In case you missed it (and you know I missed it), Donald Trump took a moment out of last night’s Republican Debate on Fox News to talk about his penis, which he guarantees “there’s no problem.” This all came about, mind you, after Marco Rubio apparently made a comment about Donald Trump having small hands, which he inferred meant other things were small, too. I see you, Rubio, you shady queen. The crowd ate it up like it was an all-you-can-eat sausage buffet, which I guess makes the Republican constituency a Samantha. Dickalicious, indeed.
Since I only understand things in terms of Showgirls references, I did a Google search for the line “She looks better than a ten inch dick and you know it.” I’d have settled for a GIF of Henrietta Bazoom to drop into this post, but instead I found the safe-for-work image results of a whole lotta not-Showgirls and lo-and-behold I sh*t you not our two new friends:
Mere nights ago, international lady of leisure, should’ve-been-Swan-Queen, and perennial tabloid critter Lindsay Lohan stepped out to an event to bring the paparazzi the sort refined elegance only a hobo corpse playing dress-up in a Forever 21 dumpster could offer. Just kidding! As usual, she looked gorgeous, so before you start trying to cast shade upon such pristinely polished beauty, let me remind you what her rep (Dina Lohan with the voice changer from the Scream movies, most likely) had to say to People:
Lindsay is widely acknowledged as one of the most stunning actresses of her day, and we get requests every week wanting to do photo shoots with her from top photographers.
She’s been on the cover of Vanity Fair and the top beauty and fashion magazines. She’s a beautiful and glamorous actress.
With everything going on – from deteriorating public education to rampant homelessness to international unrest – there is no way I’m going to comment on Lindsay’s teeth.
Don’t you get it, internet? She’s an actress! Never mind that her hands look like those of a street walker practicing her craft with sand paper and Sharpie markers; SHE’S READY FOR HER CLOSE-UP, MR. DEMILLE:
Most days over at this corner of the internet are devoted to sharing the camp curios and other various batsh*t crazy paraphernalia of the interwebs. Or, at the very least, yet another Showgirls reference, because Showgirls references NEVER get old. Then, of course, there are the days when your parents are about to come into town and you’ve spent your day off so far making the most of the city by eating a French Dip duck sandwich at Shopsin’s (trust me: you want to go to there), so the best offering you’ve come up with today is an old Denny’s commercial you’ve already previously posted because–much like Showgirls references–Nannerpuss never gets old.
Oh, and also: I just saw the following of this dancing squid, and it’s basically the real-life Nannerpuss:
For me, every Halloween’s outcome is a crap shoot. Some years I’ll really get into the spirit and go out all dressed (or dragged) up, and other years will be spent holed up in my bedroom with whatever horror movies I can get my hand on and a bag of candy, all hopped-up on sugar and shouting obscenities at the television. Fortunately enough, this year I ended up going with the former after I was invited to a Halloween party by my dear friend Lindsay. Of course she and I would have to go as a pair, but obviously not as a lazy metaphor for sexual penetration:
Mostly because that lock costume would make me self-conscious about my hips, but whatever, I digress.
ANYWAYS, I’m not usually one to put overtly personal material up here (this isn’t LiveJournal, ladies!), but I did Liza drag this weekend, damnit, and if this tranny train wreck isn’t at least slightly camp, I’m clearly in need of six weeks intensive camp therapy (Joan Crawford movie marathons and Showgirls dance lessons). If nothing else, this’ll be good for a laugh. Or extremely vivid nightmares about a tackily dressed middle-aged lesbian. Either/or, I would like to present without any further ado:
Seeing as how I’m a self-acknowledgedkaraoke nightmare, I wouldn’t want to try and measure up against anybody else’s vocal prowess. Even if they mute. And particularly if they were Whitney Houston, circa The Bodyguard:
As such, I’m not going to say that the girl in the video after the jump is bad, per se. I’ll just leave it at that when she does fail, she fails spectacularly. And with liberal use of the “f*ck” bomb, so if you happen to be at work, you probably shouldn’t be on this site pinkies out and headphones up, y’all:
Once upon a time, when Mel Gibson would get angry, things had a tendency to get hilarious:
Sugar tits? Sugar tits. You gotta love it.
Sure, it’s vulgar and demeaning to women, and I’m hardly saying misogyny is ever defensible, but you also get the feeling that he intended it as some sort of sweet talk, in which case he might as well start quoting Showgirls instead of love sonnets. Besides, that phrase is positively quaint when you consider the nightmarish word garbage that makes up first, second, third, or fourth (and most likely more TK!) recorded rants directed at his wife, Oksana Grigorieva. Seriously, nothing punctuates a Hallmark greeting card quite like “Sugar Tits,” though you’ve gotta admit that “I should’ve woken you up and said f*cking blow me, bitch! I should’ve f*ckin’ woken you up and said blow me! You would’ve liked that better, yeah? But you need the goddamn sleep!” makes a great Valentine’s Day card from that special man who never puts his own needs before yours.
Anyways, seeing as I’m a total pro at rehabilitating busted-ass public images (when I’m not being a total queen, at least), let’s all take another little trip over to Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner’s Amateur PR Corner and see what–if anything–can be done to help Mel Gibson save face in the public eye:
Meet Rick. Rick hails from Arizona, and he has visited the adults-only resort Hedonism II some forty times for the “wild women” and the “rippin’ and the tearin'” (whatever that means, though on second thought, don’t tell me). Ladies and gentleman, Rick would like to do a dance of seduction for you, a dance so undeniably erotic that once it is witnessed, it can never be unseen:
You know, I really have to wonder what’s going on in the marketing department for Salt, because at certain point it stopped seeming like they understood what sort of movie they’re trying to advertise, and if that point wasn’t never, it’s most certainly this new poster from over at FilmoFilia:
I mean, yipes! I’m not sure if this poster is for an espionage thriller starring Angelina Jolie or a movie with the working title Action Wig: Cat-Eyed Meth Head and the Case of the Purloined Upper-Lip Plumper. Either way, DO NOT WANT.
Sure, I’m not saying that this is anywhere near as bad as Plastic-Faced She Beasts of the Glittery Gay Moon of Tatooine:
I don’t think the problem with the video for the first single off MGMT’s sophomore album, Congratulations, has anything to do with the song itself. Sure, “Flash Delirium” is by no means an obvious choice for a first single, but it’s also hardly the sort of song that the band should be apologizing for. Hell, I happen to enjoy how that it trades the first single–let alone a traditional pop song–vibe for a that of four-minute psychadelic/rock mini-symphony. It’s got an electric feel indeed (woof*).
No no, I’m pretty sure the problem with “Flash Delirium” has everything to do with the fact that it starts out as a relatively innocent music video before boarding the bullet-train to Nightmaretown. Seriously, it begins with a Royal Tenenbaums-esque assortment of rich eccentrics (scariness proportional to how you feel about bourgeois eccentricities) and cake (scariness proportional to how you feel about carbs), brings in the ventriloquist dummies (scariness proportional to how you feel about dolls), and then it just gets into the sort of Cronenbergian freakishness that’s best left as a surprise, but SPOILER ALERT: you will probably shit you pants in horror. “Flash Delirium” after the jump, y’all:
As an actor, it is a mirror. The most difficult question you may have to answer yourself is: ‘what am I for?’ RoboThespian™ demonstrates that utility is not a prerequisite for existence, a concept familiar to the artist but alien to the engineer. ‘Necessity is the mother of invention’, a received wisdom, but necessity is not the mother of this invention, I doubt they are even related at all.
This is very true, inventors of a thing that most definitely should not exist. I’m pretty sure a particularly embittering failed bid at Broadway stardom (aka, too many double shifts at the Times Square Red Lobster without a single call back for that chorus line spot in Carnival Cruise’s production of Seussical) and an unintentional death wish for the human race are the mother of your invention. For realsies, nothing else explains the waking nightmare that is witnessing this…this thing in action:
On one hand, the only thing worse than the robot apocalypse happening is the knowledge that the robot apocalypse will demand mustache rides as part of human enslavement.
I suppose it’s only natural that, when the song for which you’re making a music video is called “Hatefuck,” one should anticipate a certain level of craziness to follow. After all, would the music video for such a song really be meeting its artistic potential if it focused on two precious ducklings in a teacup?
Of course not. While your music video would be indisputably adorable, you wouldn’t be capturing the darkness and erotic anxieties that a song like “Hatefuck” seeks to convey
If, however, your video looks like an Eraserhead-era Lynchian sexual nightmare in which a woman in a gas mask ties up a guy in a Mexican wrestling mask and then stabs the dude in the crotch, then your incredibly NSFW (or life. And most certainly my mother.) and totally batshit crazy video is certainly on to something. After all, it’s within reason to say that watching this video is like getting hatefucked in the eyes, which is a compliment. Because this video’s so freakin’ bonkers, y’all:
He is NOT to be trusted. First he will replace the world’s interns and personal assistants by winning your trust when he brings you your half-caff soy latte just the way you like it, then he will be use his built-in milk-steamer/laser-canon to exterminate you and your coworkers during the robot uprising. Duh.
That said, Asimo has nothing on this monstrosity from the Sixth Annual ROBO-ONE GATE IN INTERNATIONAL ROBOT EXHIBITION 2009 Dance Competition. She’s basically the dead-eyed posterbot of my waking nightmares:
Obviously the first sign is the simple fact that Case 39 is a horror movie starring Renée Zellwegger, which allows her to join Hilary Swank and Halle Berry in the pantheon of Oscar-winning actresses to be inexplicably cast in a horror movie. The fact that she’s at long last making her The Reaping (or Gothika, whichever perplexing career decision you’d prefer) should be more than plenty to have you buzzing with anticipatory glee. But wait, there’s more!
For example, there’s also the trailer:
Oh trailer, you had me at Bradley Cooper shirtless and vomiting flies. Given that this combines things that I like (Bradley Cooper and Bradley Cooper’s abs) and things that will haunt me for the rest of my life (the whole vomiting flies business), so congratulations are in order for giving such precise vision to my future sexual nightmares.
Sign three? The little girl in this movie was also in Silent Hill, where she memorably danced in a rain of blood after a barbed wire tentacle shot up the Borg queen’s hooha and ripped her in two. This actually has nothing to do with Case 39. I just like taking any available opportunity to mention how batshit crazy Silent Hill is. Seriously, it’s the craziest, but I digress.
Also, there’s Case 39‘s tagline, which is as clever as it is menacing:
I didn’t watch the American Music Awards last night because I’ve better things to do with my time, which may or may not mean whipping up an epic amount of cheese grits and an entire box of Brown ‘N Serve sausage:
That’s for me to know and you to endlessly ponder.
Anyways, apparently I’m going to have to make more of an effort to tune in to these third-tier music awards programs because the clips I’ve seen from last night’s American Music Awards are all sorts of ridamndonkulousness. In some instances, such as Lady Gaga’s performance, I don’t really find this particularly shocking:
While I’m always delighted to see what Lady Gaga will do next, I’ve long ago accepted that it will indubitably be completely batshit insane. As a result, I can’t say fashioning light-up tubing into something resembling the exoskeleton of the creature from Alien is her most mind-blowing achievement. Personal preference dictates I stick with either The World’s Gayest Homage to The Warriors or this little head exploder, but I’ve gotta give her points for outfitting a violin player in pig play gear. I really don’t know what to do with that, so snaps for the nightmare fodder. Lady Gaga is clearly dedicated to this whole Monster thing, but not nearly as dedicated as Adam Lambert is to becoming my favorite person on Earth:
I’m not telling you a damn thing about this video other than it’s branded its nightmarish imagery of melted-faced hell spawn deep in my brain, and I’m not about to suffer this one alone:
GAAAAAAH!
I don’t know what this video is for, but I can definitely tell you I don’t want it, and I will do absolutely everything in my power to make sure I don’t get it. Music lessons? Whoops, I just cut off all my fingers! Funk bands? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the scalding pokers in my ears! World Peace? It’s like Miranda July said:
Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner 
