Miss Tyra Banks Takes Over The World

Will Tyra Banks ever embrace soccer? Of course not. And as Tyra goes America goes, at least when it comes to that pathetic excuse for a sport that largely consists of whiners and pussies flopping around a wasted patch of perfectly good grass. If only the idiots that inhabit large parts of this country would follow her lead when it comes to Nascar, a grotesque collection of fuel wasting rednecks and morons, whom Tyra longs to destroy. At least I hope she does, and in my fevered dreams she is a giant along the lines of Godzilla, smashing race tracks underfoot and blocking the sun with her massive boobs so the cars all crash in the darkness and the sport withers and dies.

Recently I had the opportunity to interview Miss Tyra Banks, America's sweetheart, and was thrilled to hear her thoughts on Schopenhauer, lemonade and soccer.

"So Miss Tyra Banks, my sources tell me you hate soccer."

"Of course I do. Bunch of skinny pussies flopping around. The game is so boring the fans have to entertain themselves by singing gay ass songs all game."

"What about Nascar?"

"I was kind of proud of America for rejecting soccer. I thought, maybe the idiots who make up the bulk of this country's population aren't so stupid after all? Then someone showed me a Nascar race...I think it was Jay Alexander. I thought it was a Japanese jokey game show or something. These idiots just drive around for three hours? What a waste of gas! Are there any rubber trees in Burma left? Cause those races must burn through an awful lot of rubber. Stupid bunch of fucking rednecks."

"Wow...you got some mouth on you Miss Tyra Banks. How bout baseball and apple pie?"

"I don't want to offend Oprah, cause she's my girl, but those Cub fans are a bunch of namby pamby douchebags. Lovable losers? There ain't no such thing in Tyra's world. Losers are to be condemned, ignored, or crushed. Or maybe all three...just like all the rejects on top model."

"Why do you fucking hate the goddamn Cubs fans so much?"

"I like the way you ask a question. Fierce. I've hated them since they adopted a "curse". Almost like they were jealous of the Red Sox being as big a bunch of losers as they were. Like they wanted to be the best at sucking. The Red Sox win the World Series in 1918, sell Babe Ruth, the greatest player ever, to the NEW YORK Yankees of all teams, who go on to be the greatest franchise in the history of sports. The Red Sox suffer from the curse of the Bambino. That's a good curse."

"And the Cubs?"

"They win the series in 1908. In 1945 they're in the Series again, and some Cubs fan tries to bring his pet goat to the game. The usher says, "Get the fuck outta here asshole! You can't bring your fucking goat into the stadium." Dude curses the Cubs! Huh?? Does that make any fucking sense?"

"Not to me Miss Tyra Banks."

"Of course not. Why would a Cubs fan curse his own team? Cause of the goat? Was the usher supposed to let the goat in? So he could shit all over the place and trample a child or something? How does that lead to a curse? If I try to bring my pet python Nigel to a Knicks game, and Garden security says I can't, do I curse the Knicks?"

"No way Miss Tyra Banks, you're too classy for that."

"That's right. And another thing...that goat bullshit was in 1945...they hadn't won since 1908...but the curse started in 45'...what the fuck was the problem for the 40 or so years between their last world series win and the goat thing? What kind of curse starts 40 years into a losing streak??"

"A bullshit made up curse Miss Tyra Banks."

"Exactly. You know what I'm talking about."

Listen to what Miss Tyra Banks says you assholes!

Funkin' Donuts

Of course after my morning piss of victory my usual routine involves throwing a brick at the first person I see...a ritual which I find captures the spirit of that great Robin Williams movie Cadillac Man, in which he urged his young mechanic apprentices to "Seize the Day". By hurling the brick I am making a statement, "Hey world, I ain't gonna take any of your fucking shit today!"

The sun, if he has the balls to show himself, usually hangs silently in the sky in a cowardly gesture of acquiescence. Then I put on some pants and go about my business, which of late has been varied and of dubious legality. My boycott of Dunkin Donuts for instance. Frustratingly this heroic undertaking has been usurped by a counter boycott, which, although sharing the same enemy, in this case the enemy of my enemy is not my friend, but rather a collection of dim witted assholes. I suppose that maxim is not as catchy, but as it is closer to the facts I will continue to use it.

It appears as though the cute little scarf Rachel Ray wears in donut ads resembles something Palestinians wear shortly before they blow shit up in that godforsaken hellhole somewhere east of New Jersey and across an ocean. Hers is paisley, and a scarf, which she wears while holding some iced coffee in front of some pretty trees and flowers, as if to say, "wow, I really like this fucking coffee", but according to some the purpose the donut people had in mind was to show solidarity with Yassar Arafat and my keyboard is refusing to even finish the rest of that thought it is so ridiculous.

The great tragedy of all this is that my boycott, which is of course based on the soundest of principles, is now clouded by this simple minded nonsense. We should not boycott the donut shop cause Rachel's delightful print reminds some simpletons of bombers, but because they feature Rachel Ray herself! Truly it is the scarf who should be most offended by this, and if I was that scarf's agent I would lobby for it to be tied around a bomb and thrown into an orphanage, as surely that fate has more glory and honor than adorning the neck of an overrated TV chef.

Come to think of it I've never really watched Rachel Ray, and know very little about the woman, who quite possibly could be very nice, but my gut tells me that her ubiquity cannot be justified, and her cheese sandwich making ability can in no way be so good that she seems to be on TV 40 hours a week and is becoming a bigger celebrity than Sofia Vergara or Jessie Camacho can ever hope to be. That does not seem fair.

Could this chick's food really be that much better than a can of soup? The average slice of pizza? I seriously fucking doubt it. And her greatest crime of all? She is not good looking.

So then, I demand that she be replaced in all her future advertisements by Padma, and then and only then will Dunkin Donuts enjoy my patronage, not that I ever bought coffee there before, or donuts for that matter, cause such food is part of the reason why America is populated by such a plethora of disgusting fat sacks of shit.

Perhaps Rachel can make amends for her plain looks, (doubtful), and advanced age, (impossible), and fashion one of those flaming explosive neck ties around Sharon Stone, who has recently taken a page out of the Pat Roberston nutjob playbook, and blamed the earthquake in China on karma. There there Sharon, just go back 20 years and show your pussy like a good girl. No one wants to hear you talk dearest! Rachel could cook up some extra large donuts, slip them over Sharon's head, adorn them with a paisley scarf for fun, and then light it up!

If my demands are not met I will throw more bricks, and may wind up boycotting all English language programming, including the NBA finals, since the officials are conspiring to put the Lakers in again. In the inspiring words of Ben Affleck, "You're suspect!"

Affleck doesn't need to make sense and neither do I.

The Best of Death

With that idiot Bush bringing the world to ruin and the spectre of death hanging over us like a sinister cloud of icy doom, and Ryan Seacrest's presence growing unabated and increasingly grotesque, it seems a perfect time to reflect on my favorite scenes of personal destruction in movie history.

In descending order:

10. The Chairman of the Board, Francis Albert Sinatra himself, being riddled with grease gun bullets as he runs vainly to the safety of the fleeing train in Von Ryan's Express. Note the respect even the Nazis had for the peerless Sinatra...rather than let a common soldier gun down the tanned troubadour, the SS officer personally picks up the machine gun and drills Frank under the horrified gaze of his fellow escapees, one of whom had a pretty cool mustache. It was a heavy ending even for a film filled with grim death, including Francis himself committing the unpardonable sin of greasing the only female in the movie, a hot Italian chick who offered herself up to the Chairman, only to be rebuffed. Perhaps Frank was impotent due to the poor rations being served in the prison camp he had only recently escaped from. Frankie Baby's death scene loses points cause the German offers no witty quip after gunning down Von Ryan, and only stares at him with a stoic look, somewhat tinged with apathy and regret...sort of as if he is thinking, "That was kind of pointless...I wonder if Dean Martin is going to kick my ass now?"

9. The Count of Monte Cristo...Guy Pearce quickly and ruthlessly dispatches the cat he had earlier cuckolded. Does it come any colder? At least toy with the man Guy! Hold him up for a few rounds and give him a measure of dignity! Undoubtedly that Aussie bastard had other nuts to crack, and by nuts I mean whores, and so did not waste time sparring with Senor lost his wife and now will lose his life. The attendants barely have time to tie up the horses before Guy takes his cold steel and runs it through the hapless loser who dared have a spouse hot enough to catch Guy's eye! Lesson learned douchebag!

8. With Mel Gibson running futilely to save him and his mates, Mark Lee whispers his mantra in the trenches at Gallipoli, before going over the top and running headlong to his doom. What devotion to duty! What a sense of honor! What a waste of good cotton and wool! To think of the seamstresses who put so much care into his uniform, only to have their efforts wasted as Captain Glory Hound throws care, and his life, to the wind and surges forward, his steel spring legs pushing him faster and faster into the onrushing torrent of Turkish bullets. The frame freezes as Lee's torso is thundered against and stopped cold by the fusillade of fire, and la Gibson's haunting screams fill the air, his mind breaking at the sound of his friend's death

7.Dutch SS man gets blown to shit while taking one on the unforgiving steppes of Russia in Soldier of Orange. Napoleon could have told the Germans not to invade Russia, but who could have warned against pissing off an impish Russian lad with a crust of bread casually thrown into the mud? Sure the Dutchman was a little rude and somewhat wasteful perhaps, but I don't think tossing a grenade into the outhouse is a proper response for the relatively mild offense of dropping a half eaten roll into the muck and mire. Truly it was a merciless war, when the impish pranks of youth are replaced with murder on the toilet bowl.

6. Sarah Jessica Parker looks in a mirror and turns to stone, thus dying, and oddly enough never getting another TV gig or advertising campaign again, thus sparing me from her visage forever and ever, in Sex and the City, the movie. Now of course I have not seen, nor will I ever see, this egregious shit bomb of a film, this stain on humanity, and in fact I now carry a cyanide capsule under my tongue at all times, which I am prepared to crack open and swallow should I ever find myself in a situation where this affront is playing and I have no other escape. If the mirror bit does not work perhaps the Russian kid from Soldier of Orange can make a cameo with his trusty grenade and send her and her Jimmy Choos to Hades.

5. Dude who says, "I LIKE IT!" a lot, in Robocop, gets hit by car and melts all over the windshield. Was it the awesome power of the stout sedan that ran him down which caused his body to splash all over the hood, or the fact that he had recently fallen into a vat of some toxic substance which caused his flesh to liquefy and render him rather delicate that most contributed to his death? Probably a combination of both. How tragic to see that his ultimate demise was not at the hand of Robocop, but of his fellow thugs and miscreants, who had shared so many good times blowing things up and creating mayhem in Old Detroit. What choice did they have? Clearly in his wet and melting state he was of no use to the cause, and would have left some rather unpleasant stains on the upholstery.

4. Vanity cannot escape John Glover in 52-Pick Up. This is actually a terrible death scene, and I cry now just thinking about it. That big meanie trapping precious beautiful Vanity in some maze of doom, and causing her to bash up her sports car as she crashes to and fro in a vain attempt to escape that glowering psychopath's merciless hand of death! Run Vanity! Use your judo! Disrobe in a last desperate attempt to sway him from killing you with one last vision of your loveliness!

3. Annoying chick gets eaten by a shark in Into the Blue....very satisfying. Snickers should use that death in a commercial. Jacques Cousteau should resurrect himself so he can dive down into the deep blue sea, find that shark, and give it a commendation of some sort.

2. Auggie Doggie Schellenberg rebuffs the French Priest's offer of paradise in the afterlife in a heroic gesture of resignation in Black Robe. As he lies in the falling snow listening to the contemptuous rebukes of his smoldering daughter to the priest, he readies himself for the long sleep and his rendezvous with the She-Manitou. The Black Robe beseeches him, tells him Jesus loves him, and offers him a one way ticket to paradise and eternal joy, but the old Injun will have none of it, and just wants to expire in peace. It sums up life nicely, everyone is stupid, snow is cold, and when a hot chick rails against religion in general and priests in particular, and urges everyone to obey the dream, cause the dream must be obeyed, you pack up your canoe and follow cause you want to taste her again.

1. Roy O'Bannon wacks the psychotic sheriff Nathan Van Cleef in Shanghai Noon. Sometimes good does triumph over evil, and miracle Roy, down to his last shell, manages to put it right through that no good dirty sheriff's tin star. Can all of life's problems be solved through assassinations? Probably not, one needs a good conditioner to take care of split ends after all, ( HAHAAHA, they should use that in Sex and the City), but it calls to mind the words of Abraham Lincoln, uttered in one of his lesser known speeches, largely having to do with his beard, but also including this nugget of wisdom, "... southern people are dumber than the rest of us, drag the country down, and we might benefit by killing most, if not all of them, save for the cooks, cause I do enjoy a well prepared crayfish. Why in the hell did we not just let them secede anyway? Whose brilliant idea was it to go to war in order to hold on to backward states infested with a bunch of idiot inbred hicks, especially Texas. I need to relax, whose up for the theater tonight?"

NOTE: Of course the great Jason Statham's incredible murder/death fall from the helicopter in Crank would top this list, save for the wonderful fact that Chev Chelios cannot be killed, and thus lives to make more incredible films.

Also I forgot about the peerless Jean Paul Belmondo in Le Doulos...a very classy way for a very shady man to die. I hope when I leave this putrid idiot infested planet it is moments after checking my chapeau in a mirror and bidding my favorite whore adieu with a curt but sweet message of indifference.

You're English is very good...I hear also you are awesome

Let's all celebrate the arrival of Jason Statham into my pantheon of heroes. HUZZAH! ...now, while Sam Neill, Owen Wilson, and Bryan Brown lead him to the banquet room for a smorgasbord of rich food and cheap whores, let us consider summertime, and what we'll watch when the bees enjoy their last hurrah and attack all those who dare to venture outdoors.

Iron Man is set to be a big spring blockbuster blast...though I am unsure about Robert Downey Jr. as the lead. He has never struck me as an Iron Man, billionaire genius scientist. Rather, I see him more as a douche.

Are there any douchebag roles coming along? Cause he is well suited to play those.

Thankfully my G of G's Jason Statham is currently filming Crank Dos, and although the egregious Amy Smart survives to stain another installment, Bai Ling is also involved, and she promises to bring her own special brand of emaciated psychotic skankitude that every picture needs. Did not the Chronicles of Narnia suffer for want of a drug addicted rail thin fucktoy?

It would have earned my ten bucks is all I'm saying.

From the Bank Job to the Italian Job to the Cranks and Transporters, all la Statham needs is his stubble and a skull to crush. What other actor, save for a young Bryan Brown of course, could imbue the screen with such a convincing mixture of effortless charm and deadly menace? And is there a finer screen name then Chev Chelios? I think the fuck not.

If only there existed an actress with the gravitas, or hotness of ass, to grace the screen alongside him and not be blown out of the picture by his awesomeness. I don't think all the eggheads at M.I.T. combined could accurately quantify the phenomenal power of his greatness, and light bearded men everywhere weep in shame at the sight of their pathetic cheekbones.

I must digress, I realize that in excoriating team sports names I somehow failed to note the utterly unforgiveable Cleveland Browns. Could it be the soft spot in my heart for Drew Carey, that rotund maestro of the game show? No, it is probably the Spanish television induced haze I live my life in. But that omission ceases now! The Browns! Are you not aware your helmets are orange and not brown? Is the putrid smog that hangs over your mistake of a metropolis so great that you cannot distinguish the ugly glow of failure orange, with the dusky hue of loser brown? Were your uniforms not embarrassment enough, the founder of your feeble franchise honored your naming him by going off and founding another team, in the same state no less, and did not return the favor and name it after you.

Thus they are not the Cincinnati Fat Scumbags, but instead, the Bengals, an example of a good team name, that sings, and lends itself to a cool mascot.

I shall close this rather scattered homage to my man Statham with a plea to Natalie Portman. You are very pretty but a tad thin, and I urge you to take on more roles that require you to be trashy and pregnant, cause I found you rather fetching in that film. Well not the film itself, cause I couldn't bring myself to watch such obvious crap, but the commercials advertising it on TBS during Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo. You managed to take my mind off of the trials and tribulations of Deuce and Assapopolous, the greek man whore, for a moment or two, and for that, I salute your lovely wan face and protruding belly.

In summation, congratulations to Statham, who has overcome the incredible and terrible obstacle of being born English, and somehow risen from that disgraceful low, to attain heights normally reserved for compliant strippers and...well mainly for them. Godspeed sir! My sincerest congratulations on your success, and may fortune reward you with a worthy leading lady, one who looks nice, and smells better.