One of the things I like to do when I suddenly realize I’m still awake at 1:30 in the morning (besides flipping over to E! to make sure I’m not missing a new installment of Kim Kardashian’s chesty misadventures in semifame—will that krazy sister of hers ever learn that running a boutique that sells super-cute klothes takes hard work? [audible sigh]) is write a pointless tumblspot recognizing that I’m up late for no good reason half-watching terrible television shows. This usually makes me sad enough to fall asleep and have fun dreams like the one I had last night, where I was pitching a sitcom idea to NBC’s Ben Silverman, whose face was covered in a swarm of distracting gnats. (He didn’t buy it, but agreed that we should “keep talking.”)
Holy shit, the Carson Daly show just came on! There’s no way I can go to bed until I see what CNBC personality Dylan Ratigan needs to tell the nation’s insomniacs. What can I say? That opening cartoon credit sequence where a a bag of golf clubs rides shotgun in Daly’s convertible gets me every damn time.
“The
trouble started Wednesday on the first of Caan’s two days of shooting the role of a U.S. speaker of the house who chokes to death on a cookie. Russell asked him to cough as he choked, but Caan argued that the character couldn’t cough and choke to death at the same time. Russell suggested that they shoot it both ways, but the actor expressed distrust that his version would be considered and left the South Carolina set. “
The Pope’s surprise performance of “Call Me Rusty”* from Starlight Express on Andrew Lloyd Webber Night was incredibly moving.** What, you thought he’d go with something obvious like “Jesus Christ Superstar” and risk Simon Cowell bitching about poor song selection before calling for his immediate excommunication?
Also, David Archuleta continues to bring an unprecedented level of creepiness to the late stages of the competition, probably because it’s become obvious he’s Beelzebub parading around in a tiny, wholesome Mormon shell.
[*Yes, I had to look up Starlight Express song titles on Wikipedia.]
[**This, of course, is absurd, as everyone knows the guest performers appear on the Results Show.]
If Kellogg’s has anything to say about it, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Sugar-Frosted, Stays-Crunchy-In-Milk Skull will be a huge hit this summer. And maybe it’ll seem a tad crass a first, but I’m betting that recasting Shia Lebeouf with Tony the Tiger will prove a stroke of genius, making this Indy’s tastiest adventure to date.
This is what I found when I went to search for a clip of Hillary Clinton’s charmingly* robotic (“Try. Toggling. The inputs.” “Callme. AnyTIME…Call. ME AT: THREE A.M.” etc etc) performance of a tech-support gag.
Sometimes I love the YouTubes so much I want to weep.
[*Not charming in any way.]
…is there any way to
add some blood to the horn? Clearly, any unicorns rampaging through a schoolyard woud first spear their slow-peddling prey before feasting upon their tender, delcious flesh.
The scythe-bearing harvester of souls appearing in the mirror in the below Garfield Minus Garfield, Plus Grim Reaper comic is too small to make Jon truly confront his mortality and/or the meaninglessness of his cat-free existence, isn’t he?
Shit, I knew it.
I lost three balls over fences during 9 holes of par-3 “pitch and putt” golf today.
…maybe that previous post was a little dark. I just haven’t been this torn up since last year’s Daughtry dismissal. Maybe America will try to make it up to poor Michael Johns by buying four million copies of the CD of Queen covers* he eventually puts out.
*tentative title: A Night At The Hunky Opera**
**And wasn’t his real mistake doing Aerosmith’s “Dream On” instead of sticking with what worked by reaching ever deeper into the Mercury back catalogue for a crowd-pleasing rendition of “Flash’s Theme”?
If it feels a little like he’s dead, it’s because he is. They’ll tell you the despondent also-ran returned to Australia after tonight’s crushing disappointment, but the truth of the situation is that Randy, Simon and Seacrest have already ceremonially devoured every last morsel of Johns’ still-warm flesh from a post-show buffet. (Sadly, Paula Abdul could not take part in the feast and confirm her suspicion that the Aussie “tastes as good as he looks,” as she had her stomach replaced with an experimental, painkiller-dispensing organ that’s robbed her of the ability to digest solid food.)
