A Desperate Plea to Brian Colangelo.

If you're like me, you only get your news from the print media. I disdain the frivolty with which facts are dealt with in the television, radio, and internet media. The one indulgence I allow myself is the cinema. I take in a talkie every now and then, under one condition: it must be a documentary.

I also enjoy basketball.

You'll understand if it's taken me a few days to comment on a cartoon I found in my local paper the other day. Apparently there's a planet just like Earth out there, and me, ah think there's sumptn fishy goin' on. I don't like it. Not one bit.

But I got a plan...

Lissen up, Brian Colangelo, 'cause this next bit's for you. We got a problem on our hands hurr, and ah think you're the only one who can help. I seen what you done with Phinnix, then Torrani, and I think you know where I'm headed here...

Our toon team is fucked.

Have you heard about this planet, Hoss? They say it's jus' like Earth, but they never mention that, even if it's an icy planet, it's still got 1.5 times the gravity. This is terrible news, Bry. Just terrible. I've seen the end game; I know the score.

I mighta mentioned I go to the documentaries often. Brian, do you fully understand what will happen is if these guys come to our homecourt? They'll make Dwight Howard look like George Zidek. They'll be leaping all over Bugs, Daffy, and Bill Murray.

Help us Brian Colangelo, yer our only hope. (Full disclosure: that's from another documentary.)

I demand Porky run suicides

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It's A Pirates Death For My Fetus

Two cute girls, the thin and feisty Rebecca and the buxom blond Whitney, wheel suitcases down a dorm room hall and knock on room #271. The girls face each other, smile, then look back to the door, "Spring break!"

A haggard looking, unwashed brunette named Alyssa answers the door rubbing her eyes. "Hi ladies. I don't think I should go"

Whitney immediately chimes in, "You don't think you should go?!! You are 20 years old, you won't have that sweet bod for-ev-er."

"Yeah Alyssa. We like totally need to get wasted and screw in Cabo!" Rebecca wisely adds.

"I know girls, but that is the thing... I am pregnant."

"You are what?!!" Rebecca stammers back shocked, her suitcase falls on its side.

Alyssa looks to the floor, "It gets worse..."

Alyssa invites the girls in. The dorm room is a mess, empty diet coke cans, clothes everywhere, used pregnancy tests litter the floor in front of the bathroom. Alyssa continues, "The father... He's my cousin… My cousin Antonino."

"Oh my god! The fat one? From Palermo?!!" Rebecca recoils in disgust.

Whitney perks up, "All is not lost ladies. We can still have a great spring break, cuz now we are taking- Da dun da daah! A cruise!"

Rebecca's demeanor does a total 180, "Of course! A Cruise!!!" Alyssa seems to understand as well and joy spreads across her face.

The girls jump up and down clapping their hands and shout in unison, "ABORTION TRIP!!!"

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Hey Limeys... Find your own hard hitting cat news

The British.

As if they hadn't insulted me enough with their inbreeding, bad teeth and imperialism. Well the imperialism isn't so bad.

Point is that no one country or island province has upset me more lately than the UK (Really can we call them a Kingdom anymore? They've only got Ireland as a colony and even that is just the Northern tip. The sun most certainly does set on the British Empire. I guess they have a King... err would have a King if Prince Charles would quit chasing tail and quit impersonating Al Gore for 10 minutes to kick the damn Queen off the throne. Ok now I am officially calling them the United Queendom. Poofs, all of you)

So anyway, if you didn't know before - due to your fetal alcohol syndrome causing poor neural communication - you know now that I hate the British. And now the Daily Mail has given me more reasons by reading The Incredible Mr. Limpet for news and not giving us any sort of credit.

Here's their take.

Here's what I wrote back in February

You'll be hearing from my lawyers. No doubt Sparkenickle is behind this with his horse raping brother.


Don't click for more idiots, that's all there is.

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Fine Dining in a Fine City

You can hold your applause you stains upon the nation, Jerk Stupidneck is back and he's brought a new bit with him. I'm going to go ahead and address the issue of all of the "Where were you!? You're the best! My womb has been barren since you left!" questions/comments with the following.

SHUT YOUR GOD DAMN TRAPS YOU WORTHLESS FLESH BUCKETS!

It's none of your god damn business and I'm sick of you hanging out in my bushes trying to catch a glimpse of me working on my world renowned model train environment (it's not a toy train set you simpletons, go back to tend to that goat you married last week in Venezuela).

That having been said, what is your business, is the fine dining offered in this great city of Los Angeles. From sushi to steak, from omlettes to dirty fucking hippy vegetarian bullshit, this city has it all. Today is my first review of one of the most prestigious and exclusive dining establishments that this City of Angels has to offer.

Just try to get a reservation for 7 on any given day... fag


I was introduced to this little hole in the wall by my friend Joey Bats. He said this place had been frequented by the most elite of the elite and most notably, Arnold Schwarzenegger has been known to make an appearance from time to time. Well, needless to say I called my secretary and told her to get me in at this "Dodger Stadium" for lunch.

No go. It seems they were booked solid until Saturday April 14th for dinner at 7:10pm. It was a little early for me, but I figured I'd just have my starbucks and cigarette lunch around 11am and I'd be hungry around the time of my reservation. Then I fired that incompetent Gladys for screwing up my lunch plans. YOU'RE BORING GLADYS AND I NEVER... NAY NO ONE EVER LIKED YOU.

Anyways, when I got there I found a lot of the cast of Limpet there (to my dismay) and I tried not to notice them, but they flagged me down and informed me that the maître d'hôtel had seated me next to them. Whatever, I tried to keep the bile from rising in my throat from the overt stink, but had to run to the bathroom a couple of times.

This brings me to my first point - The "bleacher" (am I spelling that right?) style seating was repugnant at first but I found that I actually enjoyed the arrangement when the dinner theatre (also a pleasant surprise) began. The play was some sort of sports themed drama involving star crossed lovers Jason Schmidt and Jake Peavy, I didn't follow the story completely because I was busy punching the idiot in front of me in the head and trying not to be noticed. What an ass he was.


They had an interesting way of serving appetizers as a Philipino boy came buy with a sack full of "Babied Ruths" and tossed them throughout the restaurant. I was told that these peanut and chocolate based hors d'oeuvres come from peanut bushes which have been "babied" meaning given only the best treatment, nightly bedtime story reads , and daily doses of miracle grow in order to provide a sophisticated palette for the discerning tastebuds. I found them quite delectable and they really complimented the following courses, although I did feel a bit put out when I had to smash a child to the floor in order to grab one of them as they were tossed across rows of bleachers. Personally I consider that a bonus. Great atmosphere at this little place.


The second course was a melted and aged cheddar meant to be spread across fried corn "chips" and accompanied by popped corn. You can see that the mood took us a little and soon we were going quite crazy and dipping the popped corn in the excquisite cheese! I don't expect you to understand it, you're too busy self pleasuring to Oprah's bra buying tips right now.


Finally the main course. Hot "Dogs". Dogs being short for "Doglienas" which is spanish for "La salsiccia più dolce", which, in turn, is italian for "The Sweetest Sausage". Here you can see Mr. Feelings most recently purchased Micronesian bride testing Mr. Feelings' dinner for poison. Despite her pained look, these were actually better than their namesake implies. If I had to give them a proper name in the Old Tongue, it would be "Prodotto del porco che dà vita all'uomo". While more apt, it is a bit of a mouthful, but then I've always been guilty of word smithery.


And the best part of "Prodotto del porco che dà vita all'uomo", was the buffet style garnish bar. This was one of my favorite parts, or it would have been if I didn't have my personal assistant do it for me after running it by my lawyers.

Final verdict? Ambience - 4 stars Service - 3 stars Taste - a full 5 stars.

If you're ever in town and want to hide out in a quaint location while taking in some good food and good theatre, "Dodger Stadium" is the place.

It's great for autograph seekers as well.

Just ask Former President Bill Clinton what he thinks of "Prodotto del porco che dà vita all'uomo"



Kenny Rogers knows when to hold 'em, and by " 'em" I mean the orphan boys he used as seat warmers

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Back Row Review Show: When a house isn't a home; it's prison

Hello loyal readers!

Before I start my review of the new DreamWorks film DISTURBIA, I have to confess something: Two years ago, I was on house arrest. To quote Ghostface Killah, “Home is not where the heart is.” House Arrest was brutal, son.

I mean, if I lived in some mansion with a bunch of girls and some large and angry pit bulls-- I’m talking like an MTV Cribs set-up--then maybe it would be sweet. But not my house. I swear to God, my wife was on me so much that I actually prayed I was in the joint giving a back massage to Jimmy C., the leader of the Local White Supremacy Chapter.

My kids were my cellmates, and boy, were they not prepared for the horrors of prison life. You should have seen their faces the first time I shanked the mailman, or paid for Chinese Food with a pack of squares (cigarettes, for my civilian readers), or took a dump in the middle of the living room. (“You go where you know,” goes the prison motto).

So, I brought this first-hand knowledge of home imprisonment to DISTURBIA. In the movie, this kid named KALE watches his father die in a car crash, and a year later, he’s so pissed off about it that he pops his Spanish teacher in the eye (Ooh, tough guy!) and gets placed on house arrest. While there, Kale, his Gaysian best friend and some girl who kinda looks like Simba but only way cuter spot a murderer living next door, and they band together to stop him.

Now, I’d love to be able to slam this movie for its inaccuracy, or making light of a depressing situation that is being locked home with a wife that wife that walks around clanging a billy club on the gates around our windows.

But I just can’t do it. Why? Because Shia Lebouf is in Disturbia.

Shia. Let me tell you something. You’re the reason I got through house arrest in one piece. Well, not really you, but your alter ego.

Even Stevens.

Yes Shia, I watched Even Stevens on loop when I was in home joint. That’s all I had; a TV with three channels and sniped cigarettes I took from the mailman’s pocket. I loved that show. Every day I tuned in, hoping that your character wasn’t whacked or voted off the show. And you know what young man? You never disappointed me.

You know what would be cool, Shia? You and I should get arrested together, and not for punching a teacher or wearing a hoodie in class. I’m talking Grand Larceny, or some Ocean’s 11 type shit. Or just something that would land us in the same house together. Then you and I could smoke pot together, watch the neighbors and discuss the news, sports, and weather when we take our showers together in the morning. I'd be Morgan Freeman to your Tim Robbins; I’d never want the horrors of home joint to take away from what a solid young man you are.

Think about it young man. And PS: I liked you way way more in LEGEND OF BAGGER VANCE than I did in this movie. Now, that’s a feature.

Gotta go! Weed doesn’t smoke itself!

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Honestly, Why Did I Even Make A Sex Tape With You?

Yes, I'll grant you, it was a some pretty good sex. You're ability to frame a shot during the piledriver is exceedingly impressive. You break the fourth wall and talk dirty to the camera only when it's appropriate and sexy, which is also admirable. But Jesus Molly, if that's how you sing, you'll never get the chance to be an also-ran, which begs the question: Why did I even make a sex tape with you?

Don't misunderstand me, your rendition of Gadjits's "Party Girl" was...interesting. I never quite appreciated the subleties of lyrics such as:

Hey boys look at my butt
no I'm not a slut but I'll fuck you in the bathroom
Just gratify my image

but I do now, and I thank you for that. I will say, however, that if that kind of singing, with the off-tempo call-backs and off-key choruses, is the best you got, then we've got problems.

Don't get me wrong, everybody likes a party girl, but I'm looking for something deeper, Molly. Something more meaningful. Call me old fashioned, but if I'm gonna make a sex tape with a lady, it better damn well reach the masses when said lady fails at reality tv.

Why don't you grab yourself some tea and take a seat, we need to hammer a few things out.

You're no one unless you're famous, Molly. Everybody knows that, everyone accepts it. Except you, apparently. If you think you can pull that karaoke shit with Randy and Paula, you're sorely mistaken. Granted, you kinda have to suck enough to be voted off, or whatever, but you at least have to make it past those episodes where they just show you the mental defects who think they can slide one past those crafty judges.

What I'm trying to say is that unless you hunker down and really put some effort into your singing, no one's gonna see how nasty you are in bed. It's science. The American public require a passing recognition with their amateur porn stars, and that's what reality tv is.

I'm sorry it's come to this, Molly, but until you get some vocal lessons or watch Glitter a few more times, I can't, in good conscience spadazzle you any more.

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An Evening of Fine Dining and Baseball (The Recap)

In the history of good ideas the All You Can Eat Pavilion at Dodger's Stadium ranks between John Lennon and Paul McCartney deciding to write songs together and a fat man deciding to wear vertical stripes, basically to sum things up it was amazing.

The whole Limpet family was at Chavez Ravine and six of us had a great time. (Little known fact: Fatty Arbuckle's nickname is "The man who fun hates"). We gorged ourselves till we couldn't take it anymore and then ate some more.

A full tally of our gluttony and pictures! Can be found after the jump.




Do you see all of this food? It was FREE! (Well except the beer, but you get the point)



Limpet readers are very classy!



Sometimes even we can't stand casual nudity.



Lastly, we have to give a special shout out to our favorite reader former US President Bill Clinton.

Okay and now for the food tallies.

HATS BAGELMAN: 3 Hot Dogs, 2 Beers, 2 Nachos, 2 Mini Baby Ruths
FATTY ARBUCKLE: 2 Hot Dogs, 2 Nachos, 1 Bag of Popcorn, 3 Sodas, 3 Mini Baby Ruths
MR. FEELINGS: 2 Hot Dogs, 1 1/2 Nachos, 1 Bag of Peanuts
JERK STUPIDNECK: 2 Hot Dogs, 1 Nachos, 1 Popcorn, 1 Baby Ruth, 2 Sodas
BLING CROSBY JR: 1 Hot Dog, 2 Nachos, 4 Waters, 1 Stolen bag of Peanuts
10LB MOUSTACHE: 4 Hot Dogs, 1 Nachos, 2 Bags of Peanuts, 3 Beers, 2 Mini Baby Ruths
NACHO FRIENDLY: FAILURE: 3 Hot Dogs 2 Beers (seriously I did that without trying)

Without a doubt Nacho was the biggest failure but 10lb Moustache really came through in the clutch. 10lb Moustache you are a true American Hero.

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Call Me Ahab

In Moby Dick Captain Ahab is on a quest to find his White Whale. On Saturday night, I attempted to harpoon my own and enter the esteemed 9-9-9 Club.

In what would become one of the greatest training blunders in all of sports, I did not make the club, but that doesn't mean I'm throwing in the towel. I am the Brett Farve of meaningless competitive eating, and one day, I will rise like the Phoenix.

Help us gut Brian Giles like a stuck pig, after the jump.

I feel a little like Santiago Canizares today. Our sexiness got the best of us.

my weakness is booze, his was aftershave

In 2002, Santiago Canizares was on top of the world. He played soccer for Valencia and was set to be Spain's goalie for the World Cup. Then, on a fateful night when he was just trying to sexify himself, he dropped his bottle of aftershave and sliced tendons in his toes. Tough break, right? Santiago remained upbeat, saying, "I still believe that the best moments of my career are yet to come and, health permitting, I will be aiming to be successful in the next World Cup."

That didn't work out so well. Since then he's "fallen down the pecking order at international level," and been replaced by Íker Casillas, a Spainard whose got a hell of a trivia section on his Wiki page.

The reason I bring up obscure Spanish goalies and the tendons they slice is because I, too, fell victim to my own sexiness. Last week I suffered through one of the world's worst sore throats. It hindered my gorging/training, but I still felt confident in my abilities. Being sick doesn't make one feel sexy, so the first night I felt well enough to go out, Friday night, I attended a "White Trash Party" replete in my best Southern regalia. I was in sexy mode. It had been a full week since I'd tasted the hooch and I broke bad. I consumed alcohol at an alarming rate. I kicked ass at Beer Pong, thanks to my much-more-talented teammate, MoJenk.

Cups of Glory

One thing led to another and I ended up drinking all night. And by all night, I mean I didn't stop drinking until noon Saturday. I drank and drank until I thought it best for me not to drink anymore. Then I realized it was time to go to the stadium and join my brethren. Lets just say I wasn't thinking clearly.

As we entered the All You Can Eat Pavilion I explained to my cohorts the condition my condition was in, and their words of support and encouragement led me to believe that, yes, I could go through with this, and what a feat it would be. I sauntered up to the beer vendor, I moseyed to the concession stand, I procured my dogs, we found our seats, and I was off.

I'd took down the first two dogs, lickety-split. I gulped the booze. It was the top of the second inning and I was already ahead of the count.

My stomach proceeded to inform me that that was all the competitive eating I'd be doing that day. My sleep-deprived, poisoned body gave out. As jeers and cheers abounded, as Baby Ruth's soared to the heavens, and as the Padres spanked the Dodgers, my body scream "NO MAS" and shamefully, woefully, I plunkered down for inning upon inning of scorn and embarassment.

But I'm not licked yet. I'm not going gently into that good night. I will not sit idly by while my White Whale swims free. One day, I will enter the 9-9-9 Club, and when I do, you beauiful, smexy readers will be the first to know.

God calls his Baby Ruths back to heaven

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Ski Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop (Scatman John's Predictions for the 2007 NBA Finals)

In what is sure to become a regular feature, we bring you an exclusive interview with John Larkin, better known as Scatman John. His hit, "Scatman" remains one of UK's best selling singles. We caught him on the tail end of a his tour through the Balkans where he made headlines for his public feud with rapping toddler, Jordy.



Interview after the jump...


The Incredible Mr. Limpet: Scatman John, thanks for sitting down to chat with us. I know you're real busy, so I'll cut to the chase. Who do you see coming out on top in the west? Suns of Mavs?

Scatman John: Ski Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop. Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop. Ski Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop. Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop.

TIML: The Mavericks appear immortal right now, but what if they face the Warriors? Do you think that is a first round threat for them? Or will the Clippers bump them out of the eighth spot and make this irrelevant?

SJ: Everybody stutters one way or the other, so check out my message to you. As a matter of fact don't let nothin' hold you back. If the Scatman can do it so can you.

TIML: Isn't that kind of underestimating Elton Brand's low post game?

SJ: Everybody's sayin' that the Scatman stutters, but doesn't ever stutter when he sings.

TIML: I see your point. So the Suns and Mavs both stumble. Spurs then?

SJ: But what you don't know I'm gonna tell you right now, that the stutter and the scat is the same thing. Yo I'm the Scatman.

TIML: Sorry, didn't mean to cut you off.

SJ: Where's the Scatman? I'm the Scatman.

TIML: (Laughs) Yeah. Ok, what about the east? I mean, with Gilbert Arenas injured, that leaves the Heat, Cavs, and Bulls to unseat the Pistons. Any surprises coming our way?

SJ: Why should we be pleasin' all the politician heathens Who would try to change the seasons if the could?

TIML: I agree, the Heat have been overrated all year.

SJ: The state of the condition insults my intuitions and it only makes me crazy and my heart like wood.

TIML: Oh, man if it comes down Pistons vs. Spurs, I'm watching MLS.

SJ: I hear you all ask 'bout the meaning of scat. Well I'm the professor and all I can tell you is while you're still sleepin' the saints are still weepin' cause things you call dead haven't yet had the chance to be born. I'm the Scatman.

TIML: Mind if we post your playoff tree ? I mean, I know it's early and some spots are up for grabs.

SJ: I'm the Scatman. Repeat after me: It's a scoobie oobie doobie scoobie doobie melody
I'm the Scatman. Repeat after me: It's a scoobie oobie doobie scoobie doobie melody

TIML: Thanks.

SJ: (Scatting)

Editor's note: Scatman John later asked us to remove his bracket, but just so you know, he thinks the Suns could win it all. Also he left us with this:

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Colin Cowherd F*cks Horses

By now, we've all heard about ShrutebagGate, and we've all had our jollies. Namecalling is enjoyable, and pointing out The World Wide Leader's woeful mishandling of the situation is valid beyond all repute, but that's not what this post is about.

This post is about how my mind's logic led me to the conclusion that Shrutebag is just like fucking horses.

Lemme explain, after the jump.

Funny story, if you Google image search his name, on the first page is this:



Which is ironic, because of the whole horse fucking thing. See when I first heard that the whole thing I was just as disgusted as the next guy. To use the public airwaves in such a manner was deplorable and immature. I was heartened when the ESPN Ombudswoman agreed with me. Then I took a closer look at what she was really saying. What she was saying was that Shrutebag didn't break any rules because ESPN "had not formulated a policy about such attacks on Internet sites until now because [they] had never imagined the possibility of them."

A lightbulb went off, I knew I'd heard this somewhere.

Naturally, my mind immediately went to beasitality. More specifically, the film "Zoo" about a guy who was killed when he let a horse fuck him and it ruptured his colon and he died from it. The most interesting part about that gruesome tale was that, at the time, the state of Washington didn't have any law forbidding the sexual congress. Totally legit lovin.

Since then, things have changed. You see what Washington state did there? The same thing ESPN did: they both put policies into place forbidding a certain crime after crimes were already committed. Really, the only difference I see is that, as of this publishing, Shrutebag's colon's still in tact.

And now, for the nightmare fuel:

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Flexing Our Intellectual Muscles

Here's a fact you probably didn't know. Three of the seven writers who make up Mr. Limpet were members of Algonquin Round Table. Since those wonderful days our intellectual pursuits have faltered, bottoming out along with it, our sense of humor. A fart echoing in an empty hallway is enough to send us into hysterics. We don't even listen to our old Capitol Steps tapes anymore. We've had enough; we're getting back to the format that made us great: high-brow satire. We're a little rusty, so bear with us after the jump.

Target the first, Mr. President:


Suppose he'll try and blame the Democrats for that one. Oh, wait. Read the caption. He blames it on diarrhea. That's a little less witty, but you get the point.

Target the second, Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez:


Looks like your mom is gonna get indicted... for being sexy. Sorry Alberto, but if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen. Hold on, didn't read that article. Oh, wow. Hmmm... wonder if there's a way to tie in this scandal with a "your mom" joke. Because if you could, that would just bring it to another level.

Target the third, Mr. Bush once again (gotta pay the cost to be the boss):


What's this? The President has a boner? We've seen it all!

Well, we hope this made you laugh, but more importantly, we hope it made you think. There's a lot happening in the world out there, so read a paper, pay attention to U2 lyrics, and donate to whatever charity Gwyneth Paltrow is a member of.

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Back Row Review show! GRINDHOUSE!

Ok. Normally this is the space where you turn to me for guidance about all the good new movies hitting theatres and DVD. You need to know what to see, and I need to notch 500 hours of community service under my belt so I can finally end my God-forsaken probation. It's a good deal; we're both winners.

You should be reading a review of Grindhouse this week. But, instead I owe an apology to the good people that run and frequent the Downey 20 Movie theatre.

This is hard for me to say. I really didn't mean for what happened on Good Friday to go down like it did. I mean it, I swear. But like armed robbery and an addiction to meth; Shit happens. Now, I'm not trying to blame anybody, but let me try to explain.

The first 25 minutes of GRINDHOUSE are so good, the exact type of thing I would do if you gave me hot chicks, money, a camera and a bunch of Zombies (That's the part that would scare me, though....I'd probably get a bodyguard like the one Puff Daddy had that held the umbrella for him when it rained). It's as if the Director, Antonio Banderas, or as my dad calls him, "Tony Bananas," saw inside my heart and decided to make a movie out it. I had never seen anything that good in my life.

So that's why I started masturbating in the middle of Grindhouse. I was probably home before God's film Death Proof even started.

There's a silver lining to this. Although the screening was at 7:15 PM on a Friday night, there was absolutely no one in the theater. What's wrong with you fools? There are hot chicks from SCREAM shooting bullets out of their leg and some guy doing crazy knife stuff and you're going to see some idiots drive around on their Harleys?

Sorry, I'm supposed to be nice here. I'm glad the screening was empty, it's the only reason the management just barred me from the joint instead of calling the police. I have two strikes; a third would be a wrap for me.

But I have to get back to the apology. You must believe me, I swear. I have never pulled a Pee Wee Herman in my life and I've been to some shady porn theaters in my time. Trust me, imagine the worst crack house you've ever been to, add a small screen and some hot dogs and you're still not there. And even in those places, I've had the good sense to uhm, you know, uhm….not pull a Pee Wee in a movie theater. But something about Grindhouse….I didn't even know what I was doing until management shined a flashlight in my face. It's just that the movie was so good! The boobs! The action! The machine gun legs!

The moral of the story is, no matter how good a movie is, it's not right to masturbate, even when it's in salute to the movie. Look at my punishment, I missed out on the second half of what could have been the best movie ever made. So don't do it. And that's the more you know.

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Why I never became a great director

In elementary school I was known as a prodigy. I wrote poems that made teachers cry. I painted portraits that were so life like they won prizes in photography contests. Whatever I touched turned to gold. So when I turned my eye to the motion picture it was not surprising when people compared me to John Ford and Orson Welles.

I was on the fast track to becoming the next Speilberg (sans the daddy issues) when fate intervened.

To read the story of my downfall please follow the jump.


In the Fall of 1999 I enrolled at Chapman University, the 2nd most prestigious film school in Orange California, to gain the education that would cement my carreer in Hollywood. There was only one problem, the school was riddled with North Korean spies.

You see Kim Jong Il is a huge movie buff and he's been known to kidnap budding filmmakers and force them to make films that he himself has written.

I was tipped off right away by a concerned professor that they were interested in my work. After a screening of my student BAFTA award winning film "The Happy Flower Sunshine Jamboree" I started to notice cars parked out in front of my dorm room and the smell of kimchi followed me around everywhere I went. I had been marked.

Now, I'm not against going to North Korea. I hear it's splendid in the Summer. What I do have a problem with is directing another man's script. I am a man of intense vision and when I commit something to film it has to be perfect. So when I found out that Kim Jong Il was interested in my intense directing talent I did the only thing I could think of...give up filmmaking.

Today I live a simple life with many close friends, but there is a hole in my soul. One day I hope to fill it again. Just as soon as that communist bastard dies.

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Oh, the Joys of Japanese Television

As many of you have been made aware of by now either through Chris Farley and SNL or by the wonderful powerhouse that is YouTube, Japanese game shows are the bee's knees. Going from just bizarre to flat out crazy they cover an area that most American game shows just don't like to go to.

Some videos...after the jump.

These game shows are notorious for beating up on their contestants, but nothing beats this one where men are forced to answer questions correctly or they may lose their right to bear children.



As for my favorite, try keeping your cool in a library where you must be quiet while being punished.



But it's great to know that when all is said and done, the contestants let Kickboxing Champion Ernesto Hoost sing a little karaoke in their private suite.

Oh, and a special thanks to Man Man for rocking my ass off last night.

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Halle Berry 1966-2007

Los Angeles, CA-- Oscar Winner Halle Berry was found dead today from what coroners claim was a massive heroin/cocaine/PCP overdose combined with of traces of hepatitis strains never before detected in medical science which were believed to be contracted by making oral contact with a Hollywood sidewalk.

For the rest of the story please read after the jump.

"Also found during the autopsy were strains of
feline leukemia, bubonic plauge, and SARS, but they are not believed to be part of the cause of death."According to Dr. Rober Atschuler, lead coroner on the case. "That sidewalk did a real number on her."

When reached for comment local Homeless woman "Screaming" Nancy Eubanks stated, "She kissed the sidewalk?! I don't even pee there because I'm afraid of what would happen."

Halle Berry was 40.

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Bill Simmons Stay Away From My Basketball Team

Before I get too far into this post I must apologize for what I'm going to say. Bashing Bill Simmons in a blog is beating the deadest of dead horses. But after reading his college basketball blog the other day I found something that was very alarming, Bill Simmons is joining the UCLA bandwagon.

Follow me after the jump for my open letter to The Sports Guy.

Dear Mr. Simmons,

I've been an avid fan of your columns for years now. I appreciate your unique takes on the NFL, MLB, and NBA. I don't think that anyone can really argue that you paved the way for the modern sports blog. But as much good as you have brought the sports world there have been some negatives, most notably you have really caused a lot of people to hate the teams you cheer for.

Like Lenny the retarded ranch hand in "Of Mice and Men" you love things so much that you end up ruining them for everyone else. That's why I fear your new found love of my favorite college team, the UCLA Bruins.

I understand their appeal. I mean they recently made their second straight trip to the Final Four and next year they have super recruit Kevin Love coming to Westwood. That's why now more than ever we don't need annoying man-boy love coming from the World Wide Leader souring everyone on this team.

So please Bill I beg of you turn your allegiances elsewhere. Look if you end up cheering for Kansas I promise I won't complain if you compare every player to characters from the "Karate Kid" in fact I'll make you this promise: if you choose a different basketball team next year I will write a post stating what a great writer/human being you are.

Please Mr. Simmons for me?

Hats Bagelman.

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