincerely,
The TomKat Fetus

P.S. I heard a little bit of the dailies of Mission Impossible 3 and I cried for the first time.

Are you there, god? It's me, RockitQueen...

Dear god,

Bless mom and dad and sister and kitty and all my family and friends. Please bestow peace on the world and help all the sick, starving, hurt and destitute.

And, if you would, please send a special prayer to Sean Preston Spears Federline in the hopes that his little head feels better from that suspicious "tumble" he took out of his high chair and that he can forgive his mommy and daddy for waiting six whole days to take him to the hospital. I hope Sean Preston understands that his daddy is trying very hard to launch his career as The Great White Dope and simply can't bother with time-consuming hospital visits—he has lots and lots of rhyme-dropping to do. And mommy, well...one day SP will understand that mommy is just a big dum-dum. Like when she gives Sean half of her bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos to gum 'cause it's easier than having her assistant open up two bags? That's not smart. Or when she pokes the soft spot on his head because she thinks she might be able to feel his brain thinking? That's not smart either. Some day he will understand, but in the meantime, please make sure that he has at least one good nanny that isn't afraid to break the confidentiality agreement to help him out.

Anyway, thanks for listening, god. I'm confident that you'll do the right thing.

Amen,
RockitQueen

The National Park Service needs to get with it

The National Park Service announced last week that Graceland will now join the parade of dead presidents' homes and other boring historical sites as an official Historic National Monument. Yee-ha—I love it! It's a rock n' roll mecca and one of the most popular tourist stops in the country. It's well-done, serving as a one-stop-shop to all things Elvis, where you can see the house, cars, planes, costumes, awards, etc., plus visit E's final resting place. And it's also a very fucking cool attraction that is very deserving of this honor.

Which brings me to my point du jour: it's about time the Park Service made an effort to ramp up their cool factor. For years schoolkids and tour groups have had to suffer through tedious monologues about the War of 1812 or how years of erosion shaped this or that, blah blah blah. Thousands of family vacations have been ruined because, hey, who wants to go to Gatorama or to see a two-headed cow when we can listen to some elderly docent drone on about Thomas Jefferson's swivel bookstand or Millard Fillmore's chamberpot? We've all been dragged through some stale-smelling "historic home" and subjected to placards and stories about looms and smithing and life on the farm. God help you if there is a gristmill out back.

Now the swingin' crash pad that's filled to the hilt with the tackiest shit you've ever seen in your life, where the King of Rock & Roll died on the toilet, is considered historic! I have hope that perhaps the NPS is finally coming around. Why stop there? No more of this "Paul Revere Stood Here" bullshit—let's add some more cool sites with historic merit to the list. Here are some helpful suggestions:

• The Hotel Chelsea, New York City
OK, so this place has been around since 1884 and the list of notable people that have stayed there is endless—Mark Twain, O Henry, Thomas Wolfe, Dylan Thomas, et al—but I'm sure nine out of every 10 people that passes by the building says, "Oh my god, that's where Sid killed Nancy!" The King of Rock n' Roll lived and died at Graceland, and the King and Queen of Punk Rock lived and died at the Chelsea—it only makes sense.

• The Liberace Museum, Las Vegas
This place would give Graceland a serious run for its money in the tchotchke department. Where else could you see a disco-mirrored grand piano, feather-adorned outfits that would make that thing that Cher wore that one time look like a nun's habit, and a collection of tasteless costume jewelry that rivals no other (including a 115,000-carat rhinestone). Imagine school groups learning about "Mr. Showmanship," while being led past his very own red, white and blue hotpants outfit and rhinestone-covered roadster—the kids would be all over it! I believe this man's world-class collection of gaudy crap is of historic interest and should finally get the iconic recognition it deserves by the U.S. government.

• The Brady Bunch House, N. Hollywood
If I showed the average person side-by-side pictures of this house and, say, Chester A. Arthur's boyhood home, which one do you think they would recognize? And if this modest-yet-mod, middle-class abode doesn't just scream "Americana", well, then I don't know what does. The current owners are apparantly very upset by all the tourists tromping around in their begonias and shouting "Porkchops and applesauce!" at all hours of the day and night, so they have erected some kind of privacy fence to keep curiosity-seekers at bay. The NPS should buy them out, open the house to the public and give the people what they want. Think of all the questions that could finally be answered. Why would an architect with six kids design a house with only three bedrooms? Was there really no toilet? Where did Alice sleep anyway? And finally, the age-old mystery of who got the attic would be solved! Sick side note: Another house I thought about mentioning for a possible historic marker was 10050 Cielo Drive, but decided that it would be in poor taste. In my defense, it IS the site of arguably the most infamous crime of modern times, and Alcatraz and Ford's Theater are on the list, so you can see where...oh, nevermind. I'm ashamed that I even mentioned it.

• The Cathouse, Los Angeles
So much debauchery has happened at this infamous Sunset Strip rockery that there needs to be, at the very least, some kind of monument here—a bronze reproduction of Vince Neil passed out on the sidewalk out front would work. Anyway, imagine how much fun it would be to lead fanny-packed tourists through as they eagerly snap keepsake photos of the very spot where the bass player from Jetboy ODed. "And this is the barstool that Nikki Sixx crashed his Harley into when he rode into the club naked." "Slash once fell down this very staircase, taking an artificial Christmas tree along with him." "That vomity stench you smell comes from years and years of throw-up jettisoning from the throats of '80s rock greats like Taime Downe, Tracii Guns and Chip Z'Nuff." I really think I'm on to something with this one. Does anyone know how to get ahold of Riki Rachtman? We need to start the paperwork immediately and assemble a dedicated group to lobby Congress—if we could get Axl on board, I think we could really win them over.

Speaking of famous rock clubs, I seriously think CBGB has some pretty good clout to be made into a National Monument. It would be the perfect way to help save it from foreclosure—turn it into a monument and preservation society to American rock and punk. I would go as far as to say that this club has introduced more Rock N' Roll Hall of Famers, like The Ramones, Blondie and The Talking Heads, into the public lexicon than perhaps any other place in the world. What do you say? Let's put a little more of the "H" into history and a little more of the "cult" back into culture. No more should innocent children and travelers be exposed to dull lectures on trundle beds and silt loam and boring white guys wearing powdered wigs.

Come on, NPS, let's make learning SEXY!

Really shitty movies that you simply must see

Things have been a little intense around here lately, so I thought I'd lighten the mood with another fun list. This time I'm counting down 10 movies that are really, really bad but totally worth a rental. You'll laugh your head off, but then you'll probably cry afterwards because even the cost of the rental is sometimes too much.

Anaconda
J-Lo, Ice Cube and Eric Stoltz are filming a movie about the elusive giant anaconda, but get lost in the jungle only to run into an inexplicably-accented Jon Voight who offers to help them catch the coveted creature. The absurdity includes Owen Wilson's face bulging through snakeskin, Voight strangling a chick with his thighs and a totally improbable J-Lo/Stoltz romance subplot. This movie is a must-see for one reason only: the snake pukes up Voight in what is my favorite stupid-funny scene of all time.

Fear
Marky-Mark jacks Reese Witherspoon off on a rollercoaster (the hill equals climax!) and then stalks and terrorizes her and her family in an attempt to make her his "4 eva." CSI's William Peterson plays the skeevy patriarch, and Alyssa Milano is the slutty friend.

Friends 'til The End
This is a TV movie that is sometimes shown on VH1's "Movies That Rock" and, boy, is this one worth a viewing. Shannen Doherty plays a sorority chick who is also the lead singer of her cute boyfriend's horrible band. She befriends the new girl at school who moves into the sorority house, horns in on the band and starts macking on Shannen's man. Take a drink every time Shannen says, "You're ruining my life!" But promise you won't drive afterwards.

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle
Hell hath no fury like a woman who wants a baby. I get the feeling the TomKat fetus may be in for something a bit like this.

Hard Target
Van Damme as a drifter with a heart of gold. Lance Hendrickson as a hunter of human prey. Wilford Brimley as Van Damme's moonshine-swilling Cajun uncle. "Careless is what you are, Randall. Careless and stupid and now you're sorry, too."

Hush
Jessica Lange gets all Shante Kimes with her son when he knocks up and weds Scarecrow Paltrow. See, she's the headmistress of a lucrative horse farm and doesn't want anyone's hands on her son's share...or her son, for that matter. If you saw this movie without knowing anything about Gwynnie and I told you she would go on to win an Oscar, you'd totally laugh in my face. And then you'd throw up.

Motel Hell
There's something strange about Farmer Vincent's fritters, which he sells at a roadside stand outside a little no-tell motel just off the freeway. Bet you can't guess what it is! This movie is meant to be a parody of slasher flicks, but it's stupid-fun all the same.

Reefer Madness
It takes over the minds of teens after just one shocking puff! It leads otherwise good citizens to go on shocking, uncontrollable murderous rampages! It makes the most mild-mannered of people drooling, drug-crazed "undesireables" with only one shocking thing on their minds—another score! It's that most dangerous, destructive, violent and shocking of drugs...POT! Unintentially hilarious scenes include a girl in the midst of a pot-induced freakout jumping out a window and a guy who smokes a doob and starts...playing the piano. But shockingly fast.

Showgirls
Need I say more? It's one of the best dumb movies ever. Added bonus fun: watch the pool scene on fast-advance. She's got heat, all right—the heat of an outboard motor.

Valentine
Someone is sending abusive Valentine cards to snooty chicks and then wacking them in the worst of ways. Their offenses? They all spurned the advances of a nerdy classmate years earlier. Denise Richards is the bitchy one (named "Paige Prescott" no less), Kate Capshaw is the rich one, Angel is the sensitive hunky one, Marley Shelton is the perky good one, and the guy who played Matt on "90210" is the asshole. Rent this on V-Day and share it with someone you'd love to kill.

The best threat ever

Hurry up and tie off: it's the extreme metal fix you've been waiting for. Chop chop! This is a good one.

Today we are dealing with a man that is so hardcore anti-Christian that he has BURNED A FUCKING INVERTED CROSS INTO HIS FOREHEAD. Not many would fuck with a hater of this magnitude, but one dedicated group has succeeded in being a thorn in this guy's side for years.

But first let's meet your new boyfriend. This is a super-hot pic of Glen Benton, lead singer and bass player of the Florida death metal group Deicide (that's "god-killing" for those of you who think Latin is dead). Glen has served as a counterpoint talking head on Christian talk radio shows and once proclaimed that in order to live a life opposite of Jesus Christ he would commit suicide at age 33. He didn't, and went on to create such sing-along hits as "Bible Basher" and "Confessional Rape." He's also a big proponent of animal sacrifice and once said in an interview: "I partake in fuckin' what I would fuckin' consider fuckin' ceremonies, I don't fuckin'—I'm completely against god." Hmm. Confusing. I'm not entirely clear on his beliefs, so let's move on.

This is where the Animal Militia comes in. This European organization makes PETA look like lightweights; they claim to stop at nothing to save animals, including fighting to the (human) death. After sending terroristic letters, menacing concertgoers and generally making life miserable for Glen Benton, they showed their dedication to the cause by exploding a protest bomb at a Deicide concert in Stockholm, Sweden. They also write the very best threats ever, including this one that I plagerized from "Lords of Chaos". Observe:

Re: Deicide
Stockholm was just a taste of what is to come.
Benton is living his schoolboy fantasy but this is real life—wise up!
He's paranoid about Christians following him, Benton, there is NO god, there is NO satan,
as you are about to discover, the hard way.
You amuse us with your 'Ramboesque' threats of violence, and 'model boy' posing next to
inverted crosses, how dangerous, how desperate.
You are the irritating piece of shit we must scrape off the sole of the world's shoe.
You are the man in the spotlight, we are the invisible, we have our contacts and
we can be whoever we choose to be. The passenger at the airport, the van on the
roadway, room service at the hotel, the fan at the gig, or the security!
This city is ruled by the gun—anything's possible.
Benton, the venues and the press have all been warned, if innocent people suffer their
blood will be on the hands of the people behind the gigs, WE will not be held responsible.
Hell, this is going to be our easiest target to date, our only regret is that
Benton won't suffer enough, we'll try our best!
Wednesday 16th December at a venue we know inside out, this is going to be armageddon.
This is the final warning, shit, if Salman Rushdie had Bentons brain he would have
been dead years ago.
We thank you for your time
AM

Awesome. My favorite part is the reference to Glen's ridiculous "scary" photo ops in descecrated cemeteries. While I love the incessent poking they've plagued Glenny with, I don't understand why they felt the need to thank him for his time at the end of the letter. Don't thank him—bombs away! Glen needs knocked down a few notches, and this is your opportunity to come up with some creative dogging. How about filling the tour bus with gnats and fleas? Or hiding a hive full of pissed-off bees inside the kick drum? Or releasing a pack of rabid wolves lose on him during a stage show? I bet the crowd would love that.

Deicide's new album, cleverly titled "The Stench of Redemption", is due out 6/6/06—get it? Now that took some planning. I'll bet they finished this album five years ago, but sat on it just so they could release it on 666. I wonder how many death and black metal albums will release that day? Guess I know what I will be posting about on June 6. Sorry, life, I can't come and get you just yet.

On a related note, it seems that I have spilled something on my copy of "Lords of Chaos," as some of the pages are all mucked up. Luckily it doesn't seem to be beer, so I think this edition can be salvaged.

On a non-related note (except for the part about having no life), should it worry me that I'm really looking forward to the premire of "King of Cars" tonight on A&E? God, I need help.

Never mind the bullocks...it's Pete Doherty

"All of us are in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

The cracksmoking creature pictured at left is called Pete Doherty, singer of the British alt.-lite-punkers Babyshambles, but you may know him as The Guy That Kate Moss Got Busted Hoovering With Last Year. If you're anything like me, you love a good public breakdown, especially if it stars a bitter, out-of-control, drug-addled rock star—and let me tell ya, Pete Doherty brings the bitter, the out-of-control and the drugs like no other rocker of the day.

Blowing rails with frail supermodels is the least of Petey's offenses. This is a guy who allegedly spends $1,500 a day on his habit, which includes pretty much every illegal substance known to man, and some that haven't even been discovered yet, has had 10 run-ins with the law since January, and last week pleaded guilty to seven counts of hardcore drug possession. After the verdict was read, he kicked a microphone out of a reporter's hand, climbed over a wall outside the courthouse and swerved off down the road in a new Jaguar. Gang way, birdbait...Petey needs a fix!

Even more bizarre, recent internet claims speculate that Pete's power drugging and supermodel corrupting are an elaborate hoax designed to poke fun at the media's love of real-life soap operas. The people supposedly responsible for cooking up this whole story are ex-members of '90s one-hit-wonders The KLF (remember "3 a.m. Eternal"—"KLF, uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh"?) Allegedly, the two KLFers discovered Pete when he was a young Buddy Holly impersonator (riga wha?) and drafted him to be the centerpiece in the biggest media hoax in UK history. Yeah, I couldn't make this stuff up.

Besides all that, Pete has been a favorite son of the evil British media since his days in the late, great lo-fi/garage outfit The Libertines, during which he fought constantly (sometimes on stage) with bandmate Carl Barat and went so far as to burgle Barat's flat and sold the loot for drug money. Not surprisingly, The Libertines went on tour without him and broke up soon after. Pete went on to start Babyshambles, but has yet to get his shit together. He's been jailed countless times, flunked out of numerous rehabs, ODed at least once, wrecked several cars, performs solo gigs and private shows for fans to earn drug money and even fell asleep on stage in the middle of a Babyshambles gig. Hardly a week goes by without news of another arrest and it's really hard to keep them all straight. I swear I saw the headline "Pete Doherty arrested" about 873 times when I typed his name into Gawker.

The thing that makes looking away most difficult is that he makes no secret of his crack-headedness, openly smoking and shooting up during interviews and saying things like, "I'm 300 grand in debt. Why do you think I'm dating Kate Moss?" During the course of a recent Rolling Stone interview, he smoked and shot heroin, smoked crack and took an Ecstasy pill in front of the reporter. Even if there wasn't documented proof of this, you know anyone who has a gold-fronted ex-drug dealer named "Johnny Headlock" as a personal assistant is seriously smacking.

So I'm sure you'll completely understand why he has become an icon of sorts in his homeland. He was voted "Sexiest Male" by NME magazine readers and is also supposed to be the pillar of fashion in Londontown—all the little mods are donning the junkie look—fedoras, skinny ties, striped rugbys and Jackie O sunglasses. I'd personally describe his look as Baby Huey with an uncombed Louise Brooks bob haircut. Couple that with a requisite fag dangling from the corner of pouty but parched lips, perpetually cracked and blackened fingertips, a stylish chronic case of crackne and a loogie at the ready (to be hacked at errant journalists), and you are ready to hit the runway, superstar.

I have been reading so much about him lately that I thought I'd post about it. Up next: Whitney Houston's drug den, as exposed by The National Enquirer. What's the greatest love of all? Crack!

BREAKING: The Count beheads Federline!

In a tragic tale that has stunned and kind of saddened the world (but not THAT much), convicted murderer and black metaller Varg "Count Grishnackh" Vikernes broke out of a Norway prison, snuck into the cargo hold of a plane bound for Los Angeles, broke into the Spears/Federline compound and chopped the head off of professional mooch Kevin Federline. He then impaled the head on the "H" of the famous HOLLYWOOD sign then covered the "-LLYWOOD" with black cloth, so that the sign spelled "HO."

No motive for the heinous act has been uncovered, but jailers from Norway say a bootlegged copy of Federline's not-yet-released rap album was found in Vikernes' cell. It is unclear how Vikernes recieved the CD.

When finally reached for comment, popstress Britney Spears said of the crime, "Did you see the baby driving the car? He said 'Vrroom vrroom'! I want a Frappacino."

Vikernes is currently on the run from the law. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous. LAPD extends a serious warning to all hangers-on in the greater Los Angeles area to be on the lookout for a neo-nazi with a Scandinavian accent waving a machete and ranting about Mordor.

Happy April Fool's Day, mofos!

Death metal bands have the dumbest names

While I'm keeping a bit of low profile, waiting for the buzz from the Stupid & Contagious World Exclusive to die down, I thought I'd turn my attention to a topic I haven't covered in at least a week—extreme metal freaks.

Black metal bands may be made up of raving satanic loons with ridiculous "scary" pseudonyms like Necrobutcher and Goat, but at least the bands themselves have relatively normal names. Immortal, Mayhem, Bathory, Emperor, Venom—nothing too fancy here, but enough to get the point across. Death metal bands, on the other hand, seem to have a penchant for dreaming up the fucking stupidest monikers ever.

This is truly a skill. Many bands-of-the-minute seem to spend more time primping their asymmetrical shag haircuts than they do on their band's name. Not in death metal. These guys think long and hard on what is going to successfully scare Mom and Dad and get themselves on the christian right shitlist. These "creative" names seem to fall into one of five categories, which I've listed below with examples. Yes, these are all real bands (and, strangely enough, the majority of them hail from Florida, the Sunshine State, also the home base of many boy bands and Jeb Bush).

Before you ask, there IS a difference between black metal and death metal, the specifics of which I'm not entirely clear on. The gist seems to be that death metal focuses more on, well, death and cemeteries and gothy things like that, and black metal talks more about renouncing god, embracing satan, yada yada. But I could be wrong. That's also not to mention the evil slew of other headbanger styles like grindcore, thrash, doom metal, speed metal, nu metal, deathrock, slam, metalcore and about 900,000 other subcategories. See? You DO learn something new every day. Even if it is useless shit like this. Now on to the absurdity:

1.) Bodily functions and mutilation. There is an astounding number of death metal bands with names that fall into this category:
• Cystic Dyssentary
• Visceral Bleeding
• Decrepit Skeleton
• Intestine Baalism
• Gory Blister
• Vomit Remnants
• Anal Blast (which I think is my personal favorite)
• Bloodgasm
• Jungle Rot

2.) Declaration to kill and/or maim (extra points for getting really specific)
• Cattle Decapitation
• Prostitute Disfigurement
• Dismembered Fetus
• Severed Head
• Nun Slaughter
• Cock and Ball Torture (I changed my mind: this is my favorite)
• Bound in Human Flesh

3.) Really, really, really, really, really, really long
• The Number Twelve Looks Like You
• The Tide That Turns The Christians Souls Into Dust And Summons Satan To His Infernal Palace
• 666 Lacerations to the Sternum (OK, this one really IS my favorite)
• Paracoccidioidomicosisproctitissarcomucosis

4.) Strangely earthy and not at all threatening
• Autumn Leaves
• Canopy
• Budgie
• Manatee
• Winds

5.) Beyond stupid
• Wykked Wytch
• Jumpin' Jesus
• Lord Fuck (the best one yet)
• Bestial Warlust

I'm not sure what is more incomprehensible here: the names or the music itself. Call me a music snob, but I just don't get it. Apparantly there is meant to be a message in the music, but what they are trying to say is anyone's guess—the vocal stylings can only be described as Charlie Brown's teacher vomiting into a megaphone. What are they saying? It's too loud! Turn it down! And what are they so mad about anyway? Yeah, I'm totally getting old. But I guess if you go to see a band called "Gory Blister" you most likely have a pretty good idea what you're going to be in for.

WORLD EXCLUSIVE: Message from the TomKat fetus!

This is truly a monumental (albeit unusual) day for Stupid & Contagious. I have no idea how this is possible (the pregnancy itself is mysterious enough), but the world's most famous unborn child has sent a message up the tube, if you will, to this little blog! That's right: the fetus of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes has emailed me. And because everything I do, I do it for you, I will reproduce it in full here in a STUPID & CONTAGIOUS WORLD EXCLUSIVE—what is revealed in this letter is sure to shake the entertainment world to its' very foundations, so prepare yourself for some seriously shocking revelations.

I must say that I'm impressed with the fetus's impeccable grammar and lack of spelling mistakes. I expect if this one is not immediately taken hostage by the Sea Org, we may have an English major on our hands. Behold and get ready for tomorrow's buzz. Remember, you saw it here first!

Good day to you, RockitQueen, and greetings from in utero!

I am currently floating here, enjoying my evening thumb suck, mulling over my impending emergence into the world. As you can well imagine, I'm quite ready to get out of here as things are getting a little bit hot and cramped and I'm a little tired of suffering through the Chanticos and herpes simplex 1 outbreaks. Plus, I'm anxious to see if my mom will take one look at me and become inspired to run away, change her name and assume a new identity.

I've been getting a bad rap in the press because everyone thinks I am demon seed and that I'm going to burst directly through my mom's belly, "Alien"-style, and leer at all the doctors and nurses. I can assure you that I am a very normal, very typical baby. But once I make my appearance, I know those Scientology creeps will be waiting for me with eager, greedy anticipation. I wouldn't be one bit surprised if they even pushed down on my mom's belly to shoot me out, catch me like a football and then whisk me off to their big desert boat. Since I still won't be able to see real well or grasp anything, nor will I be able to speak beyond screetching and gurgling, there isn't much I can do to escape.

Additionally, I am sure you've heard all the buzz about Scientology's "birthing rituals", i.e. the silent-birth-with-no-drugs method. What do you think of that? Because I think it's completely fucked up! The woman is pushing something the size of a watermelon through an opening the size of a quarter—I think she has a right to make as much noise as she wants! And no drugs? Forget her, what about me? I mean, you've seen my dad right? I think I'm going to need some good tranqs if there is a possiblity he might start jumping from bed to bed in the hospital while palming my little head.

So as you can see, I am pretty much doomed right from the start, unless my mom can pull it together and get the two of us on a plane to Costa Rica, STAT. I guess all I'm asking is for an outlet to vent my frustrations on my family situation, and I thought you might be understanding, and perhaps even sympathetic. I may only be the size of a small cat, but I have feelings, too, and I'd just like to express them in some avenue before they all get audited away.

One more thing: I may be giving you an exclusive peek into my world, but that does not include a peek at my junk. That exclusive will be going to Star Magazine. Just so you know.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
Tom Cruise & Kate Homes' Fetus

P.S. Help...me...

Bringing new meaning to "Trash Can School"

One thing I often say the world needs is a stricter definition of what is considered "art." Now, I don't mean I want things banned, but perhaps critics could be more, well, CRITICAL about what is *really* a creative, provacative, artistic statement and what is just gag-worthy shock value. I mean, collecting your used tampons for months and displaying them in a filing cabinet at the Met? Or suspending animal carcasses in glass cubes filled with formaldahyde? Or "draping" islands and bridges? Damien Hirst is the second highest-paid living artist, next to Jasper Johns. This makes me want to fall into a coma.

Well, brace yourself and get ready for what is quite possibly the worst example of so-called art ever unveiled. Some douchebag named Daniel Edwards has created the "Monument To Pro-Life: The Birth of Sean Preston" which is currently being foisted on the public at the Capla Kesting Fine Art center in Brooklyn. I am utterly aghast: it's a monument to Britney and her never-done-before breakthrough decision to put motherhood before her career. It depicts a pregnant "Britney" posed on all fours on a bearskin rug with the top of the baby's head "emerging"—ug, I just can't type any more description. It is simply the most fucking absurd sculpture that has ever been created.

I can't even begin to explain the ridiculous "meaning" behind the work. The official press release babbles with explaination that would be comical if it weren't so freakish:

"Pop-star Britney Spears is the 'ideal' model for Pro-Life"
Is this guy on crack?

"Dedication of the life-sized statue celebrates the recent birth of Spears’ baby boy, Sean, and applauds her decision of placing family before career. 'A superstar at Britney’s young age having a child is rare in today’s celebrity culture. This dedication honors Britney for the rarity of her choice and bravery of her decision,' said gallery co-director, Lincoln Capla."
Wow, Britney is such a groundbreaker! Most women would make the selfish choice to continue working, or worse yet, abort, because all of them have the money, staff and support systems so that not working is always an option. But not Brit—she chose to instead steal the boyfriend of a pregnant woman with two small children, gallavant around the world recording every slobbery kiss and bong hit, and then have a save-the-relationship baby, which she proceeds to either pawn off to her team of lackeys or perch on her lap unrestrained as she swerves down the highway with a frappacino in one hand trying to mow down paparazzi. So rare, so brave! I'm sure Shar Jackson would agree.

"The monument also acknowledges the pop-diva’s pin-up past by showing Spears seductively posed on all fours atop a bearskin rug with back arched, pelvis thrust upward, as she clutches the bear’s ears with ‘water-retentive’ hands."
Oh, now I get it. Danny-boy was really trying to make a Britney sex doll, got caught in the act and tried to save face by claiming it's some kind of pro-life celebration of motherhood. And "water-retentive hands"? What the fuck does that mean? I get the feeling whoever wrote this idiotic press release watched a bunch of those 1950s films about "womanly cycles" and still thinks that chicks can't go swimming during their periods.

“'Britney provides inspiration for those struggling with the ‘right choice’,' said artist Daniel Edwards. “She was number one with Google last year, with good reason—people are inspired by the beauty of a pregnant woman."
No, dumbass, people were fascinated by the fact that someone with so much money can't manage to comb her hair, dress herself in clean clothes or comprehend that having a baby won't improve her dysfunctional relationship with a pothead drifter.

"Capla Kesting denies the statue was developed from a rumored bootleg Britney Spears birth video."
Oh my god...hold on...I just threw up in my mouth. This is the most disturbing Brit-Brit rumor yet. I'm going to pretend I didn't just read that and move on...

As a former art student, this makes me want to find this Daniel Edwards character, slap a straight jacket on him and display him in a padded room at the Whitney. I'd call it:
"Untitled (Assjacker Who Created Asinine Birthing Memorial To Untalented White Trash Dingdong)"
Artist: RockitQueen
Cost: Nothing, just make it stop

Here's a bustle in your hedgerow

There is really no purpose to this post other than to say that this man is just sex. Good god.

Shout out to my West Coast sista, Lola!!

Boys, Breeders & Blockheads: It's the 1st Annual Stupies!

After a brief hiatus, during which I made significant headway in "Lords of Chaos" and gathered the latest deliciously trashy Britney news, I'm back and ready to rant. But since I am refreshed and relaxed and feeling not so mean after my little vaca, I decided I'd do something a little more fun and a little less debased by offering up yet another awards line-up. It is that time of year, after all. And in true Stupid & Contagious fashion, it's better late than never.

So without further ado, I present the 1st Annual Stupid & Contagious Awards (aka The Stupies)! "Winners" will recieve an attractive certificate (if I ever get around to making them, which is highly unlikely) and the smug satisfaction of having been thought of in some regard by a peon such as myself. What more could you want? Remember: anyone can win an Oscar, but only a select few can win a Stupie! And now on with the show...

• Most Annoying •
Buckethead. Who the fuck is this guy and why in the name of all that's holy does he go around wearing a bucket on his head? Why does the bucket sometimes say "Funeral" on it? Why is he wearing a Shatner mask (which he is hilariously smoking through in this picture) and a Slash wig? Why is he now a part of Guns N' Roses? Why, why, WHY? So many unanswered questions. And yet, I really don't care about the answers.

• Cutest •
Behold the sultry, sulky, shaggy and sexy, sexy, sexy Ville Valo. He's so wonderfully bad, stinky and dirty—and so, so pretty. While the Norwegians are tearing each other up next door, Helsinki is turning out tortured, high-cheekboned goth rockers such as this. I want to höyhentää his kengänkärki.

• Coolest •
Joan Jett, as usual. Without her, there would be no RockitQueen. And if I could be anyone besides RockitQueen, it would be Joan. Also nominated: Bjork, Amy Sedaris, Benicio del Toro, Gary Dourdan, Anthony Hopkins, and Tito Jackson.

• White Trashiest •
This one was really tough, as there were so many slimeballs from which to choose. But in a surprise slam-dunk, Britney and K-Fed walk away with the Stupie! You are just as surprised as I.

• Best Reality Freak •
Two words: Duncan Nutter.

• Song of the Year •
"Shine It All Around" by Robert Plant & the Strange Sensation.

• Lamest Song Of The Year •
Anything by Bright Eyes because I HATE HATE HATE LOATHE AND HATE that name! I don't think I've ever heard anything by him, but I imagine it is annoyingly whiny, singer-songwriter mush pablum for 12-year-olds to swoon over.

• Best Show •
Hands down: "Dog the Bounty Hunter." This show goes above and beyond your typical reality schlock, bringing action, adventure, good quotes and some seriously bad hair directly into your living room. Dog and Co. represent a kinder, gentler variety of white trash (my kind of stock)—that which brings the whoop-ass when necessary, but then offers a kind word and a helpful hand to the very fugitives they've just picked up. And I think Dog's son Leland is kind of hot.

• Worst Show •
"According to Jim." I've never seen it. I probably will never see it. But I'd say this is a pretty solid educated guess.

• Freakiest •
At three in the morning after a night of drunken debauchery, I saw this show called "Obsessed" on A&E or Discovery or one of those channels and I swear to god I didn't imagine it. It was all about people with addictions that were taking over their lives. One woman bilked something like $4 million from the company she worked for to buy vintage cars, collectables and so much crap that she filled her home from floor to ceiling; there was actually a small trail forged through the mounds of shit. There were a few other weirdos, too, but the best was this guy who has dedicated his life to making himself look like a tiger. He has implants in his cheeks, nose, forehead and lips, facial tattoos, specially-made cat-eye contacts, "whisker piercings" in his cheeks and much more for that super-fierce big cat look. I know he's not really famous or anything, but I think it's pretty safe to say he's riding a square-wheeled unicycle to Crazy Town, population: Michael Jackson.

• Most Morbidly Fascinating •
Our favorite black metaller-turned-murderer-turned-nazi sympathizer Count Grishnackh shares this prestigious Stupie with The Duggars, consisting of parents Jim-Bob and Michelle and their litter of 17 kids. How, you ask, do these seemingly nice folks find themselves in a category with a nutball like the Count? For these reasons:
• They all dress alike.
• The kids are all homeschooled. Why is it that all these families that have spawn in the double digits insist on homeschooling their kids? Anyway, I saw a show about them and the kids were learning about bankruptcy and some kind of soy foam insulation.
• They love tater tot casserole.
• Michelle's hair.
• They endorse "Wholesome Swimwear" that "highlights the face, rather than the body." I wish I was kidding.
• THEY WON'T STOP BREEDING.

• Why Is This Person Considered Hot? Award •
Male: Ben Affleck, who looks like he probably smells like a combo of ciggie smoke, hot dogs and balls. Female: Jennifer Aniston, who isn't cute by any stretch of the imagination, yet somehow always gets chosen one of the hottest chicks ever by men's magazines.

• Why Is This Person Famous? Award •
It's a group tie for the cast of "Laguna Beach."

• Hindenburg Award •
This award is given to the person/persons/things that we can't take our eyes off even as they/it are crashing, burning and emitting noxious gasses that will asphixiate all of us as we stare. This year's winner is Joe Simpson, father of Jessica and Ashlee. Whether he's badly spin-doctoring defenses to cover up the obviously-unwanted Ashlee's constant fuck-ups, repressing his own obvious homosexuality, or letching after Jessica's funbags, he's a PR disaster waiting to happen. Can't wait for that blimp to go up in flames (pun intended).

• Stupid & Contagious Person of the Year •
It's not a person, it's a country. The winner is NORWAY! Congratulations, Norway! What other magical land has so captured and terrorized our imaginations in the last few months? What other faraway kingdom has contributed such an absurd volume of maniacal fiends to the music industry? And what other bewitching country do I hope has a really good sense of humor for all the flack I've given them and will not send a goth lynch mob after me because it's all done in good humor and, look, I gave you my blog's top honor! I will vow not to make fun of your spiked chestplates, corpse facepaint and studded kneepads on the red carpet. Promise!

The Girls With the Most Steak: An Ode To Groupies

In light of the horrifying release of the Scott Stapp/Kid Rock sex tape, I thought I'd turn lemons into Lynchburg lemonade and pen a tribute to that most dedicated, devoted and debaucherous subculture of rock devotees, known affectionately as "the groupie." This is an oft-misunderstood bunch. These wild and crazy gals stop at nothing to meet, greet and accomodate their rock idols and hopefully live on to tell the freeky-deeky tale. Indeed, groupiedom has spawned some of the best stories you've ever heard, guaranteed to make even the most uninhibited among us turn bright red and say, "Heavens to motherfucking Betsy."

I recently read Pamela des Barres' memoir "I'm With The Band: Confessions Of A Groupie", which was like devouring a five-course meal at Morton's for free. I'll be honest: I always had this exhorbitant fantasy of running off to L.A., dressing up like a super tramp and gallavanting around on the Sunset Strip looking for good bands and bad boys. It's not much to aspire to these days, as evidenced by the wretched creatures that voluntarily exposed themselves to Scott Stapp's ween, so I would amend that fantasy to include time travel back to the era when I could have chased around '60s rock gods and sniff glue with Miss Pamela.

Unfortunately, Groupie Central, the online home of the best I-fucked-a-rock-star-and-his-dick-is-this-big-and-wait-until-you-hear-what-freaky-stuff-he's-into stories ever, is now defunct. But it was there that you would learn such esoteric bombshells as who likes chicks to sit on his face, who gets so high he can't get it up, and who has the biggest cock in rock next to Tommy Lee and Peter Steele (here's a hint: it's the guitar player from the original Guns N' Roses that ISN'T Slash). Anyway, Metal Sludge has a pretty good round-up of rated metal guys, as well as a list of groupies and their conquests. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that these pages are HNSFW (hella not safe for work).

The groupies of today seem to consist mainly of porn stars and Hooters waitresses, and the don't hold a zippo to the Band Aids of yesteryear—the chicks that today have made very lucrative businesses off of their rock-n-roll adventures— including

• Bebe Buell, who had a long affair with Elvis Costello, a child with Steven Tyler and a night of adult passion with Mick Jagger;

• "Sweet Connie" Hamzy, known for "accomodating" pretty much every rocker to roll into Little Rock, including Peter Frampton, Don Henley and Gene Simmons;

• Morgana Welch, the '70s party girl who keeps an online diary of her past escapades with Led Zeppelin, The Who and Joe Cocker;

• Cynthia Plaster Caster, the innovator that molded the junk of such stars as Jimi Hendrix, Jello Biafra and MC5's Wayne Kramer,

• the unnamed groupies highlighted in Motley Crue's book "The Dirt" who shit in a litter box in front of the band and called their moms from a telephone inserted into another chick's "area",

• and, of course, Miss Pamela des Barres, the queen of all groupies who once did a naked backbend for Jim Morrison, climbed Mt. Jimmy Page and served as a muse for Frank Zappa.

As you can see, the likes of Lisa Moorish, who had babies with the unibrowed Liam Gallahger and crackhead/Kate Moss corruptor Pete Doherty simply do not compare. However, I am really fascinated by the groupies that give blow jobs to Scott Stapp and allow it to be recorded. These are the gals that fall into the category of groupie I like to call "Standard-Free." Anyone who has put out for the following people falls into this special class: Lemmy Kilmister, Mick Mars, Fieldy from Korn, C.C. DeVille, any member of Nickelback, Fred Durst, either of the Gallahger brothers, and any member of KISS out of makeup. There are more, but these guys seem to get as much, if not more, poon than actual bona-fide hot rockers. I'm also convinced that roadies actually get more ass than the band does. Come on, they are the first line of defense between the fans and the stars—they have the second-biggest pull next to the band members themselves. And you can't say they don't deserve it since they pretty much have to pick up after and cater to belligerant rock stars hand and foot. The least they can do is introduce the girls to the band after they bang them.

Surprised I haven't used the word "slut" yet? That's because pretty much every music fan is a groupie. Some just have specific ambitions, and who is going to fault them? Rock does strange things to people, after all.

Beach Bums: In Hawai'i with the Federlines

In light of all the Academy Awards fuss, how dare we forget that our most loveable little darling pop-tart Miss Britney is hardly absent from the limelight and the prying cameras of the paparazzi. Poor dear! How can she possibly live a normal life and wear her cowboy hats and Juicy sweatsuits in peace with all these parasites invading her privacy? All she wants is some alone time in Hawai'i with her louse-ridden hubby, servants, managers, publicists, spiritual advisors, personal trainers, massage therapists, professional zit-poppers, baristas, hangers-on and that squirmy little bald thing that showed up a few months ago—it's so funny when he pees in the nanny's face! Oh, yeah, and nannies.

Before her much-hyped and inspirational appearance at Mardi Gras—during which sunbeams broke through the clouds, rainbows miraculously appeared and everyone in New Orleans joined hands and hummed "Toxic," suddenly forgetting all about that unpleasant Katrina business—Britty and crew (sans Kev) wisked off to Maui for a relaxing little vaca. Word is she is going to hole up in paradise to "work" on "her" new "album." The other word is that back in Malibu, MC Skat Kat gave the bong a break and was spotted wandering around in a parking lot with some short, blonde, stupid-looking chick that wasn't Britney! And they had their arms around each other! And K-Fed's pants were hanging halfway off of his ass! This can only mean one thing: it's Obvious PR Spin Time!

Faster than you can say "po-po-popozao," Britty's spin doctors immediately flew Federfucker out to Hawai'i and then sent the couple on a romantic walk, complete with Kev holding Brit's chubby little hand, to be captured on film by the lurking photographers. See what they did there? They used the paparazzi FOR their benefit and they didn't even know it! They think they are taking pics to use against Brit and Kev to talk about their idiotic outfits and how they are probably going to see the "Larry the Cable Guy" movie. Haw haw, they sure fooled the public! When you have lots of money, you can do things like that. Whether or not anyone believes this, one thing these photos DID show us was that these two better call Janet "Miss Jackson" 'cause they're really, really nasty. *rim shot*

I was kind of hoping that the little blonde K-Fed was cuddling in that picture was Brit's little sister, Jamie Lynn. Now THAT would be a story, wouldn't it? Alas, it was just some random groupie that will forever be known as "that girl Federline had his arm around in a parking lot." They certainly don't make them like Miss Pamela anymore, do they?

In the meantime, let's raise a glass of Franzia Zin (America's top-selling wine, dontcha know) and wish the Dynamic Duo a dream vacation in Hawai'i, where the Old Milwaukee flows like wine, the Pall Malls are in endless supply and room service delivers pork rinds. We can only hope they find a tiki idol...

WOOOOOO! BROKEBACK RULES!!!!!

If nothing else, at least Jakey had a good time at the Oscars.

I wish I could quit the Oscars

• I haven't seen "Crash." I honestly have no interest in seeing "Crash." But is "Crash" really better than "Brokeback"? Because "Brokeback" was pretty fucking great. Upset of the night.

• Jon Stewart...Best. Host. Ever. Loved the joke about Bjork getting shot by Cheney. But I have to say that the best moment of the night was Tom Hanks getting hit by the poison dart. Reminds me that dude used to be pretty darn funny before he started trying to save the space program and talking to volleyballs.

• Second-best moment of the night: the montage of Westerns. Hi-freaking-larious!

• Someday you will see me at the Oscars. And it will be as Joaquin Phoenix's date. I guarantee it. And I promise I will help him relax and not look so uncomfortable and constipated all the time.

• Besides that, I've been asked if I could do a sandwich with any two nominees who would it be. Are you ready? Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Paul Giametti. That's right. You heard me.

• I also have another new boyfriend: Terrance Howard. Hello, nurse!

• Jake Gyllenhall was high.

• Keira Knightley is fast becoming my new Gwenyth Paltrow. What an annoying little pouty princess. Blah. I hated her stupid prom-queen-circa-1988 dress, but I have to admit I loved the necklace.

• Bad hair was rampant this year. Charlize looked like she had a slumber party last night where everyone did each other's hair and makeup. Sandra Bullock's looked like the Bride of Frankenstein. Kiera Knightley's hair looked like mine does right now. Also, what was with all the bad bleached-out dye jobs? Kidman, Knightley and Charlize: take a cue from Dolly. If you're gonna bleach it, bleach it.

• And now for best and worst dressed. Best:
Felicity Huffman—hot mama!
J-Lo. I'm sure I might be in the minority on this one but I loved the color and not many can pull it off. That jaundaced, mall-haired skeleton sitting next to her really dragged the overall look down, though.
Salma Hayek. She was pretty in teal and her boobs looked great.
Ziyi Zhang. Unique, cute, young and fun.

I'm sideways on Michelle Williams's dress (at least she went with something other than off-white like most of the other gals did), but her makeup was fantabulous

And worst:
Jennifer Aniston. God, could she be more boring?
Nicole Kidman: Advice from one pale gal to another: NEVER WEAR WHITE! And her hair was sticking up when she was presenting.
Naomi Watts: Love her, hated the paper-shredder remnants she was wearing.
Helena Bohnam Carter. Is this woman on crack? Because this stuff can't be the work of a conscious mind.

Screw the statue, I want the gift basket!

While I'm feeling around under the couch cushions in an attempt to scrape up the cash for tonight's cover charge, the luckiest fucks on the planet are getting all kinds of free shit just for showing up and reading off of the teleprompter at the Academy Awards on Sunday. Have you heard about what comes in these freaking "gift baskets" that go to all the nominees and presenters? See if you can guess which one of these wonderful prizes is NOT in this year's basket:

• A Krups kitchen set, including a coffeemaker, a toaster, an electric kettle and a year's supply of coffee and tea ($700). Too bad Britney isn't presenting...this could save her from some more potentially embarrassing Starbucks runs.

• A red leather case filled with Shu Uemura cosmetics, including mink eyelashes ($600). Because everyone needs mink eyelashes.

• A two-night stay at the Carlyle hotel in New York ($2,300). This place is located right on Central Park and features rooms that run up to six grand a night. In other words, cheap slobs like myself would probably be quickly and quietly diverted across the street to avoid too close of contact to the posh and elite.

• A three-night stay at San Ysidro Ranch, where Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh got married and John and Jackie Kennedy honeymooned ($3,000).

• A three-night stay for two (plus a "personal surf-butler") at St. Regis Monarch Beach Resort & Spa in Dana Point, Calif. ($5,900). What exactly is a "personal surf-butler"? I'm imagining some poor schmo dressed in tails who has to dash out in the ocean and help celebs to their feet when a wave knocks them over. Or maybe it's just surprise guest Farnsworth Bentley.

• A four-night stay at the Halekulani Resort in Waikiki, complete with spa treatments, dinner at the on-site five-diamond restaurant and an ocean front room. There is no value included with this but I estimate it to be worth around six months' rent.

• A dinner party at any Morton's Steakhouse ($1,500), a place that I'm pretty sure you won't get a seat at if you showed up dressed like Federline.

• A Tahitian pearl necklace ($1,300). The picture kind of made it look like one of those eagle's-foot-holding-a-globe necklaces you can win at the fair when you squirt water into the clown's mouth better than everyone else.

• Kay Unger cashmere pajama bottoms ($500)...what??

• An unlimited day of services at Cornelia Day Resort in New York City ($3,500), a place that boasts a rooftop pool where you can float around and get a massage at the same time for $200 an hour.

• A full day of free repair services from Mr. Handyman. Question: what does this "Mr. Handyman" look like? Because if Mr. Handyman is hot, this might be the best gift in the whole package.

• A day of boxing with Joe Frazier.

• A full day of getting your butt wiped for you by a representative from Mr. Buttwipe.

Did you guess which one is the fake gift? This is not all, but my chakra is falling out of alignment and that isn't good for my endochrine system. If you're so inclined, you can visit Swagtime and snag some of these fantabulous gifts and packages for yourself. Wow, you can be just like a pampered, A-list celebrity! Except without all the photogs up your ass and the creepy fan fiction.

The Count Grishnackh Makeover

It's the long-awaited Mayhem update post! It's been a while because I've been wading through the nearly 400 pages of "Lords of Chaos" and not making a whole lotta progress (give me a break, I'm a slow reader), so I decided to instead troll the 'net to feed the hungry masses the Mayhem news they demand from me. Lucky for you, I found a few "interesting" tidbits to share.

First off, it appears your boyfriend Count Grishnackh has had a little makeover and has chosen to go for the super-sexxy nazi look, complete with suspenders, brown shirt and Hitler-lite haircut. I found this* glamour shot on the uber-creepy Burzum website, which is dedicated to the Count's "band" (which seems to consist of him, a keyboard and the lonely echos bouncing around on the walls of his solitary confinement cell). I debated linking to the site, and decided that I don't want to give him the publicity, but just know that it contains pages and pages of the Count's incoherant ramblings about the Bronze Age and Thor and sun kingdoms and world orders and...bliggidy blah. I tried to make heads or tails of it, at least so I could make fun, but I started to get the feeling the FBI might flag me for spending too much time on the page. Before I erased my search history, I did check out the "articles" section and , not surprisingly, Grisshy alledges that only SOME of the stories posted about him are accurate. Who does he think he is? Lindsay Lohan? I thought teen queens and C-listers were the only people that were quoted "out of context" in interviews. How wrong I was. The aryan brotherhood is really just a bunch of misunderstood scamps that just want to dance.

On a side note, if I ever get arrested, I'm hoping it happens in Norway. Despite their harsh shunning policies when it comes to underperforming Olympic athletes, they seem to have a pretty freaking lenient criminal justice system in place. Forgetting that the maximum sentence you can EVER get for ANYTHING is 21 years, the prisons allow the inmates to wear whatever they please, let Grish have a keyboard and a computer in his cell and, most depressing of all, permit conjugal visits. That means the Count is getting laid! The humanity...

Besides all that, Grish got some kind of "free weekend" out of the joint to visit god only knows who, and the virtuoso immediately amassed a stockpile of automatic weapons, jacked a car and led the fuzz on a high-speed chase around town. I bet you think he got 25-to-life for all this, right? Wrongo! He got TWO FUCKING YEARS! That means Grish is due to be released this year, so if you are a blonde, blue-eyed white person and happen to live in Norway and you happen to see the guy in the picture above* lurking around, make a run for the loo and stand on the toilet so he doesn't see your feet.

Now on to a more buoyant topic: my new fave pic of Immortal. Just take a look to the left and say it: what the motherfucking fuck? It looks like some sad goth kid posing for a senior picture, but can't let go of the goth act even to please mom. She simply can't give this picture of him hissing at the camera to Grandma, now can she? You'll notice the spiked shinpads are back, and this time with matching studded armguards, but he's also put on what appears to be a V-necked sleeveless Hanes Beefy Tee. And, hey, has anyone seen '70s-era Yoko Ono lately? Because I think he scalped her! Something tells me he's not calling up random people to tell them he loves them, though.

I know, I know. It's not very nice of me to make fun of people, especially black metallers that don't know anything beyond, well, black, spiked and threatening. But these blog entries practically write themselves and I'm just being lazy.

* Note: I did have a picture of this for you to enjoy, but I took it down because it was creeping me out.