Monday, August 3, 2015

World's Worst Toys R Us Spokesmodel

Updated below

So among the many jaw-dropping, gorge-raising articles I read today about the necro-decorative fun hunter (trophy, as opposed to subsistence) or "funter", Sabrina Corgatelli, was this Salon piece by Scott Eric Kaufman, which offered a wealth of tone-deaf quotations:
Corgatelli told Today’s Carson Daly that when she posted the image of her and the giraffe — which she captioned, “Such an amazing animal!! I couldn’t be any happier!! My emotion after getting him was a feeling I will never forget!!!” — 
Note: it's possible that Ms. Corgatelli didn't actually mean these astonishingly sociopathic and bone-headed vocalizations, but had a permit to cull the moron herd, and was simply blowing on her hand-carved Duck Dynasty-brand Idjit Call™ in order to bring the game into her crosshairs.
she never anticipated that the photograph would be commented on more than 13,000 times, or that she would become a flash-point in the discussion about the legitimacy of big game hunting. 
Because who could possibly gaze upon this anodyne image: 
...and feel anything but happy!! about this amazing animal!!
“To all the haters, stay tuned, you’re gonna have so much more to be p***ed about,” she wrote in response to some of those comments.
Oh oh...Sounds like she's already booked her next safari to the Most Dangerous Game Dude Ranch!
She was much more measured with Daly, saying that “everybody just thinks we’re cold-hearted killers, and it’s not that. There is a connection with the animal, and just because we hunt them doesn’t mean we don’t have a respect for them.”
You know who else feels a connection to the things they kill? Serial killers. And they also tend to take trophies from their victims, so maybe this giraffe murdering is just a phase she's going through, a chrysalis form as she transitions from John Wayne into John Wayne Gacy.
She added that she was, in effect, doing a public service, because despite being herbivores who mostly congregate in national parks, “giraffes are very dangerous animals” and “they could hurt you seriously very quickly.”
As opposed to a bow hunter, who can also hurt you seriously, but slowly and exquisitely over a two-day period. But Ms. Corgatelli is correct, giraffes can be dangerous. Between college and grad school my sister Katy worked at the Santa Barbara zoo, and one of her tasks was looking after the giraffe exhibit.  One day an obnoxious African Crown Crane took up residence, and began to hang out and make persistent, vaguely mocking noises, until a giraffe finally got fed up and decapitated it with a single kick, sending the crane's head tumbling into the next enclosure and scoring a badly needed extra point.  So, yes...a giraffe is nature's perfect killing machine, assuming you're a douchebag bird.

But there's another part of this story that has received less scrutiny, and typically, it was Sheri who first noticed it, writing on Facebook:
This woman has Utah roots (from Portage, I believe) and she graduated from USU. Her boyfriend is reportedly from Logan. She works an accountant at an Idaho university. How does she afford her big game hunting "hobby"? ... [T]rips to Africa, guides, thousands of dollars in fees, etc.
That's a very good question. Dr. Walter Palmer, the Dentist of Death, paid $55,000 to kill Cecil the lion; do Idaho institutes of higher education really compensate their accountants that well? Because if so, this makes me think, for about the ten thousandth time, that I made a serious misjudgment at that high school Career Day Fair.

Update: And Sheri, as usual, breaks the case:
Well, the answer to the funding mystery is what you all thought: she hunts children and sells their hair to use as stuffing for Build-a-Bears. 
No, actually her new boyfriend is Aaron Nelson, professional lion killer. She goes along on the trophy hunts to add a woman's gentle touch to the slaughter. Here's Aaron's bio from his firm's web page:
"Since 1995 Aaron Neilson has specialized in hunting the African Lion. He has personally taken 11 trophy lions of his own. Not to mention, he has accompanied numerous clients and friends on some of their lion hunts around the African continent. He has personally hunted Lion in Zimbabwe, Zambia, Botswana, Tanzania, South Africa, Mozambique and Namibia. Over the past 16 years he has spent over 350 days pursuing lion in Africa, an accomplishment not matched by any other hunting consultant. When trusting your highly expensive, and long-awaited trophy lion hunt to an agent. Look no further than Global Hunting Resources, we have the experience and knowledge to back it up!"
And when the game population is finally exhausted thanks to these assholes, Aaron and his high calibre helpmeet Sabrina can diversify into the business of guiding actual serial killers on safari. Imagine helping Richard Speck to hunt the wily student nurse -- notoriously difficult to track at night because of their noiseless crepe shoes --by teaching him how to build a "nurse blind" out hospital modesty screens and then hunker down by the watering hold -- or at least the vending machines in the breakroom -- and wait.  Deep in the night shift, their white uniforms and caps almost glow in the low light from the Bun-O-Matic Coffee Maker, making it obvious that you're performing a public service, and that that nature wants you to take these girls and get their heads, because student nurses are "very dangerous" and "they could hurt you seriously very quickly," especially if they're taking a blood sample and happen to miss the vein five or sex times.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Sundays with S.Z.

Getting back to our roots, here's post by our beloved founderess, originally published August 24, 2006:

Old Favorites Day

I don’t feel all that great, and so I am in a mood for comfort wingnuts (you know, those familiar, homey wingnuts whose creamy texture, cheesy richness, and meatloaf-like consistency always hit the spot). 

So, here are the latest columns by some old favorites.

1.  Pastor Grant Swank: “Plane Mutiny, Olmert Demise, Mosque Killers, & Iraq Over 

Thesis: The only good Muslim is a dead Muslim. 

Two men who looked like Muslim killers were speaking in what was concluded to be Arabic. They looked cagey. They kept looking at their watches. They darted looks to right and left. They whispered to one another. They wore heavy leather jackets. They were just plain mysterious.
Swarthy men on a plane who keep doing suspicious terrorist stuff like looking at their watches, whispering to each other, and wearing jackets?  Quick, somebody page Annie Jacobsen!
Brits on their way to vacationland Saturday decided the flight was too risky. They did not at all trust the two men. Therefore, they forced the pilot not to leave the ground.
One hundred fifty passengers felt safer on land than air. Two Muslim terrorist types were the cause of it all.
And just what are “Muslim terrorist types”?  Well, from the news article from which Pastor Swank got this story, we learn that they are “men of Asian appearance apparently talking Arabic.”  Yes, all men who look Asian and speak a language which might be Arabic (or possibly Russian or Hebrew, or something like that) are not only terrorists, but also Muslims, since you can apparently deduce a person’s religion from his race and his jacket.

And, per Pastor Swank, it’s about time that you “grass roots” realized that all Muslims are murderous demons who are planning to kill you. 
Islam is proving itself to be too weird to tolerate.
I think the only response to the above is “It takes one to know one.”
The plane mutiny is a reflection of the peace world’s thinking. In time, the entire peace community should get the harsh facts that Islam is out to do us all in.
Okay, Islam is out to do us in, so  what should the peace community do about it?
Well, per the good Pastor, the liberty republics must expel all Muslims, because they’re all bad.  Every single one of them.
Therefore, in every liberty republic, citizens must make choices to protect themselves, their communities, their laws, their judicial systems, educational systems and futures.
That means ousting Muslims. None can be trusted. Why? Because even the so-called kind Muslims say and do nothing to protest their killing “brothers and sisters.” Therefore, who within a Muslim conclave can finally be trusted?
All Muslims are born to be loyal to the Koran.
And this truth about how and why Muslims are born  has caused Pastor Swank to rethink his support of the Iraq War.

Yes, he has concluded that all that talk about “freedom spread” was just a lot of hooey, because the Muslims on our side are, at the end of the day, still Muslims, and as such are Satanic monsters who deserve killing just as much as the ones who are fighting us.
And so George Bush was wrong to lead us into a war to help them – we should have just nuked the whole Middle East.  And then we should have deported everyone who looked Asian and spoke what might have been Arabic. Deported them all to hell, where they came from!
We freedom lovers were sadly mistaken about planting a democracy in Iraq. One cannot plant a democracy over Islam, the cult. One cannot plant a democracy over Islam, the cult. That is why there is not one Muslim democracy on the planet. Democracy won’t fit. Freedom is the antithesis to cultic, demonic practices prescribed by the Koran. […]
Therefore, America should admit that a huge mistake was made in Iraq.
So, is Pastor Swank, the most fervent of Bush supporters, the guy who used to write five pieces a week praising the President’s wisdom and courage, now claiming that George made a huge mistake, and we should bring the troops home ???

Yup, pretty much.

You know, the Bush White House must be totally depressed about now, because when you’ve lost Pastor Grant Swank, it means that not even your mother supports you anymore.
Bush needs to admit that he made a mistake regarding his understanding of Islam. I personally believe that in his soul he knows that now far too much. So does Tony Blair. Then they need to admit their error and go forward to support our troops by bringing them home.
Remember when only traitors like Congressman Murtha used to say stuff like that?

2.  Dr. Miks S. Adams, Ph.D.:”Colleges for Jews to Avoid, Part I

Thesis: Jews should avoid colleges where anybody on the faculty has called for a peace settlement between Israel and its enemies.

But more importantly, the military should waive its age, health, and psychological fitness standards and draft Dr. Mike, because he could kill thousands of those Muslim terrorists, if only he was sent to Iraq and given enough bullets.

Over the course of my life, I have pondered many improbable situations. For example, what would it be like to play first base for the Atlanta Braves?
Translation: Despite all the brooding he does about those who have wronged him, and all intense satisfaction he gets from the hours he spends imagining their fiery deaths, Dr. Mike is really just a regular guy who enjoys the sane wholesome sporting events that you do. Really!
What would it be like to work as Anna Kournikova’s live-in masseuse?
Translation: Despite his hatred of women, and his fear of vaginas, Dr. Mike is very much a lady’s man, and he loves the babes. Really!
Just how many Muslim terrorists could I kill if the military would ignore my age and let me serve as a sniper?
Translation: When they set up canned hunts of swarthy people who speak what might be Arabic, Dr. Mike will so be there!
But I never pondered what life would be like as a Jewish student at the University of Texas at Austin – that is, until I read a letter written by 27 anti-Semites and self-hating Jews who teach there. The letter – addressed to Secretary of State Condi Rice – is reproduced below in its entirety.
Translation: Dr. Mike is going to try to get paid for a whole column, while only contributing about 100 words of his own. But don’t you try doing anything like that in any of his classes, you lazy snot-nosed punks!

3.  John Stossel: “Leave the decadent businessman alone!

Thesis: Successful businessmen should be able to sexually harass women if they want to – after all, they’re rich!

Sub-thesis: There should be an official droit de seigneur policy at “20/20.” 

Dov Charney is a fast-talking 36-year-old entrepreneur whose company has a loose, sexy atmosphere. As you might guess, some former workers have sued him for sexual harassment.
Charney pays his 4,000 employees, mostly immigrants, an average $12.75 an hour, plus subsidized lunches, health care, and free English classes.
Charney feels free to engage in sexual relationships with staff members. “If it’s a truly consensual loving relationship,” he says, “there’s nothing wrong with it. I think that those relationships can be very healthy and are very much part of living in a free world.”
Yes, immigrant women, having sex with the boss is very much part of living in a free world.  Remember that!
But in today’s highly policed workplace, that belief brought Charney trouble. Three women who used to work for him sued, claiming he created a “hostile environment.” The plaintiffs say they were made to feel unwelcome, and Charney is accused of dropping his pants and revealing his underwear.
Charney told me, “I’ve never had any intimate intentions with these women. I never propositioned them in any way. All of these allegations are false.”
Of course, the women never said that he had “Intimate intentions” with them, they saidthat he gave them vibrators (shades of Bill O’Reilly!), invited them to masturbate with him, and he exposed himself to them.

But, per Stossel, that doesn’t mean they should be allowed to sue him, because “If you don’t like the atmosphere in a workplace, don’t work there.”

However, our stupid nanny state won’t let a bold,paternalistic entrepreneur like Charney rule his plantation as he sees fit. Damn it, it’s hardly worth being a boss anymore! 
Freedom is the most important thing. But now Charney is a maverick swimming against the tide of Big Government with its endless laws telling us how to live, what we may say, and even whom we can look at sexually.
Do the bureaucrats and labor lawyers really know best?
We’ll be better off when we can paraphrase what Jonathan Edwards said in his 1970s song “Sunshine”: “They can’t even run their own lives. I’ll be damned if they’ll run mine.”
Um, John honey, ”Sunshine” is about a rich guy who tries to run the lives of his workers — and how, after the revolution, we’ll all know where the “fruits of what we do” are going. So, John, are you sure this is the song you wanted to quote in this piece?

But you have proven your creds as a brave, young rebel by quoting both a pop song from the1970s AND a line from Ayn Rand in the same column.  I’m sure you’ll be getting lots of that sweet workplace sex too, now.

4. Meghan Cox Gurdon: “Kitchen Confidential

When not reviewing children’s books for the Wall Street Journal, Meghan reviews anti-feminist books for The Weekly Standard. (She’s versatile, you see.)

This time she’s reviewing To Hell with All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewifeby Caitlin Flanagan. The piece’s subtitle, “Inside every feminist, a woman yearns to break free,” gives us a pretty good idea of what she thinks the moral we should take from the book is going to be.
I am aware that the words “candid memoir” have come to imply, in our memoir-littered literary landscape, ever-darker revelations of neglect, debauchery, and (if the publisher is lucky) incest.
Then we’ll take a moment right now to congratulate the future publishers of the inevitable memoirs of Victrola, Heliotrope, Dyspepsia, and Brock Samson Gurdon.
That’s what people seem to want to read, but, mercifully, Flanagan does not reveal anything so gruesome. What she does reveal, though, is in its effect plenty grim. You may laugh out loud at many passages–I certainly did–but what the book says about modern American women may make you want to bang your head against a wall.
I’m guessing that Flanagan says that modern women very rarely weave their own linen sheets these days, and they don’t wear attractive house dresses and pearls while they order the maid to mop and wax the floors. 
First, the good news: Flanagan is a sparkling stylist, and she is definitely on to something with her idea of an “inner housewife,” that secret part of emancipated womanhood that clings to old-fashioned feminine roles even as the outer lawyer, or whatever, rejects them. For who among us doesn’t resent the drudgery of battling squalor through repetitive acts of washing, wiping, and tidying? At the same time, what woman, in her heart of hearts, doesn’t get a weird charge out of a pile of…
Sorry, the rest of this article is available only to subscribers.
Okay, gentle readers, once again your assignment is to finish Meghan’s paragraph — tell us just what kind of a pile gives every women a weird charge in her heart of hearts?
I know you’ll do me proud with this one!

Original comments below the fold (lots of old favorites, including Doghouse Riley!):

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Happy Birthday, Weird Dave! The Ten Weird Questions Edition

As you can tell from the title, which is a blabbermouth and a vicious gossip and always spoils the surprise, today is the natal anniversary of Weird Dave, a valued and respected member of the World O' Crap community for many, many years, and also one of our most prominent nudists.

So what do you say -- let's bring out the cake!  However, in order to maintain his svelte profile, I'm sure Dave eschews sugary desserts, so instead we've replaced the traditional birthday pastry with this tempting terrine of garden vegetables:

Mmm!  I'm sorry we don't have any candles, but the heat would melt the cake's gelatinous outer layer.

Now since it's the weekend, when we normally do this kind of thing, and since Dave is out and proud about his Weirdness, I thought I would cull some of the odder Google searches that have brought people to Wo'C lately and try to answer them, since Google, by virtue of the fact they led the questioners here, did a piss-poor job of it.  Feel free to play along at home...

1.  fence made of severed body parts: I'll take "Donald Trump's Border Security Solutions" for $200, Alex.

2.  dykes hug: Dear Sir, we are in receipt of your "super hot, but politically correct lesbian erotica" and regret to say it does not meet our present needs...

3.  kale shit morons idiots: Well, this being Hollywood, I know plenty of morons and idiots who shit kale, so it seems fair. Circle of life an' all.

4.  "kurt schlichter" “asshole”: Why do I suspect this is how even Kurt Schlichter Googles his own name.

5.  nude pix of ruth buzzi nude: We're not here to judge, Googler, but maybe you could calm down a little? One "nude" should be enough to uncover the photos, or summon the devil, or whatever it is you're trying to do here.

6.  hot love on a welding table - big mild...: This one is kind of a conundrum, since any love on a welding table is, by definition, hot love, while "big mild" sounds like ad copy for some bold but smooth brand of tobacco, so I guess what they're saying here is: Intercourse on a welding table is so hot -- despite the risk of sparks setting your pubic hair on fire -- that afterwards you're really gonna need a cigarette.

7.  inflatable skunk: RealDolls® have been a healing salve for the sexual frustrations of single men with lots of disposable income, while working class bachelors with paltry cash reserves but large, untapped reservoirs of semen may avail themselves of the latex touch of Blow-Up Wanda.  But what about the Furries?  Sure, there's Build-A-Bear, but despite years of disappointed Yelp reviews, they still fail to offer adequate genitalia options. Plus you have to make the bear's sexy costumes yourself, because B-A-B's designers are all prudes. So when you think about it, is a pneumatic skunk with an O-face really all that much to ask?

8.  satanic blasphemous sissy hypnosis: So, that's how gay marriage is going to destroy straight marriage! It all makes sense now....!  You show up at your gay friend's wedding, all set to have a good cry and do the Chicken Dance, but instead of a minister or a justice of the peace there's some weirdo in a hooded black robe standing in front of a statue of Baphomet; he lights some black candles, passes around a chalice of goat's blood, mumbles some mumbo-jumbo, and the next thing you know, you're stumbling out of the Courtyard By Marriott banquet room looking to swap spit and exchange rings with the first dude you see!

9.  chained mussels men movie: Hey guys! It’s that bi-valve BDSM porn we’ve been looking for!

10. i love ted nugent: This doesn't really come as a surprise; after all, somebody married Charles Manson.

And that concludes our broadcasting day. But a party wouldn't be a party without a little cheesecake to make up for whatever the hell that thing was at the top of the post. So, since Weird Dave -- as anyone who's seen his avatar can tell you -- is a known nude frolicker, we present Jean Harlow, who was not opposed to the occasional clothing optional idyl herself:

From Complicated Women: Sex and Power in Pre-Code Hollywood, "With Garbo, sex was a sacrament. With Shearer, sex was emancipation. With Crawford, sex was a commodity. With Harlow sex was just sex, and that’s refreshing. She had a beautiful body, and didn’t mind showing it. When Harlow wore a dress, the dress wanted to come off. Biographer David Stern reports that, with the cameras running for the rain barrel scene in Red Dust, Harlow stood up, topless, and shouted, “Something for the boys in the lab!”

And now here's someone who also enjoys frolicking naked in the desert:
Sexy Birthday Lizard!

Happy birthday, Weird Dave. Thanks for continuing to bring your flapping, sun-burnt body parts to World O' Crap.

Friday, July 31, 2015

It's Ibsen's "Ghosts" Meets "Gentle Ben"

Looking at this billboard really depresses me. Still, I know in my heart that if we all just pull together, we can be #1!

Thursday, July 30, 2015

You Can't Die in Dreams. But You'll WISH You Could!

So I subscribe to a couple services that list freelance writing jobs, although "writing" is perhaps too grandiose a term for the tasks involved. So is "job", now that I think of it. Most of the offerings involve brief, boring, and barely compensated labor like proofreading a grad student's overdue thesis, revising a foreign company's product descriptions so they're intelligible to native English speakers, or, most often, cooking up advertorial blog content for some business website to improve its SEO.

But every once in awhile, you hear the faint but melodious plea of a muse:
Hello, I am currently looking for a talanted writer to help me write a book based off a very intense and action packed dream I keep having. Its mainly about clowns and their unstoppable boss who orders a pack of clowns to murder an innocent family (my family) in a beautiful 2 story home set on a golf course overlooking a lake. But things take a turn when i find out who is actually behind the clown masks. If any one is interesred please contact me. Thank you.
Back off, bitches! This one's mine!

Spam as a 2nd Language: The Witch Doctor Edition

After compiling all those quotes to mark the anniversary of Doghouse Riley's passing, I visited his much lamented blog, Bats Left, Throws Right, thinking to rifle through the archives and assuage my blues, when I noticed there was a new comment on the last thing he posted. I immediately clicked through, figuring someone else had dropped by to commemorate the day. Instead, I discovered that noted Las Vegan Segio Collins had materialized, like a latter day Doug Henning, to deliver a prophecy which we ignore at our peril:
My name is Segio Collins from United States Las Vegas, I want to quickly tell the world that there is a real on line spell caster that is powerful and genuine, I was the world’s biggest septic.
Well, there you go. I've seen some pretty impressive transfigurations in the Harry Potter books (woman into cat, mouse into snuffbox, teapot into tortoise), but any spell that can turn a large subterranean tank full of urine and feces into a man capable of spamming the comment threads of deceased blogs is powerful and genuine indeed.
I never believed in magic spells or anything like that, but I was told by a reliable source Doctor Ebakor a great spell caster helping me retrieving back my relationship with my EX girlfriend back when she ended and turned back to me for quite a long time now (3 months ago). 
Three months? Seems like Segio was a little LAX about retrieving his EX.
He performed a spell for me and for 24 hours after the spell had been casted i receive a text from my EX girlfriend saying that she is sorry for what happened and the she needs me back.
"After she texted me for 24 hours straight, however, I realized sex is overrated, and decided to maybe look into league bowling."
I want to recommend Doctor Ebaklor to the world. You can reach and contact him on his private email; thank you so much Doctor Ebakor.
Now I'm no septic, but before engaging the good Doctor's services, I'd want to straighten out whether his name was Ebaklor or Ebakor, and get a guarantee he wouldn't use his supernatural powers to insert random "L"s into my name, because there's no way to introduce yourself as "Sclott Clevelngler" without sounding drunk.

Anyway, money is tight, and I've gotten in the habit of comparison shopping, so I Googled Doctor Ebakor, and discovered his satisfied clients are all over the Internet.  Here's just one example out of four thousand results:
Am Mario Charos from Switzerland, i want to share my great testimony to Doctor Ebakor the great spell caster that brought back my Husband within 12 to 16 hours. 
Doctor Ebakor has improved on his time, and is now achieving the kind of fast-acting results usually associated with tiny time capsules.
When i contacted Doctor Ebakor i never taught that this would have been possible but to my greatest surprise after 12 to 16 hours of me contacting Doctor Ebakor my EX boyfriend called me and said that he is ready to make up for lost time and he wants me to forgive him and accept him back as my lover
Well this is awkward, because now Mario's husband and his EX boyfriend have both come crawling back in the same 12 to 16 hours, which isn't going to leave him much for a refractory period.

I clicked through another search result, and discovered that Segio and Mario got nothing on Marina:
All thanks to Doctor Ebakor for restoring my marriage
My name is Marina Panes and I base in USA... 
Base what? Base jump? Freebase? Ace of Base?
My life is back!!! After 3 years of broken marriage, my husband left me with three kids. I felt like my life was about to end i almost committed suicide, i was emotionally down for a very long time. 
Well suicide is no joking matter, and my first instinct is to urge Marina to get help, but I'm not sure if it's a good idea to clog up our suicide hotlines with fictional witchcraft consumers.
Thanks to the great spell caster called Dr. Ebakor, which i met online. On one faithful day, as I was browsing through the internet, I came across allot of testimonies about this particular spell caster.
Remember the early days of Yelp when it was all spellcaster reviews? (In fact, the name "Yelp" comes from the sound made by users who left bad spellcaster feedback and subsequently got their Voodoo doll jabbed in the ass with a hatpin. Prove me wrong, Snopes!)
Some people testified that he brought their Ex lover back, some testified that he restores womb,cure cancer and other sickness.
To be clear, curing cancer and other sickness is his day job. He only restores wombs in his spare time and frankly, he's no Bob Vila.
Some testified that he can cast a spell to stop divorce and so on.
This is the root of our adversarial legal system: Prosecutor versus defense attorney, divorce lawyer versus witchdoctor.
Dr. Ebakor is really a gifted man and i will not stop publishing him because he is a wonderful man... If you have a problem and you are looking for a real and genuine spell caster to solve all your problems for you. Try Dr. Ebakor anytime and he might be the answer to your problems. 
Well now that your husband has returned it seems like your only really serious problem is punctuation. I don't know if it's worth sacrificing a goat in a graveyard at midnight to correct, but it's something to think about.

But don't imagine for a moment that Doctor Ebakor has a monopoly on the spellcasting game. Next I checked out, Inspiration and Expert Advice for any Change in your Life, where I found a short boilerplate post about how Divorce is hard, and your first month will likely be spent having feelings and stuff.  But the real action was in the comments, as a battle royale broke out between the partisans of various magical Finders of Lost Loves:
Hello to the world i am Leroy..
Word of advice, Leroy: if you don't want people to assume you're a bot, maybe don't introduce yourself with a line that makes you sound like a C++ compiler.
i want to say that Dr Bully the mighty spell caster from India. He is the only spell caster that can help you solve your problem in 48 hours...after passing through a lot of problems in my marriage, i contacted Dr Bully Shrine in Mumbai India and in 48 hours, my wife who we were divorced for 4 years is back to me for ever...
Granted, she's in a variety of different formaldehyde-filled jars, but still...
Dr Bully is highly spiritual and can never disappoint you in any problem. No matter what type of Relationship, Marital, Getting Pregnant, Want a Baby,Court Case and disease you have, he is definitely the best answer for you in 48 hours...
I'm sorry, maybe I'm spoiled by today's modern spellcasting technology, but after the kind of 12 to 16 hour service people routinely get from Doctor Ebakor, 48 hours is excruciating. It's the age of the digital camera phone, baby, and this is like waiting two days to get your snapshots back from the drug store.

However, Dr Bully does seem to offering a wider array of services than his competitors:
(1) If you want your ex back.(2) you need a divorce in your relationship.(3) You want to be promoted in your office.(4) You want women & men to run after you.(5) If you want a child.6) You want to be rich.(7) You want to tie your husband & wife to be yours forever.(8) If you need financial stance.(9) He can make you pregnancy
Full disclosure: I'm currently involved in a lawsuit with Dr Bully because I hired him to GET BACK MY GAY BOYFRIEND, but he made me pregnancy instead. 

Next up was an unsolicited testimonial for dr. trust:
Hi My name is "BEKAR JOE" I was married for 15years with lilian. things started getting ugly and we had fights and arguments almost every time... 
Every time you asked her to call you "BEKAR JOE", I presume.

But it's not just men with crappy marriages who shout their unlikely nicknames at the top of their lungs. There's also the quiet heartbreak of Angela, from Columbia.
I was frustrated and did not know want to do until i saw some testimonies on the internet about people with similar problem and all other kind of problem and how a (spell caster) or (witch doctor) call Metodo Acamu helped them with spells. Me being me, contacted him with the address that was left on the internet 
(Chuckling)  Oh, that is so you.  Or so Raven. One or the other.
and like every (witch doctor) in know in Colombia he asked that i provide the materials needed for the work most of then were only found in India and Somalia i just gave him the money to get them for me because i told him i could not get them he offered to help me with his contact there. 
You know, this whole thing sounded kind of fishy until you got to the part about sending a stranger whose name sounds like an unsolvable anagram a blank check to buy witchcraft supplies from Somalia, but now I'm sold!
It was only after seven days he contacted with news of completed the work and sent me a package am not to disclose through some courier service underground that deliver thing like this. 
I believe it's the same courier that delivered that box to Brad Pitt at the end of Se7en.

Now as tempted as I am by (witch doctor) Metodo Acamu, I find myself coming back to Doctor Ebakor, because he's obviously the most legitimate, peer-reviewed spellcaster in the field.  Encomia to his prowess have also been found on WebMD, in a section devoted to helping children with autism (because they might also someday have EXs who could only be retrieved through the use of Somalian notions and sundries), and on the official website for the Steve Harvey radio show, where things turned into a spellcaster customer catfight!
My names is Alice Owens am from canada i want to use this opportunity to thank Dr guru the great doctor who bring back my husband which makes me very happy today so i could not keep the wonderful work he has done for me so i decide to share it with you all because he is real not like those who eat up my money and never do anything for me
I had someone like that in my life, too; someone who ate up all my money and never did anything for me. It was the vending machine in the break room, and maybe I was expecting too much, I mean we weren't even engaged, but I still felt betrayed when I'd slip those quarters into its slot, and try to do it all sexy like Mickey Rourke feeding strawberries to a blindfolded Kim Basinger in 9½ Weeks and it still wouldn't drop that package of Dolly Madison Zingers.
...until one day i met a good friend of mine that was also in a situation like me but her problem was her ex-boyfriend who she had an unwanted pregnancy for and he refused to take responsibility
I don't want to condone that kind of behavior, but I have to admit, if some guy in brown shorts with a clipboard showed up at my door and said he had an unwanted pregnancy for me, I don't think I'd sign for it either.
i was doubting if this man was the solution,because i have tried so many fake Doctor on the internet but they only eat up my money and never work for me so i contacted this great man and he told me what to do and i deed them all, he told me to wait for just 12hours and that my husband will come crawling on his kneels just for forgiveness so i faithfully deed what this great man asked me to do and for sure after 12hours i heard a knock on the door i went and open the door, in a great surprise i saw him on his kneels and i was speechless, when he saw me, all he did was crying and asking me for forgiveness
Again, I hate to be a septic, but is it possible that Dr. guru didn't use magic, and just hired two guys to break her husband's shins, and dump him on the doorstep?  And some of these stories sound awfully familiar. Like the woman who "never use to believe in spell casting until i met Dr Oga a powerful spell caster." As usual, she had "4 years of Broken marriage" and "almost committed suicide," until she blundered into some Consumer Reports sorcerery reviews:
some testified that he restores womb, cure cancer and other sickness, and so on. 
Yeah, yeah, but as we learned from Doctor Ebakor's Yelp page, that's all par for the witchdoctor course.  Gives us a fresh angle.
I also came across a testimony a woman called Anita, she testified about how his spell made her to be pregnant after so many years of bareness
Well all I can say is, if you spent years in the nude and still couldn't get knocked up, the guys in your neighborhood have unusually high sales resistance.

"Trish Eckles" posted the following (in fact, she felt so strongly about it she posted it twice in a row):
Am sharing this article to the world to know that spell casting is real with the help of Doctor Ebakor. I have been married with my wife for the past 7 years without a child and it got to the point that my mum drove my wife away all because she was not able to bear a child....
It seems a little harsh to drive away your daughter-in-law just because your lesbian daughter can't get her pregnant.
He prepared a returning love spell that brought back my wife and a conceiving spell that made my wife pregnant. 
You call it a "conceiving spell," Doctor Ebakor calls it "crawling into bed with your wife while you're passed out on the living room sofa after an L Word marathon."

And then, finally, there's this Cosmopolitan article, which is ostensibly about reasons a guy might turn down sex, but is actually just an excuse to host a rumble between various spellcaster groupies.  Dr. Dan's fans fight it out with Dr. agbuza aficionados; dr osumand gets a shout-out from all his "brothers in christ", who I'm sure are usually to be founding hanging out in large numbers in the Cosmo comments section, while Dr. Okosun1 takes on both Doctor Ebakor (of course) and the mysterious (, who has apparently had his name legally changed to his own hotmail address. Or maybe it's someone else's hotmail address; I mean it's not like anyone ever checks their hotmail account, so who'd know?

But by this point it doesn't matter, because I don't know which to choose. Not only am I confronted by an embarrassment of (witch doctor) riches, but my wife hasn't even left me yet, so I don't see how I could justify this line item at the next monthly household budget meeting.

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Happy 20th Anniversary Waterworld! Now Die! Die! Die! Die! DIE!

A couple quick bits o' news...
  1. The sequel to Better Living Through Bad Movies is shambling along, and we expect to announce a release date shortly.
  2. We're doing an audio book version of BLTBM! This is also shambling along, but at a slightly faster pace (I would say that -- on the downgrades at least -- it is even getting up to speeds that approach lumbering), and based on what I've heard so far, it's going to be pretty funny.
  3. It's the 20th anniversary (china and platinum) of Waterworld, according to a lot of news stories that popped up in my Facebook feed, because FB seems to think this is exactly the sort of thing about which I would deeply and sincerely give a crap.  But before you run out and grab that 20th Anniversary Blu-ray edition, we thought we'd remind you of all the things the damp cast and the cashiered director would rather you'd forget.  So here's our review, from the chapter entitled It's the End of the World as We Know It, And I Feel Fine But You're All Dead.

Waterworld (1995)
Directed by Kevin Reynolds and Kevin Costner (uncredited)
Written by Peter Rader and David Twohy

In its day, Waterworld was the most expensive movie ever made, reportedly costing almost $200 million. While it’s nice to know that they cared enough to spend the very most, you have to wonder if nearly a quarter-billion dollars is a reasonable sum to pay for a routine action yarn about an irritable post-apocalyp- tic yachtsman who drinks his own pee. But that’s all you know, since you’re not a moviemaker! But then, neither are we. However, we do have a copy of The Making of Waterworld we got at the thrift store, and as we proceed with our summary, we’ll point out how each dollar is being spent.

Our movie begins with the Universal logo melting ($100,000). Then God ($150) announces that it’s the future and the Earth is covered with water. And then we catch our first glimpse of our hero, Kevin Costner ($25 million), as he pees into a cup. Despite what you might imagine, this isn’t a studio-ordered urinalysis to make sure their money didn’t go for drugs, as Kevin runs the pee through a primitive cappuccino machine and drinks it. And to show that his effluent has an especially piquant bouquet, he swirls it around his mouth, gargles it, and then spits a few drops onto a papier-mâché lime tree ($2), so it can also taste his goodness.

Kevin is a noble but crabby loner, much like Rambo or the Unabomber, and like them he also goes by only one name: Mariner. (I don’t dispute the hero’s right to assume the name of a major league ball club, although personally I would have picked one with a better bullpen.) Kevin lives aboard his boat made from scavenged eggbeaters, ice cube trays, and other crap, and ingeniously kept afloat by a large, inflated ego. He ekes out a living from the harsh and unforgiving sea, diving into its inky depths, where no ordinary man dare go, to recover leather mugs from the Renaissance Faire.

But before he has the chance to bring up a soggy pair of pantaloons, who should appear but evil incarnate: the Smokers! Yes, in the future, really strict clean-air legislation has divided the world into two groups: the Smokers and the Non-smokers. The Smokers are a gang of Jet Ski-riding Hell’s Angels who kill, rape, plunder, burn fossil fuels, and eat Spam. They are led by a gratuitously villainous Dennis Hopper, who was apparently asked to reprise his performance from Speed, but make it a little less restrained.

In contrast to the depraved Smokers, the noble Non-smokers inhabit a man-made atoll composed entirely of recyclables ($50 million); they eat only free-range fish, drink only Evian distilled-urine, and only watch PBS. But one thing both groups share is a fondness for leather clothing, an odd choice for Post-Apocalyptic beachwear because it is hot and becomes really smelly, which you’d think would be a disadvantage in a society lacking Arid Extra Dry. And hey, since there are no animals in this world, one is forced to conclude that Soylent Garments are made from people!

Anyway, before the Smokers can give him emphysema, Kevin heads over to the Non-Smoking section, but they won’t let him in until he displays what’s in the leather mug: dirt! He takes it to the assay office, where the county agent tastes it and pronounces it pure. It seems that in the future a 5-pound bag of peat moss makes you Donald Trump. This could also explain why the people of this particular future are so dirty—they wear their alluvium as a status symbol, with only the really wealthy being able to afford not to bathe.

Kevin takes his dirt money and buys a tomato plant from Jeanne Tripplehorn, who is apparently the poorest person in town, judging by her cleanliness. As Kevin leaves with his tomato, the Non-Smokers accost him, and attempt to shake him down for his man-seed, just like in The Postman. The reoccurrence of this motif suggests that Kevin is a thoughtful futurist with a brave vision of things to come: specifically, a time in which the current model of transnational capitalism has evolved into an entirely jism-based economy.

However, Kevin is apparently a skinflint (or in this case, a skinfluteflint) and denies them his essence. The Non-Smoking leader promptly accuses Kevin of hiding something. Oddly enough, it’s not his sexual orientation that he’s hiding, but gills and webbed toes! Kevin is arrested for being a mutant, and sentenced to languish in a dangling cage as a warning to Dan Ackroyd.

Meanwhile, let’s check in on little Ebola, a girl with a strange tattoo on her back, which is rumored to be a map to Dry World (where the Wet Head is Dead). She is busy doodling cave drawings of horses, trees, and soap, things no one in this society have ever seen. Her foster-mother Jeanne, and foster-uncle Coot (an amalgamation of Leon Russell and the Wizard of Oz), want to escape to the legendary Dryland, but they can’t figure out what the tattoo means (Mr. Roark often had the same problem).

Suddenly, the atoll is attacked by the Smokers, who are seeking the fabled Girl With a Map To Dryland Tattooed On Her Back. (Apparently the demise of the Automobile Club has left a real cartographic void.)

Coot’s balloon ($2 million) is inadvertently launched, and he has to leave Jeanne and Ebola behind; he can’t come back, he doesn’t know how it works! So, Jeanne releases Kevin from his birdcage on the condition he takes her and Ebola with him on his boat. But as soon as they are at sea, Kevin threatens to dump his passengers because there’s not enough urine for three. Jeanne disrobes and offers to have sex with Kevin if he’ll spare them. He stares at her naked form for some time, waiting for her to lay her eggs so he can fertilize them; when she doesn’t follow through with her part of the bargain, he clubs her on the head. Kevin hates a tease.

The fish, woman, and child begin to bond during their time at sea. Ebola uses Kevin’s crayons without asking, so he throws her overboard. Jeanne breaks a mast fighting off Smokers, so Kevin chops off her hair. In exchange for an old National Geographic, Kevin pimps Jeanne to a crazy Irish Robin Williams-impersonator. So, they are becoming a family.

But this idyllic life comes to an end when the Smokers find them again and grab Ebola. Kevin and Jeanne jump overboard to escape death from secondhand smoke. When Jeanne complains that she can’t breathe underwater, Kevin says he’ll breathe for both of them; he proceeds to blow carbon dioxide into her mouth while sneakily frenching her. When they surface, Kevin’s boat has been burned and the Smokers are nowhere in sight. So, there’s nothing they can do but have sex ($3.2 million), as Jeanne learns the origins of the term “cold fish.”

Kevin is saved from cuddling by the reappearance of Coot and his balloon. Coot indicates that the survivors of the Non-Smoking Section have started a new atoll made from old egg cartons and beer cans, and invites Jeanne and Kevin to join them. But Kevin declares that he must rescue Ebola, even if it means certain death. Not because he’s after her map, but because she’s his friend, and because she still has one of his crayons.

Over in Smoking Section Headquarters, the ancient oil tanker Exxon Valdez ($70 million for rental, plus a $5 million surcharge for Irony), Dennis Hopper tries to get Ebola to tell him what her map means. She doesn’t know, since she can’t see her own back, but she does know that her, Mariner will come for her. And then they’ll be sorry—because he’ll make them watch Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves.

Just then, a lone, dark figure walks across the deck. Yes, it’s Mad Mackerel, the Roe Warrior! He’s a post-apocalyptic laconic hero who’s come to eat fish flakes and kick butt, and he’s all out of fish flakes! Dennis best sums up the situation: “He’s like a turd that won’t flush.” And since this was before The Postman, Message in a Bottle, 3000 Miles to Graceland, and Many More, Dennis is starting to look like Miss Cleo.

Kevin throws a torch into the tanker’s fuel hold and rescues Ebola. Uncle Coot arrives in the balloon, saving Kevin’s butt yet again (and if you want to see that butt, check out For Love of the Game, on DVD!)

Coot looks carefully at Ebola’s tattoo and suddenly realizes how to read the map (although he still has trouble refolding it). Armed with this convenient plot twist, he leads the other survivors to a lush, verdant land with pure, clean water—but alas, still no soap. The group spots a grass hut ($3 million), and inside, two skeletons lying next to tattoo needles and a copy of the graphic on Ebola’s back. And now it all makes sense! Ebola is actually the child of Gilligan and Mary Ann, the last of the castaways. They sent her to the mainland for help, but the stupid kid spent all her time coloring and forgot to tell the authorities about her parents, leaving them to die of coconut cream pie poisoning.

But everyone is so thrilled to have enough dirt to live like kings that there are no recriminations. However, the gilled-and-webbed Kevin isn’t at home on the land, and he must tell the tearful Ebola that she’s a fine girl, and what a good wife she would be, but his life, his love, and his lady is the sea. Kevin and Jeanne exchange half-hearted good-byes, then he steals director Kevin Reynolds' boat and sails off, taking the remaining $100 million of the studio’s money with him. Because even a mutant can see that his back-end participation points are going to be worthless. The End.

Of all the films reviewed for this book, Waterworld presents by far the darkest vision of the future: a time in which Man’s natural habitat has vanished, leaving him crammed onto rusty, floating hulks, where he is preyed upon by violent locals, forced to inhale noxious fumes, and reduced to eating Spam washed down with pee. In other words, it’s a Carnival Cruise, so the people best equipped to survive this harsh new environment are probably elderly Jewish women from Coral Gables.

But how can we use the wisdom imparted by this film to better prepare ourselves for the apocalypse? Well, to begin with, if you finally do get that tattoo you’ve been thinking about (oh, don’t deny it) you should forget the rose on your breast, the butterfly on your ankle, or the ying-yang symbol on your ass, and instead have Buzz at Inka-Dinka-Doo on Hollywood Boulevard inscribe the entire Rand McNally World Atlas on your back. (Oh sure, it’ll hurt, but at least when the apocalypse comes you’ll get to have middle-aged potheads and faded matinee idols listlessly tussle over you.) Other than that, there’s lots of little things you can do to prepare for the Deluge: load up on leather pants and Sea ’n Ski, Dramamine, Underwood Deviled Ham, and sphagnum moss. Take swimming lessons at the Y. Get your semen appraised. Cancel the newspaper. Oh, and you’ll want to start mutating. But don’t go crazy with it, or you could wind up like John Travolta in Battlefield Earth, whose bizarre alien digestive tract required him to continually chew, swallow, and regurgitate scenery like cud.