Friday, August 29, 2008

That GILF!, Dept.

Yeah, she's a pro-life beauty queen who hunts and supports the teaching of creationism.

It's like Karl Rove found a bottle on the shore, rubbed it and out she wiggled with a ruby in her navel.

Well, maybe not. But somewhere in there, the story involves Karl Rove rubbing it.

I wish Jack Kirby were alive. He could totally draw...the Anti-Hillary!!!!

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Look at me, I'm Cassandra Dee, Dept.

My powers of mystic prognostication have manifested themselves in a way that even I, with my powers of mystic prognostication, could not have predicted.

On August 9, I posited–and you'll have to take my word on this–that the only way London would be able to follow Beijing's budget-shattering, quasi-Biblical opening ceremonies extravaganza would be to have, in 2012, Led Zeppelin parachute into Wembley while playing.

August 24, the closing ceremonies at the "Bird's Nest" stadium in Beijing. Jimmy Page of, yes, of course, Led Zeppelin launches into "Whola Lotta Love," with Leona Lewis on vocals.

Watch this space, as I'll be revealing the Powerball numbers in advance of Wednesday's drawing.
The Erotics of Flying Hoops, Dept.


As the Olympics of Compassionate Totalitarianism wind down, a few thoughts on viewing the rhythmic gymnastics team finals this afternoon (I missed the individual event finals last night, darn it to heck, because NBC decided to show the fucking marathon or some shit. Yeah, go Eritrea! Or Kenya. Or Ethiopia. Or whichever country breeds champion long-distance runners by maintaining a political, social and economic environment of such shitastic dimensions that citizens are required to run 26.2 miles each day to obtain potable water.).

At any rate, five lovelies each from a flock of countries where cars are built with lawnmower engines and a wad of bubblewrap substitutes for an airbag. And Italy. Where cars are built with lawnmower engines and the smokin' hot raggaza on your lap substitutes for an airbag.

Two rounds, they showed. The first involved what appeared to be jump ropes; the second hoops and Indian clubs. At first, I was disappointed that I'd missed the individual finals, which, as I've previously noted, involve women--and, yes, actual women compete, versus the barely pubescent children in "regular", big-Wheaties-money gymnastics--performing floor exercises that borrow as much from the Ars Amatoria as from any bible of tumbling passes. But, as the performances unfurled, particularly that of the Russian team, I was frackin' amazed at the timing, skill and agility of these teams.

One woman throws four clubs with one hand and has them land spot on four different receivers.
One woman throws a hoop and three women extend a leg apiece to snag it like a brass ring off a carousel.
Two hoops go twenty, thirty feet in the air, then land to bounce off the back or foot or whatever of two women only to go flying exactly into the hands of two of their colleagues.

Not a single major mistake, absolutely amazing given the amount of shit flying up, down and across. Why they insist on showing children mincing through cutesy-poo floor routines when they could be airing this in primetime, I'm sure I cannot say. But rhythmic gymnastics rule school.

The Rooskies won gold, btw, totally deservedly so. Their routine was complex and artistic. The host country won silver, despite a minor fuckup. Belarus won silver. And the lovely ladies of Italia, despite their fetching neo-togas and excellent, excellent performances, wuz totally robbed by the Chinese.

I shall presently be starting a petition to get rhythmic gymnastics the primetime coverage it so richly deserves at the 2012 London Games. I invite you to sign it.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Follow the Bouncing Ball, Dept.

Right, so we flick on the televisual apparatus on Monday 'cause we're shakin' with Olympic Fever™. Oh, and there's women's beach volleyball. Kerri Walsh and Misty May. We're told they're major players on the gridiron or in the sandbox or however sports scribes characterize the field of bikini-bound battle. Sure enough, they're kicking some lesser nation-state's ass. Okay. Interesting enough.

We flick on the apparatus on Tuesday and...oh, there's women's beach volleyball again. Misty and Kerri. They're in the middle of some major win streak. They're apparently the '92 Chicago Bulls-meets-the-'45 Château Haut-Brion of volleyball, except with firmer tannins, leaner mouthfeel and zero black people. So, yeah, they're still playing and still winning on the teevee.

Come Wednesday and...hoppla! it's beach volleyball bingo! Now it's a couple of dudes. They're winning too.

Thursday, hey, it's Mistyvision, now with Kerriophonic sound!

Friday, indoor men's volleyball!

Ummm...I don't want to piss in anyone's punchbowl but what the fuck, amigos? I mean, I totally get that U.S. women's beach volleyball combines two of our nation's defining themes, i.e., scantily clad women and crushing sports superiority, but aren't there, like, other, less-Tom-Hanks-evocative events we could be viewing?

For example, whatever happened to the most erotic of all Olympic events: rhythmic gymnastics (and please dial down the astonishingly crap soundtrack on the linked clip and substitute something like Prince's Gett Off)? I mean, can anything top a sport that instantly conjures up the Expert chapters of the Kama Sutra? Short answer: no. Longer answer: move over, chump, you're blocking my view of that lithe, gorgeous woman who can touch the tips of her toes to her chin. From behind.

I mean, mad props to Kerri and Misty (possibly also to Brandi, Kaylee, Shauntay and all the girls down at the Hard Knight's Day Gentlemen's Club) but I have needs, you know? And among them is the need to see something other than beach/indoor/underwater/freefall/transwarp volleyball every time I turn on my furshlugginer television.

But, in our Syllogism of the Day:

i) you can't argue with success and bikinis
ii) Kerri/Misty are undeniably successful, ergo
iii) Olympic Fever™: Go Pound Sand, America!


Saturday, August 09, 2008

Penis Envoy, Dept.

Ummm...what the fuck, John Edwards? I mean, Bubba Clinton I understand; Jesse Jackson I understand; Christ, Strom Thurmond I understand. But I actually thought Edwards and his wife were bulletproof in the scandalous adultery department.

Was I not on distro for the memo? You know...the one that said political office is carte blanche to bang any/everything with a pulse and a perm? I mean, I have not walked a mile in John Edwards' shoes, so who am I to judge...BUT I'm kind of an asshole, so I will. "Rielle Hunter" née Lisa Druck--and I'm sure that reinvention is a tale worth hearing over a saucy Chardonnay or twelve--may be a fascinating conversationalist or a conversant fellatrix, I don't know. But godDAMN, motherfucker, why exactly would you be slipping the salam' to some bim just around the time, you know, YOU'RE RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT?!? Did he figure, "eh, between the black dude and the hag, who's gonna notice me porking off the reservation?" And "Rielle" (apparently pronounced "Riley" for no discernible reason; might as well pronounce it "Throat Warbler Mangrove") apparently has quite the backstory. From what I understand, she ended up in Jay McInerney's crowd in the mid-'80s. She apparently "intrigued and appalled" the novelist. And she apparently was no stranger to Hoovering up piles of inspiration off saliva-sticky mirrors.

So, yeah.
Go Johnny go!
That better've been some mad pussy you got, given that it's put paid to your political career.

My favorite part of the story? "Rielle" bears a child out of wedlock in February 2008. Everyone thinks Big John is the paterfamilias. Nuh-uh, Crimestoppers! It's apparently/supposedly/reportedly some other dude who worked for the Edwards campaign!!

Shit, tit and caramba! That must've been one block-rockin' campaign bus. What'd, they pass "Rielle" around like a blunt?

Ah, Johnny, we hardly knew ye. But, damn, motherfucker, what we did know of ye did not prepare me for this shit.