The “victory lap” the NRA/ILA took at their convention last week for having defeated the already flimsy gun-control measures in Congress was so appalling that my opinion was numbed for a few days, my mind snickering in ongoing disbelief. They even trotted out Sarah Palin, looking and behaving ever more the nightmarish ventriloquist’s dummy
Even if the President suffered short-term memory loss coupled with Tourette’s and laryngitis for all three upcoming debates, it is almost certain at this juncture that Romney will lose the election. That’s how little the debates matter
It appears HBO has done a hatchet job on old Georgie’s puss by digitally lopping off his nose and chin. While we’re only guessing from the screen grab below, it seems to be yet more cheesy Game of Thones VFX;
THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES
by James Killough
There was some terribly sad news last Wednesday: Sarah Palin announced she isn’t running for president. The fact that the final gong on that tuneless, talentless cabaret act was utterly muffled by the untimely demise of a truly great man, Steve Jobs, was the definition of poetic justice, and will set the tone for the Moosehead MILF’s rapid slip into obscurity. However, I shall miss Tina Fey’s impersonations. Fuck, she was funny.
Hopefully this picture will soon be a still from Celebrity The Price is Right.
Joe McGinniss’s article in the Daily Beast had a decent paragraph that summed up just how dangerous this whole episode was:
BAKER STREET | REVIEW
by Eric J Baker
As you read these words, I am either dead, in jail, or lying in a Bangkok hotel room minus a kidney.
Wait… that was last weekend. Right now, I’m either laughing at the Weather Channel people for making a big deal out of nothing, or I’m sitting in the dark with the power off and wondering what the hell I’m going to eat for the next three days, or I’m being washed away by the deluge of Hurricane Irene, lamenting for the final time that I passed on a threesome with those two blonde chicks in 1991. But fuck if I’m going to lead this story with a boring satellite photo of a storm called “Irene.” This Irene is Irene Hoek, a playmate from the Euro edition of Playboy:
A hot shirtless babe. Sorry, Str8s call them 'topless.' But that word reminds us of a drunk, horny, unlucky bottom in West Hollywood on a Saturday night after the bars have closed.
If I had created Eve instead of letting God do it, you can bet she would have looked a lot like this. Then I would have stabbed Adam in the neck with an ice pick and set about wrecking Eden properly. My apologies, by the way, to the vast majority of our readers who do not find such images appealing. It’s just that I and the apparently one other straight man who follow this blog found Tuttle’s lead photo from Wednesday to be a bit jarring, so I was promised a bunny as compensation for my pain and suffering and I’m cashing in. Besides, I might be drowning right now, and you wouldn’t deny a drowning man one last piece of eye candy, would you?
As a friend from out of town noted the other day after a simple lunch at Gingergrass in Silverlake, “We’ve spent hundreds of dollars dining out at expensive restaurants in LA, all of them mediocre. The best food here is in the cheaper places.” Which is very true. One of the best-kept Mexi Cali open secrets in this town is the unpretentious La Esquinita on Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park. It is not only embarrassingly cheap—to the point where you feel like you should maybe offer them a bit more for the delicious bounty they have served you—everything is made absolutely fresh right after you order it. Regrettably, this includes the fat-bitch chips and salsa.
I say ‘regrettably’ not just because the chips are served in true Mexican style, or warm and coated with oil, accompanied by a choice of several homemade salsas, but because they make a very loud noise when you bite into them, at least twice the loudness of ordinary bagged chips from a store. And this only added percussion to the braying of a moron seated at the center table of the small restaurant one lunchtime last week.
BAKER STREET
by Eric J Baker
Welcome to Pure Film Creative or, as I like to think of it, Tiger Beat for intellectuals (and perverts; you know which one you are).
Regular readers of these pages will often find us opining on who is sexy (Ashton Kutcher, Duran Duran, Mary Elizabeth Winstead) and who is not (Killough’s former landlady Susan Blais, Russell Crowe, pre-Raphaelite painters). It’s easy to do when you’re talking about movie stars and fashionable pop bands, since good looks are a prerequisite for such roles in society. With political figures, the distinction is murkier. Much like the sewage most of them crawled from.
What's not sexy about an Aussie thug in a tub with a stogie, a brew and phone he's about to brain the hotel maid with?
I don’t find ugly liars attractive, but I seem to be in the minority. Last week, before the shocking truth exploded, I wrote on PFC that Anthony Weiner couldn’t have e-mailed his cock-bulge photo to a 22-year-old woman because he’s not that dumb. What I thought, but didn’t write was, “Who the fuck wants to see Anthony Weiner’s dick, anyway?”
THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES
by James Killough
Reading Ayn Rand is like sitting in Vulcan’s forge watching him hammer a divine weapon, but boy is it hot and sticky down there, damn is he ugly, and fuck if it isn’t noisy.
In an article today in The Daily Beast, Michael Tomansky lauded a liberal religious group for giving the Republicans a taste of their own demagogy with an attack ad on their principles, using their love of Ayn Rand as its demagogic bludgeon of choice.
Gary Cooper and Patricia Neal as the architect Howard Roark and his adulterous lover, Dominique Francon, in King Vidor's "The Fountainhead." Rand's women are never faithful, always looking for a more alpha male, like insatiable gay bottom bitches.
I am probably completely off-mark with this SAT-ish analogy, but it can be said that Ayn Rand is to capitalism what Karl Marx is to communism. Both are religion-hating reactionaries, except it would seem to me that Marx was somewhat less unhinged, even though that Jewfro of his could have used a trim. I am a mildly unhinged religion-hating reactionary, but I don’t have Marx’s hair, and better teeth than Rand — well, most people do.
BAKER STREET
by Eric J Baker
Sarah Palin for President!
That’s the outlandish claim our own James Killough made on this very blog just a few days ago. As a man who is deeply concerned for America’s future and its position in the new global economy, I find his viewpoint disturbing and irresponsible at best, and I hope to restore rational thinking to these pages immediately. That’s why I’m endorsing Michele Bachmann.
This image of "Harry Potter" star Daniel Radcliff naked hanging out with a horse, which is distinct from being hung like a horse, is completely gratuitous and bears no relationship to this article.
My reasons are twofold. First, I want to top Killough when it comes to showing poor judgment. We’re competitive in that way. Second, my grandmother used to say, “Fortune favors the bold, Eric.” I wasn’t listening because her dentures kept falling out (which is upsetting and confusing to a four-year-old child), but I’ve since learned what she meant: People who take risks are successful. And what’s riskier than electing a raving lunatic madwoman president?
THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES
by James Killough
I’m kidding. Sheesh. Relax. I don’t vote, for two reasons: 1) the American political process bores me because it’s usually much the same of the same old shit, although the Obama/Hillary run-off did get my attention; 2) as long as the Electoral College is in place and disasters like the 2000 election can happen as a result, I don’t believe we live in a true democracy.
She's not just the ringmaster, not just the clown show, not just the big cat act. She's the whole frickin' circus.
“But what about your civic duty, James?” you ask, wrapping your toga tightly around you in a snit. To which I reply, “My civic duty is my non-vote of protest.” And I feel I have more effect writing these words than ruining a perfectly crisp morning in November by standing in line for hours waiting to cast my drop in the bucket. As long as I live, I will never let America rest on its self-satisfied, jingoistic laurels, never let it get away with unjustified warmongering, or large-scale financial corruption. To do so would be un-American.