Michael Jackson dead at age 50.

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In continuing his lifelong pursuit to quantify the essence of the human spirit, Michael Bay has created a film that is both BOOM! KAPOW! BLOOOOSHE!!! yet literally bursting with the mechanized emotion for BLAMM!!! ZAPOW!!! HOT CHICK RIDING A MOTORCYCLE!! For the joyful glee of wanton nihilism expressed here as BAM! KABOOM!!! GIANT ROBOTS!!! MACHINE GUNS!! yet it is through this flaw in their dynamic that we see Shia LaBouef at his most ZOOOOOOOOOM!!! CAMARO!!! BLAAAAM!!! with the possible exception of Megan Fox, who for all her MINI SKIRT!!! CLEAVAGE ARRRGHH!! EXPLOOOOOOSION!!! for this dichotomy to work, and though there are certainly manifestations of her SLOOOO-MOOOOOOOO!!! KARATE ROBOT!!! BLOOOOOOOGGH!!! likable enough, however her ROBOT TURNING INTO A TRUCK!!! GRRRRRR-CRUSH!!! CRUSH!!! Michael Bay, mirroring his own BOOOM-POW!! EXPLOOOOOSIOOOOON!!!! ROBOT ROBOT BOOOM!!!! humanity isn’t enough; it serves as a greater metaphor for BLARRRRRRZZ-SPLOSION HOT CHICK!! ROBOT!!! FERRARI EXPLOSION!!! enough to know where machine ends, and human begins?

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Yup. Fox News correspondent Greta Van Susteren. Just to be clear, Greta’s the one on the right.

To be fair to myself, it’s not like Greta’s on the brain 24/7; in fact I generally try to block her out of my mind altogether. I mean its tough enough sustaining an erection at my age, and weight (though I’m down to a slim 450 lbs. thanks to something called “bulimia”), without some neo-fascist, arthropod-worshipping screechy skeleton hovering around the recesses of my psyche. But it just so happens that I was at the gym the other day, where the TVs are — inexplicably — always tuned to Fox News as opposed to say ESPN (perhaps the folks at LA Fitness see me head for the treadmill and quickly change the channel – hoping the GOP’s propaganda network will raise my blood pressure — in an attempt to induce a stroke and free up the machine for more attractive clients). It was there that I caught a bit of Greta’s ranting and raving about her “outrage” regarding the “controversial” joke by David Letterman wherein he accurately described Sarah Palin’s daughter as a slutty baby-incubator who can’t keep her legs shut through the seventh inning stretch of a major league baseball game (specifically, Dave mused that Yankees superstar Alex Rodriguez had “knocked up” one of Governor Palin’s trailer-spawn on their recent trip to New York City).

And let me emphasize, Greta was outraged.

Until this point I’d been unaware that this was a controversy at all. This barb (they’re called that for a reason) came care of one of Dave’s typically innocuous opening monologues in which Letterman makes jokes at other people’s expense. That’s his job; and he’s been doing it adequately on national television for about thirty years. But while Dave may have been on the bleeding edge of comedy in the 1980s, back when he hosted Late Night for NBC (aka the Failure Network), his CBS show is only controversial when compared to reruns of Full House. And it’s not like Palin is even a “hot topic” anymore. So to quote Bugs Bunny: “What’s all the hubbub, bub?”

But let me re-emphasize, Greta was outraged.

Now normally I’d forgo the ad hominem attack, but since this was Fox News I was watching, and per their own modus operandi ad hominem attacks are intrinsic to “fair and balanced” news coverage: Why would Greta Van Susteren’s “outrage” mean anything to me, a somewhat rational human being, when her moral compass has been bent by a steadfast conviction that our bodies are inhabited by the souls of aliens who died in a nuclear blast thousands of years ago at the hands of an evil intergalactic space wizard named Xenu?

This is not conjecture; this is not satire; this is what she believes. THIS IS HER RELIGION, a religion contrived more or less on a whim by a paranoid-schizophrenic science fiction writer. Per the tenets of her belief system she’s also outraged by psychiatry, frowny faces and people who think Tom Cruise is gay. Hell — blueberry pancakes, Labrador retrievers and kettle whistles probably set her off too. But apparently Greta wasn’t alone in her outrage. There was a veritable army of humorless, literal-minded, right-wing-fringe lunatics out there who were similarly upset by Letterman’s joke, not the least of which being Sarah Palin herself.

Per the statement released on the Luv-Guv’s Facebook page (:-) LOL TMI ;-):

‘Laughter incited by sexually-perverted comments made by a 62-year-old male celebrity aimed at a 14-year-old girl is not only disgusting, but it reminds us some Hollywood/NY entertainers have a long way to go in understanding what the rest of America understands – that acceptance of inappropriate sexual comments about an underage girl, who could be anyone’s daughter, contributes to the atrociously high rate of sexual exploitation of minors by older men who use and abuse others.’

Ohhhh… kay… um, what?

First of all, who is the “rest of America” Palin is speaking for? Certainly not me, or anyone I know, or anyone with an IQ of 80 or above. Secondly: Fourteen? Really? Letterman didn’t specify WHICH Palin girl A-Rod had been slipping his A-Rod to, but common sense would tell you this joke was aimed at Palin’s famously fertile 18-year-old daughter Bristol. You know, the one who got mothered up out of wedlock, then kicked the bastard’s Skidoo-riding redneck daddy to the curb so she could embark on a whirlwind speaking tour — whoring lil’ oopsy and herself out to any TV talk show that would take them so she could share with the world the wellspring of knowledge she’d garnered from shooting a broken-rubber-baby out of her fetus-cannon? Yeah, that one. That’s the point of the joke. But apparently Bristol hadn’t accompanied the LuvGuv on her trip to Fancy Town, so Sarah jumped to the illogical conclusion that Dave’s joke was aimed at her 14-year-old but by no mean any less slutty daughter Willow. And that’s just WRONG, man. She’s like… FOURTEEN. 14-year-old girls don’t have consensual sex! Ever! (Though one whiff of my be-mulleted, high school freshman iteration’s index finger would’ve told you otherwise).

Palin’s equally vacuous husband Todd also released a statement, probably via Friendster because he’s a backwards rural hill-man:

‘Any ‘jokes’ about raping my 14-year-old are despicable. Alaskans know it and I believe the rest of the world knows it, too.’

Okay, now who the hell said anything about RAPE?? Let me make something perfectly clear: I am a connoisseur of rape jokes. I love them, they love me and sometimes, they are my bread and butter. So as much as I’d love for Letterman’s harmless one-liner to have been a rape joke, it just wasn’t. I know rape jokes, and that was no rape joke.

So where are the Palins getting this stuff? Read through their statements again. Or search YouTube for any one of the many, many, MANY interviews they’ve done since this “controversy” broke last week: It’s like sexual-perversion, rape and pedophilia are the sugar plums dancing in their heads. Am I the only one who finds this FUCKING CREEPY? Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a feral JeanBenet Ramsey chained to a water boiler in the Palins’ basement. These people are FREAKS.

But the true motivation behind Sarah’s very public cries of outrage is pretty clear: Sarah Palin wants our attention. Nay, she NEEDS OUR attention. She is no different than those superficial non-humans on The Hills, or John and Kate and their eight little inbred demon-spawn. Once you give these idiots a taste of the spotlight they will stop at nothing to gorge themselves on more, like ravenous piggies gobbling up every crumb of their fleeting fame. Don’t think for second that this has anything to do with Sarah’s political aspirations. She’s a politician as much as she is a beauty contestant, or a TV weather girl. Politics for Sarah is just a means to an end, another route to achieve the fame and attention she so desperately craves, despite the fact that she has nothing to offer society in exchange for such notoriety – other than being an easy punch line.

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Per trade publication Variety, Dark Hero Studios’ David Hayter and Benedict Carver are teaming up with producer Bill Mechanic to adapt Image Comics’ Deadworld into a feature talkie. Deadworld, as the name implies, concerns a world overrun by zombies. The rub here however is that the zombies are sentient, or at least possessing the intelligence to hold a grudge against the planet’s few human survivors. Oh snap! Hayter, besides being the voice of Solid Snake in the Metal Gear games, recently scripted the Watchmen adaptation for Legendary/Warner Bros. Carver produced Neil Marshall’s post-apocalyptic pastiche Doomsday and Mechanic is currently changing the head gaskets on my Ford Taurus. But seriously – did you notice how each of their surnames suggests that they are doers-of-deeds? Hating, carving, changing head gaskets? There’s something to that, no? At least on the subconscious level I bet these guys are empowered by the fact that their surnames suggest they are men of action. Maybe I’d be more successful if my surname had been a verb made into a noun with the suffix “er.” Maybe I should change my name? I’m thinking… hmmmm… Raper.

But lest you think I’m skipping out on the opportunity to use this story as a springboard for a rant about zombies, rest assured that it begins right after the period at the end of this sentence. I’ve been hearing some chatter lately — mostly amongst hipster types, development execs, the folks at my AA meetings — that zombies are, per the colloquialism of idiots, “all done.” Or worse yet, that “vampires are the new zombies.” Meaning that zombies have oversaturated popular culture to the point that they’ve gone the way of dodos, Reeboks Freestyles, and the Republican party. And this sentiment is understandable. For a while it seemed like every week there was a new zombie picture going down the development River Styx. Remember Brad Pitt’s gazillion dollar bid for the rights to adapt Max Brooks’ (outstanding) novel World War Z? And of course there’s been a glut of ultra-low budget, straight to DVD zombie pics, but that’s ALWAYS been the case; zombie films are easy to make on the cheap. Then there’s the internet — stupid, stupid internet – where zombies have been unfairly lumped in with pirates and ninjas as the go-to post-modern references for unimaginative Maddox clones. But see, whereas pirates and ninjas are IRONICALLY cool, zombies are just cool. And by cool I mean (per the parlance of my 8th grade New Englander iteration) wicked fuckin’ cool. In fact, if it is even possible to quantify “cool” (which I believe it is) zombies might well be the “coolest” things ever. Which means, unlike Fonzie (who in actuality was only somewhat cool), they are immune to pop culture shark-jumpage. THEY ARE THE FUCKING UNDEAD. And you can’t kill what’s already dead.

But even if one is to discount my theory of their shark-jumping auto-immunity, there’s simply no real evidence of zombies oversaturation, at least in cinema. Name all the zombie movies that have come out this year. I don’t mean your cousin’s shot-on-video zombie piss take that he screened at his junior college’s “film fest,” I mean actual zombie films with actual distribution. Okay, after you’re done counting to zero, name all the zombie films that came out LAST year. You might be able to pull a few limited releases out of your ass, like say Jenna Jameson’s Zombie Strippers. And while that film was not a blockbuster by any means, it did perform WAY above expectations. Which brings up another point: zombie films almost ALWAYS exceed expectations. Slasher films — especially reboots/remakes of 1980s slasher films — crash and burn as much as they succeed. And PG13 Asian style “ghost” movies lack the requisite gore for today’s discerning horror junky. But zombies don’t lack for anything in that department; they are WALKING gore. So where are all these fucking zombie movies that we’re supposedly being inundated with? And don’t say Japan, because Japan’s love for zombies is PURE and TRUE. I’d never be having this discussion in Japan (mostly because I’d be too busy masturbating into soiled schoolgirl panties purchased from vending machines).

The hype is an illusion. Or more accurately, the over-hype is an illusion. Zombies transcend the zeitgeist. They are woven into the collective unconscious. Yet it is for this very reason that (I theorize anyway) all those zombie projects you read about going into development never get made. Zombies terrify the very people charged with making zombie movies. As good as the idea seems on paper, the average studio exec would rather spend a year of their life working on something that doesn’t give them night terrors – something like Bride Wars (you know, something that gives ME night terrors). Zombies evoke feelings of genuine dread. As improbable as zombies rising from the grave might seem, there’s something very real about this scenario. Vampires and ghosts come off as fantasy; and especially in the case of the former, there’s something romantic about them. But there’s nothing romantic about zombies. Chubby goth girls don’t crank up the Bauhaus and diddle themselves to fantasies of a zombified Peter Murphy coming through the bedroom window and biting them on the neck. That shit’s just creepy. Which is why – for horror films – zombies work so well.

If anything the world needs more zombie movies, not less. So enough of this “zombies are all done” business. Try as you might, you soulless culturistas can’t kill my love for zombies, not even with a head-shot.

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Did Warner Bros. hire Carl Rove to sway the outcome of this weekend’s box office in their favor? Because last night the trades were reporting that UP grabbed the weekend’s number one spot with $ 44 million. However a different tune was sung today, with the Todd Phillips’ emotionally-stunted-male comedy The Hangover wearing the Weekend Box Office’s ruby-encrusted tiara, having bested the aforementioned Pixar flick by a cool mil.

Regardless, it was a good weekend for The Hollywood, what with two films north of the $40 million mark… hookers and blow for everyone! Everyone that is except Will Ferrell, whose Land of the Lost pulled in “only” $19 million – meager winnings for the once reigning king of emotionally-stunted manboy comedies. Still, there is a lesson to be learned here, and NO that lesson is not that Will Ferrell’s done like trucker hats and should be shuffled off to Jim Carrey’s Island of Comedy Wash Ups. But for you studio execs currently going over your development slates and realizing that it consists almost entirely or remakes, reboots, and adaptations it’s a lesson learned hard like “don’t drop the soap” on your first day of prison. Said lesson being, as I’ve only told y’all a gabazillion times, that just because you happen to have cherished memories of some TV show or cartoon or board game from your bed-wetting days DOESN’T mean turning said childhood memories into a $200 million feature film will result in anything but a career-ruining disaster. Nostalgia’s wonderful for staving off more painful ghosts from our past. Dad might’ve been a degenerate gambler, mom a philandering pill-head and Uncle Jerry might’ve touched us one too many times in the no-no place, but that’s okay because The Thundercats were go! and that made it all better, right? And that might’ve got you through Jr. High without going Columbine just fine, but now that you’re all growed up, stuffing those memories into a Thundercats lunch box is only gonna cost you your career, dipshit. So wise up.

Was The Hangover ever a comic book? A board game? An action figure equipped with kung-fu grip? Don’t think so. I also don’t recall there ever being an UP videogame or breakfast cereal. Yet these films managed to WIN BIG where your “branded” property failed. Why? Because the people – REAL people, not your fart-sniffing faux-liberal Hollywood friends — want FRESH and NEW. They don’t want the same old turds ground up and peppered with MSG then rammed down their throats, like you ASSUME they do because when you see ‘em driving in their Ford pick-ups on your way to Wine Country your self-important smugness informs you that these idiots will swallow anything you feed them. I mean look at them! Did those clothes come from Wal-Mart? And is that a “Support Our Troops” yellow ribbon I see? What rubes! I bet they even voted for John McCain!

Yeah, well those McCain-voting pick-up truck drivers are the ones lining your coffers, The Hollywood. And just because they don’t own hybrids or buy their organic kale at Whole Foods doesn’t mean they’ll eat any shit sandwich you’re selling just because it comes in a familiar wrapper. So next time some icky writer, producer or director comes to you with an original idea stop trying to figure out how to tie it to an existing intellectual property – especially if that property is fucking Bazooka Joe (the bubblegum wrapper comic strip that has the distinction of making Fred Basset funny by comparison). Take a chance. Try being innovative. The “creative” before the word “executive” on your business card wasn’t ALWAYS intended to be ironic, ya know.

Of course if you do take my advice I’ll have nothing left to write about. Which means I’ll have to re-direct all this pent up hostility somehow, like by maybe taking my old sniper rifle down to Third Street Promenade and taking random pop-shots at street mimes. But are mimes really worth their weight in shitty movies? I don’t think so.

Speaking of Bazooka Joe, here’s some leaked footage from the upcoming feature adaptation. Perhaps I was too quick to judge? Because this actually looks pretty bad-ass.

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Hex isn’t exactly a “top tier” comic property. He doesn’t wear a cape, he’s not a particularly nice guy, and I don’t see there being a huge market for horribly disfigured action figures. But he is a bad-ass and like me he once fought a puma. So I will reserve judgment until the movie comes out, though if history’s taught us anything it’s that a) the Holocaust didn’t happen* and b) the coolest comic book characters generally make the shittiest movies. Case in point: The three failed attempts at making a viable Punisher movie (okay, the Dolph Lundgren version was certainly a CREATIVE success, but alas not a financial one). Exhibit B: Wolverine. What a load of feces that was. And Keanu Reeves as John Constantine? Poop soup (although Peter Stormare’s turn as Satan almost made it worthwhile).

It does seem like they tried to downplay the scarring on the right side of Hex’s face, probably so as not to scare off the ladies. Really doesn’t look that disfigured at all; more like he was having a chemical peel done and walked out halfway through. As someone who’s had his share of bad spa experiences I’ll tell you, it’s the kind of thing that can turn a good-hearted person into a stone-cold killer. I mean LOOK at these cuticles! If your fingers were similarly befouled you’d stab a Vietnamese lady in the eye with a nail file too, Your Honor (more excerpts from my recent testimony can be found on the Judicial Branch of California’s website).

Oh, and for all you Google-dependent chronic masturbators, here are some shots of Megan Fox, who’ll be acting against type by playing the part of A WHORE. A stretch, I know, but something tells me she’ll be able to pull it off.

*The Holocaust did happen.

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According to leading TV historians there was a time when Alyssa Milano was the hottest actress in the world. That time was 1984, when the 12-year-old Alyssa portrayed Samantha Micelli on Who’s the Boss? And though her looks would soon fall to the ravages of puberty, under the tutelage of master thespian Tony Danza, Alyssa became something of a tour de force. She could act, sing, dance, stretch, rock a tube top, and give sound advice to teens about the importance of fitness – as evidenced by her masterwork, Teen Steam:

See? If that video didn’t make you want to go down to your local high school with trench-coat pockets full of Rohypnol-tinged watermelon Jolly Ranchers, check your pulse because you’re likely dead. But in 1987 something would turn Alyssa’s charmed world to shit — something named Nicole Eggert. While no match for Alyssa in the talent department, the Charles in Charge actress did possess similar pedo-bait lusciousness and because she was blonde naturally stole the lion’s share of the nation’s attention. What few knew however was that Nicole Eggert was… the Anti-Christ.

But Alyssa knew. Alyssa knew because her mentor Tony Danza happened to be a leading expert in the occult. And while Tony’s magic would be no match for Nicole Eggert’s dark powers, the pure-of-heart Alyssa could be… so long as she were trained. Thus Tony trained Alyssa in the karate, judo, accordion and white witchcraft. And Alyssa battled Nicole Eggert on the snow-capped peak of a mountain. They fought for many days, using karate and the casting of spells until finally Nicole Eggert was thrown into a deep volcano where she will lay dormant for a thousand years. And when Nicole rises again from the firey pits of Hell she and Alyssa shall do battle once more, only then the stakes will be all our mortal souls. Until then, Alyssa Milano will star and produce the independent romantic comedy My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend for her Peace by Peace Prods shingle. Film concerns an outgoing young woman (Milano) who must choose between two suitors — a struggling novelist and a successful ad executive. Since I already saw Reality Bites I’m going to spoil the ending right now and tell you she winds up with the struggling novelist. If this thing goes straight to DVD she’ll be lucky. If its shelved for eternity, WE’LL be lucky.

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I really have no idea why MTV still exists. Other than bed-ridden quadriplegics with cruel keepers who even watches it? If it weren’t for the fact that its two annual awards shows usually dump some lame publicity stunts into the zeitgeist I’d just assume that the “Music Television” network went off the air in 1998. Its cultural significance circa 2009 is right up there with pogs and The Macarena, and admitting to watching MTV on a regular basis is like trying to rock an aqua-blue Motorola pager on your hip. I’m sure at some point it’ll be a nostalgic-cum-hipster-ironic thing to do, like listening to cassette tapes, but until the Williamsburg fixed-gear set starts rocking “I Want My MTV” stickers on their messenger bags can we all agree to shun MTV viewers like lepers?

Oh and speaking of lame publicity stunts, this year’s was Sacha Baron Cohen’s tea-bagging of Eminem. I’m sure this totally contrived moment of spontaneous comedy has already hit your inbox a thousand times by now, but just in case reading this blog is your only interaction with the outside world, here’s the clip (fair warning, it will probably be pulled off YouTube at some point).

Boy, Eminem sure seemed upset, huh? Yeah that’s called acting. Bad acting. Eminem has a new record to hype, remember? He needed the publicity just as much as Brüno. ANYWAY, besides giving celebrities a well-lit street corner on which to pimp themselves like the ass-whores they are, MTV also handed out a bunch of meaningless statuettes, presumably for achievements in cinema. I’m sure an MTV Movie Award on your mantle’s right up there with NAMBLA’s “Best Child Molester” trophy, but as you peruse the list of “winners” below the twisted logic of it all starts to make sense. The MTV Movie Awards makes the Nick Kids Choice Awards look “deep.”

BEST MOVIE
• Twilight

BEST FEMALE PERFORMANCE
• Kristen Stewart – Twilight

BEST MALE PERFORMANCE
• Zac Efron – High School Musical 3: Senior Year

BREAKTHROUGH PERFORMANCE FEMALE
• Ashley Tisdale – High School Musical 3: Senior Year

BREAKTHROUGH PERFORMANCE MALE
• Robert Pattinson – Twilight

BEST COMEDIC PERFORMANCE
• Jim Carrey – Yes Man

BEST VILLAIN
• Heath Ledger – The Dark Knight

BEST FIGHT
• Robert Pattinson vs. Cam Gigandet – Twilight

BEST KISS
• Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson – Twilight

BEST WTF MOMENT
• Amy Poehler – Baby Mama, Peeing In the Sink

BEST SONG FROM A MOVIE
• “The Climb” – Miley Cyrus, Hannah Montana: The Movie

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Way back in 2007, when these “reboots” were more exception than rule, we relished them as fodder for our long-winded, snark-riddled rants about the forehead-slapping idiocy that results from removing “creativity” from the creative process. But now that this is the industry’s BUSINESS MODEL, we can hardly keep up. And so we bring you STUPID HOLLYWOOD… our new column wherein we compile the week’s dumbest of the dumb.

ALIEN

While the sequel Aliens is arguably a better film, Ridley Scott’s original Alien brought us several of the greatest scenes in horror film history, and Stan Winston’s creature design is still the benchmark to which all movies monsters are now compared. So naturally Ridley jumped at the chance to produce an xtremed-up, CGI-and-splosions version of his best film (yes, I’m a member of the “Blade Runner is overrated” camp). Only THIS time the franchise will be placed in the capable hands of director Carl Erik Rinsch, famous for his… uh… car commercials (props to /Film for compiling this career retrospective of Mr. Rinsch).

BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER

While the original feature would at best be considered a sleeper cult hit, the spin-off TV show built itself a legion of devoted fans thanks to the quirky dialog and compelling characters brought to life by creator Joss Whedon. How original was Whedon’s voice? Name me another TV showrunner who has fan conventions devoted not just to one show but to his entire body of work, who has rabid followers eager to digest anything he does regardless of genre or medium. So naturally, when considering a reboot of the franchise, the wisest move would be to remove the only thing people liked about it in the first place… namely, Whedon.

TOMB RAIDER

Ah yes. Let us journey back to those heady days of 2001, back when Friendster was our only means of online social networking and our iPods had a mere 10 gigs of memory. Our new president was poised to unite the world with peace, love and harmony and some swarthy, box-cutter-wielding Arabs played a hilarious practical joke on the city of New York. But I think what people remember most about 2001 was pre-baby-hoarding Angelina Jolie’s turn as Lara Croft in the video game adaptation Tomb Raider. If only we could return to those more innocent times… what’s that you say, producer Dan Lin? We can? But this time with the generic, white-bread, piss-poor acting skills of Megan Fox filling out the lead role? Sign me up, Dan Lin! Let’s get in Doc Brown’s DeLorean and take a ride back to the salad days!

FLETCH

Remember how much everyone loved it when Harrison Ford “passed the torch” to America’s favorite action star, Shia Labeouf, in Lucas and Spielberg’s incomprehensible meh-sterpiece Indiana Jones and the Kingdom Come Crystal Cathedral Whateverthefuckitwascalled? Well now Chevy Chase – who hasn’t been funny since people actually drove Chevys – is considering doing the same thing with a new Fletch movie. This is actually a new sub-species of the “reboot,” which shall hitherto be known as the “torch passer.”

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In a scenario eerily reminiscent of the 2000 presidential elections – except that it concerns something completely inconsequential — Fox TV and American Idol sponsors/shitty-mobile-service providers AT&T have issued statements assuringIdol viewers that outside of the stack of Kahlua-stained undergarments left to rot in the corner of Paula Adbul’s dressing room, there was nothing fishy about last week’s season finale.

Fans of music-ruining screech-harpy Adam Lambert have been regurgitating conspiracy theories like Alex Jones after a two-week meth binge ever since underdog Kris Allen “defeated” the good-song-defiling show favorite Lambert, who in addition to hating everything that music stands for, looks like an alcohol-bloated drag queen version of Addam’s Family’s Lurch after being shot with a Hot Topic cannon. Unfortunately The New York Times handed a ten-gallon drum of gasoline to Lambert’s fans with which to fuel their fire, when they reported the following incident which allegedly occurred at an Idol viewing party in Arkansas (quoted directly from THR because I’m too lazy to paraphrase):

Local AT&T reps gave fans phones they could use to send 10 text message votes at the touch of a button, a practice the Times said appears to violate the show’s rules against using “technical enhancements” to bump voting.

Wow. Holy shit. This is far worse than the Kennedy assassination. But I 100% guarantee that EVEN IF THE INCIDENT ABOVE DID HAPPEN it affected the outcome of the Idol voting in no way simply because it occurred in Arkansas. Look, the web of incest in Arkansas is so entangled than no one there is any less than their own first cousin. In fact there’s a guy in Fort Smith who’s actually his own father, mother and paternal grandfather. They don’t even bother fucking their cousins in Arkansas anymore; they just self-replicate by releasing spores. So no amount of explanation of anything technology-related would’ve swayed the vote count of a middle school student council election — never mind the Idol finale which garnered a whopping 100 million votes (WTF???) — because the state’s entire population is, simply put, mentally retarded. And we’re not talking highly functional retards like Jimmy the affable Burger King employee. We’re talking pants-shitting, drool-cup-wearing, circus freak retards — like our country’s 43rd President.

But even if the misspelled texts of a handful of Arkansas water-heads were enough to tip the scales in Kris Allen’s favor… who fucking cares? It’s not like our reigning “American Idol” is an actual public servant, entrusted with a magical scepter with which to protect us from alien invaders. The title is COMPLETELY MEANINGLESS. Win or lose, Adam Lambert’s gonna be performing at the same state fairs and AAA seventh-inning stretches next year. And he’s gonna be working the same Jack in the Box drive-thru six years from now — once he’s been completely wiped from the collective consciousness like the errant dingleberry he is — giving the exact same lispy Terry Malloy speech about how he “could’ve been a contendah” to his non-English-fluent immigrant co-workers. THESE PEOPLE DO NOT MATTER. They are not musicians, they are not artists, they aren’t even really singers. They’re bad karaoke contestants from some alternate reality’s Holiday Inn lounge. Let’s just forget these people exist and move on with our lives.

Oh, and for the 100 million of you who actually bothered to vote for this stupid thing? Fuck you. And stop doing that. Seriously. Go outside. Talk a walk. Ride a bicycle, teach kids at the rec center how to huff paint, stalk and kill a hobo, do ANYTHING besides watching stupid reality shit and sending stupid text messages. For the sake of humanity I’m BEGGING you fucktards.

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