You're Focking Kidding Me

AFI, it sure as hell ain't.

I try hard not to describe exactly what I'm doing at any moment as I put together this little blog. I kind of figure that if I do that, it'll turn into a ridiculous verite' real-time diary -- which is exactly what I don't want it to be.

That said, rules are meant to be broken, so I'll mention that I'm sitting here on my couch watching a really God-awful show: Bravo television's countdown of what it calls "The 100 Funniest Movies of all Time."

Now I'm a movie geek, through and through, and as the show has gone on, although I'd dispute a few of the choices and their positions on this "countdown," I have no real issue with what they've picked.

That is until a few moments ago. The part where they called Meet the Fockers the 25th funniest movie ever made.

Now in case you're lucky enough to never have sat through this steaming pile of celluloid horseshit, then let me spell it out for you in no uncertain terms.

It is one of the unfunniest films in the history of the medium.

Painfully bad.

HIDEOUSLY bad.

It makes Corky Romano look like Animal House.

Thing is, a whole lot of critics felt the same way. So I wondered just what led the producers of this show to make this call.

That's when it dawned on me.

I Googled the movie and was instantly informed that Universal released this piece of shit on the masses. Universal -- merged with NBC -- also owns Bravo.

Although this particular example is relatively harmless, it's proof of just how trustworthy any network can be when it's owned by a multinational corporation. As in, not at all.

If you're naive enough to believe that that sort of authority has no effect on the news you get from these networks -- you're a focking idiot.

What's My Name, Bitch?

Now that my long national nightmare is over (no, not that nightmare; Karl Rove is still breathing on his own) I don't see how it's not perfectly acceptable to make fun of Brazil.

Granted it was perfectly acceptable before this past weekend, but there was always the possibility that they'd win the World Cup and I'd be the subject of ridicule by a large, Samba-ing crowd with a collective IQ of 12.

But who says Brazil's completely worthless -- I mean besides me?

Go here and follow the directions, to create your own Brazilian soccer name.

Granted you'll never have the elongated, caveman-like forehead of Ronaldo; nor the joyous, retarded smile of Ronaldinho; nor the strange and mysterious bruises and scars of every woman ever featured in a Brazilian porn movie...

But hey, at least if your name is "Anderson Cooper," you can become Coopandro.

Best advice? Try entering "Douchebag Douchebag."

The Destruct Sequence Is Now Activated... You Have Two Minutes to Reach Minimum Safe Distance

You know, you've really got to give credit to the rocket scientists at NASA. They're giving it their absolute all to make sure that America is treated to the most impressive fireworks display possible this July 4th.

In spite of the fact that the gods of space travel are telling them in every conceivable way possible -- very bad weather here, a fucking five inch crack in the goddamned heat-shielding foam there -- they're not letting it deter them from trying to launch this thing tomorrow.

So far it's still a go.

Hey, it's only a few measley lives and an entire country's belief in the benefits of the pioneer spirit, weighed against the collapse of what seems to be their increasingly useless multi-trillion dollar program.

Grab a hot dog and some sparklers and gather 'round the TV tomorrow for what could be one hell of a fucking show.

Thought for the Day

"In Left Behind, the only people who are accepted by God are those who would be classified as fundamentalist wacko Jesus freaks with no intellectual credibility in modern society. Many of the Left Behind characters who aren't taken to heaven--in fact, almost all of them--seem like solid citizens (or--at worst--"normal" Americans). And that creates a weird sensation for the Left Behind reader, because the post-Rapture earth seems like a better place to live. Everybody boring would be gone. One could assume that all the infidels who weren't teleported into God's kingdom must be pretty cool: All the guys would be drinkers and all the women would be easy, and you could make jokes about homeless people and teen suicide and crack babies without offending anyone. Quite frankly, my response to the opening pages of Left Behind was 'Sounds good to me.'"

-- Chuck Klosterman
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs

Your Moment of Zen*

From MTV's job site -- specifically a posting for a Senior Producer job.

Remember, this is MTV -- the network behind Pimp My Ride, Laguna Beach and The Pussycat Dolls' entire career.

I am not making this up:

"The Senior Producer will help develop detailed functional specifications for Search & Personalization features that propel the user scenarios that advance business goals. The Senior Producer will collaborate with the cross-platform technology team responsible for the MTV Networks Search Platform to drive functional requirements. He or she will also manage any partnerships with third-party vendors, to leverage and integrate supplemental technology."

Then at the bottom of the post, it adds:

"Must be an excellent communicator."

This is the point where Beavis and Butthead just look at the TV, then each other, then back at the TV, then change the channel without saying a word.

*With all due credit to Jon Stewart and the Daily Show staff of geniuses.

Weekly Reader

This week's excerpt from my book, "Blow Up the Outside World" has now been added to that site.

As I've mentioned at length before, the thing's a memoir, and it's written in three separate timelines which run concurrently within the story and detail the time in my life leading up to the decision to enter rehab; the month in which I was actually in rehab; and the several months after leaving the facility and heading to New York to work following 9/11.

This week's excerpt deals with one of the more obscenely stupid ideas I've had in my lifetime -- and believe me, there are plenty to choose from.

By the end of 2000, my drug addiction was already full-blown and I wanted nothing more than to stop. Given that I firmly believed that my wife at the time -- a woman with all the compassion of a brown recluse spider -- would leave me in a heartbeat if I admitted my secret and checked myself in somewhere to get help, I made the ill-informed decision to quit on my own cold-turkey. It's how and where I decided to do this that ranks high on the stupidity meter.

My plan was simple.

My wife Kara* and I had planned a two-week vacation from Los Angeles right around Christmas. We would spend the first week with my parents in South Florida, and the second week -- including Christmas Day -- with her family in North Carolina.

At the time, I was doing drugs two to three times a day.

I brought nothing with me for the trip.

You get the picture.

It took all of about ten hours for me to start realizing the depth of the hole I'd dug. At some point -- possibly next week -- I'll get into the first waves of that particular nightmare. But believe it or not, something happened during the trip itself that made my dire situation even worse.

Detoxing is bad. VERY FUCKING BAD. Detoxing when you return home to find that your parents were forced to sell their very large home for financial reasons, and were now living in a tiny two-bedroom apartment; well that's the stuff of suicide notes.

I was deathly sick for most of my time at home, but I pretended it was simply a bad case of the flu. Somehow it worked.

Today's excerpt is just a few short paragraphs that focus on my state of mind after I left my parents behind and Kara and I entered the second leg of our 2000 Holiday Detox Tour at her family's home in North Carolina.

I couldn't forget my family's situation.

I missed them.

I was ashamed of my condition and felt that I owed them so much more.

My time with Kara's family only added to that pain.

Read on...

*No, Kara is not her real name.

Previous Excerpts:

June 25th, 2006

June 17th, 2006

Allez... Allez! Allez! Allez!

YES! YES! Y-E-MOTHERFUCKING-S!

I haven't written about the World Cup in awhile since, really, what the hell can I add that others haven't? Besides, I leave that kind of pontificating to my friend Steve Owen.

But...

After a really God-awful morning -- Rooney red-carded; Beckham gets a boo-boo and pulls himself out; Mighty England goes down -- I sat down with a bottle of Bordeaux and some Brie, said a prayer, and prepared myself for the possibility of true heartbreak.

Look kids, France vs. Brazil was the ultimate clash of cultures -- as in a country that has one, and a country that doesn't. Yeah the French are snobs, but have you ever been to Paris? The city's fucking gorgeous. They should be snobs for Christ sake. Meanwhile Brazil... well what the hell can you say about a people who took a really beautiful rain forest and planted a giant slum on top of it.

I prayed for one more brilliant performance from Zidane. I prayed for my gods from Arsenal, Henry and Viera, to at least hold their own against that goddamned Neanderthal Ronaldo and his smiling, retarded little brother Ronaldinho.

And guess what the hell happened. The French team from 1998 was resurrected.

Zidane dominated. Henry scored. Brazil -- the giant with mystery bruises and bad dental work -- finally fell.

Fuck yes.

Hey Ronaldinho... still smiling bitch?

Think I'll open another bottle of wine -- maybe a nice Beaujolais.