Despite all manner of apocalyptic omens and learned opinions to the contrary, our fearless leader continues to forge ahead with his numbskull domestic agenda and beligerantly imperialist foreign policies.
That a large number of the American people continue to support his short-sighted efforts only serves to illustrate the rapid decline of our collective common sense.
The former Yalie's failure to grasp the intricacies of even a high school level vocabulary makes Jethro Bodine look more and more like FDR.
Whether smugly touting his (honorary) doctorate on The Tonight Show or condescendingly preaching proper crayon technique on Captain Kangaroo's old "Picture Pages" segments, The Cos has morphed over the past few decades from cloying story-teller (his early comedy albums), token prime-time negro sidekick (I Spy), cartoon host (Fat Albert) and prime time sitcom star to one of the most annoying examples of narcissism and self-absorption to emerge from the post-civil rights movement.
Heck, we'd gladly pay fifty bucks just to watch Morgan Freeman, Bernard Shaw, Ed Bradley or any other aging African-American male of integrity kick his moralizing, skirt-chasing, pseudo-intellectual ass in a round-robin checkers tourney.
Call me, Ed.
So her ancestors founded some kinda pricey hotel chain? Big friggin whoop. Since when did the size of one's bank account grant her the license to run around like a hedonistic tramp and escape without being labeled as such? Skanky ho is skanky ho, no matter where she buys her thongs.
When it comes to wealthy chicks with a third-grade education, we'd sooner take Marla Maples. At least she never had her own show or took it like a terrier on home video.
Of course, should Paris suddenly lose everything to bad investments and blow and decide to clean up her act, we'd be happy to forgive past indescretions and help her out.
Well-wrapped, of course.
A former Seventies hit-maker capable of moving easily from mellow singer-songwriter navel-gazing mode ("Your Song") to ersatz honky soul ("Philadelphia Freedom"), the last quarter century has found this self-proclaimed Bitch edging ever closer to the maudlin, mid-tempo no man's land previously dominated by the likes of Billy Joel and Phil Collins.
Apparently all too comfortable in his present role as Disney shill and tantrum-throwing, Atlanta-based queen-about-town, perhaps the only course left for Elton is to publicly announce his impending nuptials to Liza Minelli before making a scandalous conjugal visit to soulmate Jacko at Neverland Ranch.
Let's just hope he wears that divine suspenders-and-electric-boots combo from "Tommy".
A dour, foul-mouthed, bitter, racist and cantankerous old coot, it should come as no surprise if we were to learn Evel long ago traded in his Rocket Cycle for a clunky old red, white & blue Buick with a pissing Calvin decal in the rear window and a hatful of sandspurs in the seat.
What with prodigal son Robby now hogging the spotlight with his own series on cable TV, one can little blame Evel for being a little testy these days.
When one recalls how the fellow's always been something of an asshole, however, it's somewhat heartening to hear how - minus his bone-splintering knack for fucking up virtually every time he jumped a punchbug - his redneck and grade-school audience has finally abandoned the creep.
For all the flag-waving and hoopla, some folk are much more lovable as bendy toys.
For all the raw talent and combustible energy on display in such seminal Sun singles as "Great Balls of Fire", "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" and "Breathless", this founding father of rock & roll has managed to undermine his legendary status through a string of resoundingly stupid moves (taking a 13-year-old first cousin as his third wife); personal tragedies (two wives and a pair of sons all died young in various drownings, auto crashes and overdoses); and substance abuse.
Factor fellow cousins Mickey Gilley and Jimmy Swaggart into the mix. Multiply by the fact that The Killer has never apologized for any of his multiple fuckups. Divide by how many times he has belittled the contributions of other Fifties greats such as Elvis, Orbison, Little Richard and Chuck Berry. Subtract the decades of middling country twaddle he has recorded from the Sixties onward.
The sum? Precious little to feel so all-fired superior about.
Lots of fans contend that despite the fact that he was found guilty of betting on baseball and permanently banned from the sport, Cincinatti Reds third baseman Rose should be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.
Rose has admitted that he had "made some mistakes," but stopped short of confessing to any wagers on the game. Now commissioner Bug Selig has indicated that he might consider reinstating Rose if he will admit and apologize for his mistakes (not the least of which is that goofy, head-first slide).
Thus far, though, it appears that Charlie Hustle's appeals continue to fall on deaf ears. Little League parents everywhere should breathe a collective sigh of relief.
Bloated, beret-sporting hambone thespian perhaps best known for playing crooked brother to Brando's washed-up boxer in "On the Waterfront" or drawing scads of flies in the unbearably stinky mid-Seventies fright flick "The Amityville Horror".
The latter role played remarkably true to life, as Steiger can raise a horrible odor with a mere line-reading.
Watching this fey freakazoid gushing it up on "Inside the Actors Studio" is like volunteering for an amateur gastroenterologist's exam: Painful, thoroughly disgusting and pleasurable only to the truly deranged.
Overbearing, vain, rude, greedy, cocky and bearer of horrible fur, The Donald has made it a point of pride to try and out-asshole everyone else on this list.
In addition to naming buildings after himself and taking over prime time with one of the most feeble catch-phrases ever to catch on outside a Disney boardroom, Trump has flaunted his tawdry version of capitalist overkill on virtually every television nextwork and cable station in the free world, flaunting his yacht's gold toilet seat while most of us are still cleaning up the leftovers from yesterday's shells and cheese.
A hero to the criminal and aspiring middle manager alike, here's hoping this putrid cretin enjoys every second of these worldly gains to their fullest with the life he has left.
Heaven only knows what kind of ghetto he'll have to look forward to afterward.
Responsible for unleashing Dr. Phil on the world while giving self-empowerment a bad name, Oprah has gone from shuffling deepdish acting negress to a virtual psychobabble franchise on the hoof.
Beyond selflessly bestowing shitty American automobiles on the dull-eyed, ovation-happy "little people" who make up her sizable audience, Winfrey has succeeded in making even the most beneficent acts appear patronizing, shallow and cheap, as though the only worth to be gained from any good deed is the degree by which it reflects back upon the giver.
Whether she's touting the benefits of rollercoaster dieting or refusing to marry her martyr, rest assured that Oprah's philanthropy runs a distant second to watching out for her own bad behind.
Should she decide to start throwing around Toyotas, of course, we're all in.
posted by Jeff | 4:27 AM
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