I really like and admire Mr. Rogers, but whenever I see him changing into his sweater and Hush Puppies while singing a nice little song or showing us how much fun construction paper and paste can be, it bothers me knowing that he’s packing a trouser snake under his Sta-Press slacks. Sorry, but I just don’t think Mr. Rogers should have one. And as for the accessories–it’s troublesome to imagine Mr. McFeely making a wrong turn with a 2×4 and catching Mr. Rogers right in the balls.
WHACK! “OH, FU–udge…”
He’d probably sag to the floor with an agonized groan, and end up rolling around with his knees under his chin. And remember, his show was on PBS, so he couldn’t cut to a commercial. He’d just have to lay there writhing about until the pain finally went away, while the little kids at home gaped in puzzled horror. And I guarantee you the last thing he’d be thinking about just then would be summoning the Magic Trolley to whisk us into the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.
I’m a Bruce Willis fan, too, but I don’t want to actually see his willis. That’s why COLOR OF NIGHT isn’t in my video or DVD collection, aside from the fact that it’s a really crappy movie–because Bruce’s wing-ding makes a surprise guest appearance in one scene. To me, COLOR OF NIGHT will always be the “Bruce’s wing-ding” movie. I guess the director thought this would be a big selling point, but he was wrong, because as far as I know, popular demand has yet to dictate the return of Bruno, Jr. So if Bruce wants to display the old wienerino, he should save it for his personalized Christmas cards. And from what I’ve seen, it would definitely be out of place in a DIE HARD sequel.
People like Britney Spears and Pamela Anderson are constantly reminding us of their sexual organs. They don’t say it, of course, but it’s pretty explicit. If you catch Britney performing on yet another idiotic award show on MTV, the unspoken message behind all of her choreography is “Hey! Get a load of my tits and ass! Don’t you get turned on when I shake them at you, DUH, of course you do, DUH.” And sure enough, between intermittent bursts of lip-synched lyrics that are utterly negligible, she seems determined to gyrate sufficiently to keep her fatty appendages in a constant state of floppitude. Which is great, I guess, if your goal in the entertainment industry is to be America’s “Puberty Whack-off Queen” until your career sags southward.
At least an aging Madonna had the gimmick of “re-inventing” herself occasionally, even though she usually re-invented herself into something progressively stupider until she finally had people laughing their asses off at the mere mention of the word “Kabbalah.” So far, the only thing Britney has come up with to re-invent herself is to go totally whacko. Anyway, this is why guys like Mel Torme’ and Englebert Humperdinck have to actually be good singers–they can’t distract you from how much they suck by shaking their knockers at you.
Which, of course, describes Pam Anderson’s entire career. What do you think of when someone mentions Pam Anderson? Great acting? Intelligent conversation? Heartwarming feats of humanitarianism? Nope–you think of big, plastic tits trying to blast their way out of a dress that looks like it came from a close-out sale at Crackwhores ‘R’ Us. She can’t even make up her mind how big they are, so they keep inflating and deflating like one of those oxygen bags on “ER.” The most famous thing she ever did was her private sex tape that got leaked to the tabloids. And that, heaven help us, featured Tommy Lee’s gnarly Slim Jim, the memory of which will most likely still be making Dracula gag in the year 3000.
And then there’s Jennifer Lopez’ ass. If she ever wins an award for anything, the first thing in her acceptance speech should be, “I’d like to thank my big, fat ass.” In fact, her ass should win the award–she’s just along for the ride. “And the winner for ‘Best New Artist’ is…Jennifer Lopez’ big, fat ass.” FRRRRRRRT.
Oh, and just because your name has the word “peter” in it doesn’t mean I want to see yours. This goes for you, William Petersen. You’re one of my favorite actors, and TO LIVE AND DIE IN L.A. is one of my favorite movies. I love the wrong-way freeway car chase. I love the surprise ending. But I don’t love seeing your Cheez Doodle getting into the act during your sex scene with Darlanne Fluegel. Heck, she’s got a suggestive name too, but at least she doesn’t show her Fluegel. And I’d much rather see a Fluegel than a Doodle any day. Did “Doodles” Weaver run around naked in movies? No, he didn’t. Did “Howdy Doody”–well, you get the idea.
Michael Jackson has sexual organs. At least, he did the last time he checked. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
In closing, I’d just like to remind people in showbiz that I’m well aware that you have sexual organs. I’ve seen enough porn flicks and National Geographics to know that they’re pretty much standard equipment for human beings. Sure, I love seeing naked girls romping around, or even semi-naked ones, but don’t expect me to consider that a “talent” of some kind. And guys–please stop making me want to power-blast my Hungry Man Salisbury Steak TV dinner all over the teevee by introducing me to Señor Penecito when I least expect it. If I want to watch something big, hairy, and ugly flopping around, I’ll kick Carrot Top in the balls.