Thursday, December 30, 2004

I feel so sad, I guess my race is run


If there's one thing I enjoy on the cultural wasteland that is TV, it's a well-written cop show. For all the good things I've had to say about Kuh-Sai, my favorite is Law & Order. (Law & Order: SUV, to be precise) So naturally, I can't let yesterday go by without saying a little something...


It seems like Jerry Orbach was on L&O forever, and the reruns on cable just serve to reinforce that impression, but Jerry was one of the first of the "new characters" brought onto the show, starting in the third season. Very rarely, I'll come across one of the old Paul Sorvino episodes playing, and it just doesn't seem right. Orbach was Law & Order.
Kind of sad, really, that he was being farmed out to the new version (#6, for those of you keeping score at home) entitled "Law & Order: Trial by Jury." Yes, I know it was because he was dealing with cancer, but that doesn't mean we've got to like it. Put the bucket away, Mr. Wolf, the cow is drying up before our very eyes.
Still, I'd like to think that Det. Briscoe will be solving crimes forever, and with Ben Sinclair's help, he will.


PMSNBC has a decent write-up of Jerry's career here, talking a lot about his early work in theater, and films. Frightening to think that he also played the odiously French candlestick in Beauty & The Beast...


The good news that gets overshadowed by Mr. Orbach's passing, is the L&O marathon on TNT Jan 2nd. They usually drag out the older episodes for these, rather than showing the most recent 2 or 3 seasons, so you'll get the full slate of Orbacchanalia. I'm so there, it'll take Ice-T (who's, like, a cop or something, yo) to drag me away.
They'd better have something nice to say about Jerry, though.


Edit: Damn, how could I forget the SUV marathon on USA all day on the 31st? My "bad," as they say. Turn the puter off, and go watch the Belz catch crazy-ass dog-rapists.


Saturday, December 25, 2004

Most folks call 'em green onions, but they're really scallions

Today, while everyone makes merry and Bing Crosby sings about a blizzard before going home to beat his wife and kids, I come to you to rectify a terrible oversight. Despite all efforts by broadcast television, people are full of holiday cheer amidst a nightmarish onslaught of bad made for TV Christmas movies.
Now I'm not talking about theatrical releases that get re-run on TV, no sir. True, it's easier seeing Dudley Moore dress up like a semi-overgrown child and dole out puce pops to the good little girls and boys on the small screen rather than the large one, but that's a blog for another day. I'm talking about Dyan Cannon and Kris Kristofferson here. LeAnn Rimes and Bernadette Peters. John Schneider, Tom Wopat, and 18 Wheels of "To All a Good Night."

There's a full slate of new ones out this year, but it hasn't stopped you magnificent bastards from gorging on eggnog and blowing chunks all over Old Lady Witherspoon's plastic Frosty the Snowman. God bless you, every one.

What is it with TV Christmas movies, anyway? Why is it that Christmas is perpetually in emminent danger of "not happening" but nobody bothers the other holidays at all? Is it just the time of year that improbable tragedies tend to happen, and Christmas just gets in the way, or is it something more sinister? I think it's the latter, and there needs to be some bad TV movie reparations happening post haste.
Are you with me here people? Hell yesh! We're not going to rest until that truck makes it through the snowdrift / Marjorie safely delivers her baby / A Has-Been celebrity and their B-List friends gather to share poorly scripted banter, and we all learn the true meaning of Arbor Day. Or Flag Day. Even Waitangi Day would be fine by me.

So anyway, Merry Christmas to everyone not involved in television production. Now go kick Lionel Barrymore's ass for screwing over Uncle Billy!

Sunday, December 19, 2004

There's only one thing I can say to you:

I do indeed want to rock.

The problem is that there's little rocking to be had this time of year, unless one counts the rocking done 'round the Christmas Tree. Somehow, I just can't picture Ronnie James Dio in a Santa hat... maybe if he was burning an elf or something.

The local station I depend upon for my beloved 80s music, having already betrayed me once by softening their format to "80s, 90s, and Today" went "All X-Mas, All the Time" back before Thanksgiving, and I've lost all desire to even turn the damn radio on. The few 80s song they deign to dole out inevitably turn out to be soft poppy, 2nd rate stuff - never anything harder than the "safe" Van Halen song. Look, I like "Jump." I like it quite a bit, but there's just a tad more to their catalogue than one song. Hell, there's a lot more good stuff on that album alone.
Still, let's be a little more representative of the 80s please. There's only so much Sheena E that a guy can take, y'know. I'm not asking for lunch with Judas Priest or anything, just drop AC/DC in the rotation for a week or so...
I've cut a bit of a reprieve on VH by hitting up the Classic Rock stations, now that they're finally old enough to get some airplay there. However, wading through 40 minutes of Stones and Zeppelin just to hear something 80s isn't really a recipe for entertainment either.

I've noticed it more and more now, that rather than playing some of the 2nd tier hits by bands, the radio stations will annoint one track to be THE SONG that represents a particular band. THE SONG is all that they are allowed to play. Ever. There are no other songs, there is only THE SONG.
See it in action yourself - call up your local mindless radio station and request to hear your band. Even money says you'll get THE SONG. Of course, it won't work if you request a specific non-THE SONG song.

A perfect example is Twisted Sister. Right now, a good number of you just said "I Wanna ROCK!" but do you ever hear it on the radio? Noooo... THE SONG is "We're Not Gonna Take It."
Damn, man, I spent half of elementary school just itching for someone to ask me what I was gonna do with my life - all for the privledge of shouting the only possible answer back at them. Until this week, I would have been happy to take what I could get, and call myself lucky. But now? Now I want more.
Twisted Sister has yet to shake the glam image they hit it big with 20 frickin years ago, and they've been paying for it ever since. So when I was surprised to hear them on a fellow Osirian's radio show, (now defunct, you jackholes) I've been glad for their comeback. This week - things change... and I owe it all to a spastic little sponge, and a giant peanut costume.

Shit, if anyone can get more Twisted Sister on the air, then Spongebob can. Maybe an occasional Motorhead song to boot. The real trick will be if we can achieve it without getting any of Hasselhoff's German "hits" tagging along for the ride.
Am I truly worried about Hasselhoff on the radio? Yes, friends, yes I am. Radio is just dumb enough to do it.

Monday, December 13, 2004

She cried "More! More! More!"

Additional proof, for those of you who need it. Now in a new "visual" form!

Huzzah for pictures that don't screw up the blog's format!

Shot through the heart, and you're to blame!

I was recently sent this tasty item that demanded to be included in the annals of Big Dumb Sheep. Thanks go out to my loyal reader for keeping me informed of crazy shit like this.

I must've been caught up in Thanksgiving festivities to notice this one, and I apologize for letting you all down. Anyway, This is -- without a doubt -- proof positive that God hates hippies.

My favorite part about this is the police quote at the end, where they specifically had to mention that Lance Armstrong's retarded doppleganger was neither drunk nor high when he submitted his candidacy for the Darwin Awards. For the sake of society at large, his daughter needs to be submitted to a comprehensive battery of testing to determine if she should be put down now, and save us all the expense of raising her just so she can follow in her father's footsteps.
Of course, if she's a chip off the ol' block, it'll be fucking hilarious when she snuffs herself.

What the hell, go for it kid! Keep the streak alive!

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

You dropped a bomb on me, baby

I should start out by wishing everyone the happiest of holidays. I hope you find time to make today special, and spend time with the ones you love. In the Stewniverse, we get the family together and play games appropriate for the season.

Ha, I made with the funny once again! Enjoy Pearl Harbor Day, you sneaky sons of bitches!

Or Merry RamaHanaKwanzMas, if you're so inclined... Unless you live in California, where they've finally gotten their heads out of Berkley's collective ass, and realized that people still celebrate Christmas.
Man, whoever coined the name "Grey Doofus" for the previous governor had it right on. Calling your Christmas tree a "Holiday Tree" to avoid offending the 15% of the population that's not Christian isn't going to score you any points there. You know... since they don't celebrate any holidays involving lit up trees and stuff.
It just annoys the 85% of the population that's Christian and you end up with everyone thinking you're a politically correct dumbass. How's that recall thing working out for you, Gov Davis?

So all you Christian readers have like another two and a half weeks to get your second mortgage approved so you can buy presents for your ungrateful children... good luck!
Likewise, I hope all my Jewish readers get eight nights full of kickass visits from the Hanukkah Armadillo.
And a bit late, but at least I'm still thinking of you - I hope my Muslim readers got a month of fun from the Eid al Fitr Roadside Bomber... or whoever the fuck you guys have.

Happy Whatever, Everyone!

Friday, December 03, 2004

In my midnight confessions, when I tell all the world that I love you

Due to recent events, I suppose it's time for me to come clean about a thing or two...

I want to confess everything to you, dear readers, and lift the weight from my soul. I have, for the past few months, been living a lie. Yes, I have struggled with a dark secret tucked away from the world and kept only to myself...

I know what you're thinking. In fact, some of you have suspected it for quite some time now. I come here today to tell you in no uncertain terms that it's all true. I am 100% guilty.

I am absolutely addicted to Microwave Pot Roast.

I mean, damn that stuff is the Bomb! Lemme tell you what kids, it's the Citizen Kane of irradiated beef products. It takes both the Mack Daddy and the Daddy Mack into the alley out back and beats the crap out of them.
Then it takes their milk money and blows it on hookers and wine coolers, it's so fucking good.

Those of you that have emailed me with your letters of concern have not gone unheard. I appreciate the sort of digital intervention you've gone through to make me admit my problem. But really, enough already. I've heard the word "gram" enough to last me a decade. I've got grams comin out my eyesockets over here. I'm done hearing about kilocals, BMIs, and net carbs too. Seriously, net carbs can lick my balls.
Your good intentions are duly noted. I'll take it all into consideration. No really, I've been planning to get some help with th-


Gotta go, pot roast's done.