This is not the article I wanted to write.  When I set out to write a review of MTV’s controversial new reality show Jersey Shore, I had a pretty good idea of how it was going to go.  I was going to write my standard (dare I say “trademark?”), long-winded rant which would combine obscure references, big words, and level one swears to express my deep displeasure with the show’s public displays of douchebaggery.

It seemed pretty straightforward. The show is a vocal proponent of self-ascribed nicknames, the state of New Jersey, and Italian-Americans engaging in non-mob activities. I had (and have) no interest in any of those things, and was confident in my ability to heap scorn on Jersey Whore.

But that was before I watched my first episode.

Fifteen minutes into “researching” my article, a strange thing began happening to me.  It’s the same thing that happened to John Smith in Pocahontas.  And the main character in Avatar.  And Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.  I fell in love with that which I set out to destroy.

Since last Monday, I have watched all eight episodes of Jersey Shore and several of the “After Hours” Q&A sessions with cast members.  During the course of my research, I was forced to modify my article’s thesis.  It now reads: Yo, Tila Tequila, I’m really happy for you and I’ma let you finish, but Jersey Shore is the best reality show of all time.  OF ALL TIME!

I know.  Calling a show the best reality show of all time is a bit like calling the Phoenix Mercury the best team in the WNBA.  It’s not saying much and it’s still not real television.  But it is something.  Love it or hate it, reality television speaks to our culture.  Since the debut of The Real World in 1992, reality television has been increasing in both airtime and, more importantly, influence.  From The Bachelor to The Hills to The View, reality TV is everywhere.

So it is no small thing when I say, with complete sincerity, that the eight juiced-up, fake-baked, foul-mouthed, hard-drinking, hard-fighting, STD-collecting, toilet bowl-hugging Guidos in the Jersey Shore house represent the pinnacle of all that reality TV aspires to be.

Don’t misunderstand me.  The stars of the show are every bit the self-absorbed, inarticulate, non-contributing zeroes you imagine they are.  The Italian-American organizations who criticize the show as “the biggest step backward for Italian-Americans since the birth of John Bon Jovi” are exactly right.  The cast members suck to a degree that is both impressive and remarkably consistent.  As an example, here is one exchange which is particularly illustrative of the lifestyles and IQs we’re dealing with.

(Sami “Sweetheart” and Ronnie are debriefing after their first night of promiscuous sex)

• Sami: Yeah, I had sex.  I mean, of course you’re gonna have sex if you like somebody.  Um, hello!  It’s natural!
• Ronnie: We smooshed. (fist pumps)

They are, without exception, terrible people.  And that is precisely the point.  The laws of reality TV dictate that every show must have a “token toolshed.”  For a reality show to survive it needs a guy/girl/trannie who will stir the pot, say offensive things, get someone pregnant, OD on NyQuil, and generally move the plot forward.  To effectively fill this role, a cast member must lack morals, restraint, basic human decency, and – most importantly – anything resembling self-awareness.

With Jersey Shore, MTV has for the first time stocked a reality show exclusively with token toolsheds.  Every guy is “that guy.”  Every girl is “OMG…ho bag!!!!”  It’s as if the producers only accepted applications from society’s Douchebag Elite (i.e. DJs, club promoters, assistant managers of fitness clubs, amateur models, and Ed Hardy enthusiasts.)  This makes for a fairly predictable storyline (i.e. posture, argue, drink, fist fight, hook-up, pass out, repeat), but it also makes for brilliant reality television.

As I have said before, reality television is not here to celebrate America’s best and brightest.  That’s what the Country Music Awards are for.  Reality television is for shining a spotlight on all that is base, freakish, and dysfunctional in America.  We watch families disintegrate and coeds get alcohol poisoning and we can’t help but feel better about ourselves.  It’s the feel-good genre of the 21^st century!  With the help of reality television, even the worst parent, the most irresponsible drunk, the most promiscuous cheerleader, and the most fist-pumpingest frat boy can point at someone else and say, “well, at least I’m not THAT bad.”

The problem is, as America accelerates its slippery slide to Sodom, the reality television machine has had to scramble to keep pace.  As real life douchebags strut out of the closet and into Armani Exchange in ever-increasing numbers, the reality show douchebags must rise to an even higher (or sink to an even lower) level.

In that respect, Jersey Shore may have saved reality television.  Vinny, Ronnie, Snooki, Sweetheart, Jolie, Pauly D, JWoww, and The Situation are the new gold standard by which all future television toolsheds will be judged.  These eight have advanced the limits of douchebaggery to heights never before thought possible, and I refuse to believe any actual person will ever equal them.  Or maybe I just don’t want to.

I take comfort in their accomplishment.  I sleep more soundly at night.  Or at least I hope I do. The Jersey Shore season finale is tomorrow night and, judging from the previews, it’s going be an emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually draining hour of television.  Trust me, you do NOT want to miss it.

(In other, unrelated MTV news, I had my first “I have lost all connection with young people” moment last week.  While innocently watching Jersey Shore, I was treated to a public service announcement featuring an apparently nude girl standing in an empty gym and holding a large poster over her lady parts.  The girl stared at the ground in shame while a voiceover intoned, “If someone pressures you to send revealing photos, you can say no.  Because there’s a thin line between him and the rest of the world.”  For the first, but assuredly not the last, time permit me to inquire, “Is THAT what kids are doing these days?”)

SPOILER ALERT: He pretty much gives away the whole movie.

BY: Benjamin Woodyard

I want to tell you guys out there about the movie Avatar. It’s so cool.  The dragons are so cool.  The floating mountains are so cool.  The main guy (I forget his name) is so cool.  I think pretty much everyone thinks it’s probably the best movie of all time.  Some people might say Harry Potter or Monsters Inc. or something else is better, but that’s probably because they saw it in a normal theater instead of in 3-D which is how I saw it.

Avatar is about this soldier who’s in a wheelchair for some reason we don’t know about.  (Probably from fighting the terrorists in Detroit.)  He goes in a space ship to another planet which is kind of like Earth except cooler because they have aliens and dragons.

When he gets to the new planet he meets this army general who talks about how everyone wants to kill the people but how the people are going to kill everyone first because the people have guns and no one else does.  I think.  It was kind of confusing.  But then the wheelchair guy meets the mean lady from Holes.  She’s a scientist or something.  She’s mean to him at first because he’s in a wheelchair.  My mom says this is called “disc-information.”

So then the wheelchair guy goes into this tube and when he wakes up he’s one of the aliens.  The scientist lady and some other people are aliens too.  They all go exploring the planet together.  Wheelchair guy gets separated from the group when these big rhinoceros-looking monsters chase him into the forest.  Oh yeah, he’s not in a wheelchair anymore.  It gets dark and everyone else has to go home to bed (probably by 9:30) but he stays out in the jungle cause he’s lost.

Some dogs with six legs try to eat him but an alien girl saves him. All the animals have six legs which I guess is better than four.  The alien girl isn’t wearing a shirt and you can totally see her boobs but my mom said it was okay because she’s an alien and her boobs are blue.  She only has two boobs.  She takes him to her tribe and at first they want to kill him but they decide not to.

For a long time he hangs out with the aliens to learn how to be like them.  Here’s some of the stuff he does: climbs trees, rides horses, hunts with a bow and arrow, plugs his ponytail into stuff, and wrestles dragons!!  That was probably my favorite part.  That or the time he smashed the two helicopters together like they were made out of LEGOs.

Then he falls in love with the girl alien who rescued him and things get weird for a minute. My mom made me cover my eyes during this part but I think they were doing the same thing Brian (that’s my older brother) was doing with his girlfriend last week when my parents were out to dinner.  So things are going good for the main guy.

But then everything gets bad because the guy from Gone in 60 Seconds wants to open a coal mine right where the aliens are camping.  I know how he feels because one time I wanted to build a fort behind the couch (which is probably the best spot in my house to build a fort) but my dad said I couldn’t because we had company coming over.

The main guy thinks if the humans kick the aliens out, then the girl alien won’t make out with him anymore, so he tells the humans to leave them alone.  So then there’s a big battle.  I don’t want to give away how the battle ends, but basically it’s like the end of Return of the Jedi except the aliens are awesome like Legolas from Lord of the Rings instead of like the Ewoks who are stupid like my little sister’s zhu zhu pet.

That’s pretty much the rest of the movie except for this part at the end where all the humans get kicked off the planet.  My mom said the movie had a “viral mental” message and that’s why my dad had to sell his Hummer.  I think the message is that dragons are awesome and aliens aren’t as bad as some movies make them look.

One day I hope to visit another planet.

The idea for this article and several of it’s humorous lines were taken from an article written for another publication by Mark “Sugar, We’re Going Down” Downey.  It is used with his begrudging permission.  Mr. Downey has not tasted meat since the spring of 1993, but he has killed more squirrels than you will likely ever see.

Check out more “Biased Reviews” written by Teddy Roosevelt, Paul Walker, Harry Potter, Jennifer Aniston, and more.

That picture of Benjamin is copyrighted Yahoo.com and probably “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader.”

Nickelback kicked off its North American tour in front of a capacity crowd at the Staples Center in Los Angeles on Friday night, its first of three shows in southern California.  However, what should have been a classic, mind-bending rock performance in the typical Nickelback style is being heralded by many as a total flop.  The reason?  Lead singer Chad Kroeger.

“I show up ready to grind on my girlfriend to some kickin Canadian rock n’ roll, and that jag Chad Kroeger tees off and kills a classic Nickelback song,” reported Dane Strump of Riverside, “That guy gives Nickelback a bad name.”

Sources report that Kroeger went on to ruin at least 25 more amazing songs during the show, including “How You Remind Me,” “If Today Was Your Last Day,” and “Photograph.”

“I’ve got my cell phone in the air, my eyes are closed, and I’m rocking out to “Rockstar” by the greatest band of all time, and then all of a sudden, this raspy voice starts bellowing and I’m like, dammit, this song is completely toasted,” noted Ben Howell, a police investigator.

Kroeger (front and center) ruins another Nickelback publicity photo.

Eyewitnesses agree that Kroeger’s antics became particularly onerous during a rendition of “Savin’ Me,” a heartfelt ballad of loss and love.  “I just kept waiting for [guitarist Ryan] Peake to hit his solo about halfway through the song.  He started to jam and then Kroeger busts in and starts humping the mic and running his hands through his Mr. Tumnus goatee.  What a gooch,” said Strumph.

“That guy’s been dragging the band down since the late 90s,” stated Rolling Stone columnist Yolo Ty, who also attended the concert.   “I went to the merch booth after the show and was disappointed to see that Kroeger ruined all the shirts as well by putting his face all over the front.”

Other fans noted his incessant singing during an otherwise awesome performance by Nickelback.  “He just sang the whole time, he didn’t shut up for more than one minute during the whole concert,” complined Haley Olson, a dental hygienist.  “I just kept thinking that he would be done, but he never was.  I kept screaming ‘I didn’t pay for this’ but he just continued singing.”

Eyewitnesses report that fans left the Staples Center commenting that Kroeger had once again managed to intrude on what otherwise would have been a fantastic show from a band that can throw together a mean rock tune.  “I hope that in the future Chad can restrain himself from yelling and gesticulating wildly at the crowd while the rest of the band plays their kickass songs,” mumbled Howell, “Kroeger just keeps ruining everything for this awesome group.”

David “Flava Dave” McCloskey is a stage actor and philanthropist who lives and works in Washington D.C.  He has read everything Nicholas Sparks has ever written and has visited Mt. Rushmore 18 times.

It’s not because I wholeheartedly hate or vehemently disagree with everything FN does. On the contrary, their coverage of the ACORN debacle was significantly more comprehensive than any of the other networks commonly labeled as “liberal.” A government funded agency is advising people how to start a brothel, do it under the government’s radar, and maybe even get it funded by the government? And they’re doing it on tape? In multiple cities? How the hell is that a partisan issue? Kudos to FN for blowing the lid off of that one.

Then there are front page headlines like this one. Thanks to Kent for sending me this screenshot he took from his work computer.

Dammit, FN. Just dammit. This is why people think we’re dumb. It’s an article about how the USDA has confirmed that a pig has swineflu. That’s a front page headline on their website. How stupid this is, let me count the ways.

One one-thousand: Sensationalism, top to bottom. Sort of like my body, but my body isn’t offensive and it doesn’t mislead people.  I read FoxNews.com and CNN.com every day, one right after the other. CNN never has this kind of headline. If they do, they at least try to hide it with a normal font or just a link to an article, not a picture of a pig with an ominous, retarded word-play headline over it staring at us like it’s made of apocalypse bacon. This is the same “fear” tactic that gets us to watch Tila Tequila. After all, if she’s in my TV, then she’s not in my apartment sneezing gonorrhea all over me, and that makes me feel safer.

Two one-thousand: Did anyone read this headline before they ran it? A pig gets swineflu? SWINE flu. That’s a flu, but originally made for swine.  It’s a front page headline when a disease does what it originally set out to do? No one in the office said “hey man, doesn’t that sort of sound like the thing that Barbi down at The Boobi Barn might say shortly before I tell her that I’m not paying her to talk?”

Three one-thousand: Less credibility than Rod Blagojevich. That screenshot literally looks like a joke. That’s right, America, crap your pants! You thought people getting the pig disease was bad, well just wait until the hospitals are lined with uncooked hams wanting to get vaccinated! You’ll see! Jesus is right around the corner!

The ultimate irony is that on the same page there is an article about how the White House is attacking FoxNews… for a lack of credibility.

You’re doing the work for them, FN.

And for me, really. So thanks for that. Still though, shape up. News media has become toilet paper.

* = true statement

“Hot Beans Delivers” is a cabaret show.* Not to be confused with a cabernet sauvignon which I’m told is something else entirely.* This conflation of terms caused me a good deal of confusion as I could not figure out why Roger Ebert would call a glass of fermented grape juice, “the funniest show I’ve seen since Brokeback Mountain and not nearly as gay.”  Fortuitously, the buxom bar wench at Davenport’s Piano Bar and Cabaret was kind enough to inform me that what I was about to witness was actually a form of entertainment featuring comedy, song, dance, and theater, distinguished mainly by the performance venue.*

My initial bewilderment resolved, I grabbed some whiskey and settled in for two hours of hardcore couple-on-cabaret action.  I was not disappointed.*  The comedic duo known as “Hot Beans” wowed the mostly non-violent audience with musical medleys,* stand-up comedy,* and an impressive array of musical instruments from the piano* to the didgeridoo.  Within mere minutes they had overwhelmed my senses with hilarious covers of obscure songs from the 80’s,* Tom Selleck references,* and light-hearted yet sincere commentary on the pitfalls and pleasures of married life.*  In addition to rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens, these are all of my favorite things.

Had it lasted only 15 minutes, I would have been more than satisfied with my experience,* but Mr. and Mrs. Hot Beans are true professionals* and they would not be satisfied until I had been rendered dumb-struck and fluid-depleted by a panoply of pyrotechnics, pirate jokes, and panda bears the likes of which are rarely witnessed this side of Chinatown.

The casual bar-goer will appreciate the Hot Beans show in that it is funny, musical, and a better than decent excuse for a night of irresponsible drinking.*  Discerning cabaret connoisseurs, however, will find enjoyment in the many-layered sublimity of the performance.  On the surface, the show can of course be appreciated for its comedy and social commentary.*  Dig a bit deeper though, and it can be enjoyed for what it truly is: a contemporary reimagining of Beowulf.  On a Biblical level, it can be enjoyed as a musical recreation of the Garden of Eden (gratuitous nudity and all – parents be warned!).  And on a psychedelic level it can be enjoyed as a phantasmagorical dreamscape replete with packing peanuts, merpeople, and Teletubby costumes.

I truly cannot say enough about how much I enjoyed this show.*  The Chuck E Cheese bit,* the impersonations of famous musicians,* the glow sticks, the Gary Coleman cameo, I loved it all!  I had planned on spending the next three Fridays as I usually do; playing with LEGOs and eating Skittles.*  Having seen “Hot Beans Delivers” this mundane amusement can no longer satisfy.  I will now be sitting at a little bar off Milwaukee Ave, mouth agape in stupefied wonder of the musical miracle to be found there.

I sincerely hope I have convinced you that “Hot Beans Delivers” is an experience you don’t want to miss.*  If I have not, perhaps this will.  If each and every one of you do not attend the show sometime between now and its September 11^th closing night, I’m going to visit your home, take off my pants, and [removed by Conor] on the nearest ottoman.*

Good day.

Allow me to inaugurate this audit with a scathing declaration: Pocahontas is the worst movie of all time. The colors were too gay, the music too sprightly—had it lasted a minute longer, I would’ve crippled myself like my dear son Franklin. It was an abomination, a calamity. Utterly treasonous!

Led by the honorable Governor Ratcliffe, the film commences as a merry crew of settlers sail toward the hallowed American shores. They’ve come to claim the land the Lord hath rightly prescribed them. Within their ranks, though, is the vile pervert John Smith, whose eyes declare his intent to have his way with a savage. His villainous appearance, we find, precedes his execrable actions.

Danger awaits the settlers in the Virginian woodlands, where a bloodthirsty pack of savages seems eager to slaughter them and use their bones to make pan flutes. With souls composed of noxious gasses, one assumes the savages are without mercy.

The savage princess, Pocahontas, is a portrait of quiet malevolence. Alone she stalks the forest, speaking curses to the critters, wearing nothing but the garnished hide of a dead animal. She evokes the banshee spirit of her dead grandmother by talking to a willow tree. They converse lewdly about the pleasures to be found in the company of men, and injudiciously conclude that Pocahontas should cast her bewitching powers on the next man her tar-bloated heart fancies. How preposterously appropriate that that man be John Smith.

Smith, whose libidinous appetite grumbles audibly for brown-stained flesh, finds Pocahontas and fails to properly smother her with a smallpox blanket, thus sparking their disgraceful tryst. Vulgarly they profess their love through a nauseating musical duet about the colors of the wind. Not only is wind colorless, but savages lack sensory modalities common to most mammals, meaning they’re incapable of fathoming wind both physically and metaphorically. Regardless, the two are wildly taken by their mutual lust.

With luck, the stink of their asinine affair wafts to our hero, Ratcliffe, and he enlists the valiant Thomas to send a message from a smoking gun. Thomas shoots a savage, and honor is restored. Afraid and vengeful, the savages take John Smith hostage, who, deplorably, finds his capture rather kinky.

(Note: Here begins a perverse romantic subplot between a raccoon and a pug dog. Though undocumented, I surmise they conjugate premaritally. Like I said, worst movie of all time.)

But so then John Smith is bound and gagged at Hi-Howaya headquarters. He deservedly awaits his execution. Will the savage children eat him alive or will they cook him first? This is the film’s only suspense.

Just hours before he is to die, Smith and Pocahontas have the following exchange:

Pocahontas: I’m sorry my nonexistent virtues led to your capture. It would’ve been better had we never met.

John Smith: (Sounds like a pigeon) No. A hundred lifetimes aren’t worth the pleasures of your corn-flavored lips. If only we could have a mongrel child together.

Pocahontas: Yeah, that sure would be neat. Too bad you’re going to die soon.

John Smith: Too bad.

The forgiving and dauntless settler crew comes to save John Smith and destroy the savage horde, but Pocahontas casts a powerful spell and saves her species. The settlers befriend the savages and, welp, there goes the neighborhood. All are happy and brainwashed except for our good hero, Ratcliffe, who is imprisoned for being so courageous. And that’s the movie.

Balderdash! Poppycock! Cocky poop! Cuckoo clock! Popping corn! Give me my eighty minutes back! Failure has a name and it is Pocahontas. Micturate on my beloved flag before again subjecting me to this movie. I hereby award it my presidential seal of atrociousness.

Steve Etheridge is shorter than you, has less money than you, and has never traveled anywhere exotic. He’s a hard worker, though, if that counts for anything.

Since my sophomore year in high school I – like most Americans – have maintained a recreational affinity for the band Coldplay.  I own all their CDs, I know every word to every one of their songs, I have a Chris Martin shaped body pillow.  Yet they are far from my favorite band.  They probably would not even break the top ten (not since Amy Winehouse arrived on the scene anyway).  Coldplay is the McDonalds of rock bands.  I go to McDonalds more frequently than any other two restaurants combined, but in no way is it my favorite place to eat.  It’s just…easy to say yes to.  McDonalds makes food in the same way Coldplay makes music: decent, consistent, and uncomplicated.  They have found the lowest common denominators in their industries and – in doing so – have ensnared most of us in their grip.

It was this generous and uncritical affection for Coldplay that led me to drop $60 for a concert ticket last Thursday.  Having seen them live, I can now add another adjective to my description of their music: terrifying.  Put simply, Coldplay is too good at what they do.  Had scientists not spent the 20^th century coming up with cool ways for people to kill each other and instead focused their energies on creating the perfect stadium rock experience, they would have created a Coldplay concert.  Coldplay’s music may be like McDonalds’ food, but their live performances are more like the Stepford Wives.  Beautiful, superficial, hypnotic, probably evil.

It’s not that I did not enjoy my concert experience.  Quite the opposite, actually: I loved it like I have loved few things in my life.  Their nonsensical yet impeccably rhymed lyrics and unremarkable chord progressions came to life beneath a shower of confetti and CGI effects reminiscent of the last scene of Gladiator.  The lights, the lasers, the thirty-foot tall video screens, the mindless, British-accented banter – it was all wonderful.  Frighteningly wonderful.  The sorcerers who conjured up this concert knew all my aesthetic weaknesses and exploited every one of them with a smorgasbord of sensory stimuli unlike anything I have experienced since my first time at Chuck E Cheese.

That is the danger of a Coldplay concert.  You go expecting to hear some loud music and maybe get a decent proximity high from nearby weed-heads, and you end up having your whole life turned upside down.  You start entertaining ridiculous yet sincere thoughts, like, “Man, I would totally quit my job and abandon everyone who loves me if I could, just once, be the guy banging that kettle drum on “Viva la Vida.”  It crosses your mind that the climactic crescendo of “Fix You” is probably the best 45 seconds of your entire life.  (Note: I am still not convinced that it wasn’t.)  You start weeping.  You start hallucinating.  I think I may have seen an angel during “The Scientist.” (Granted, there were a lot of smoke and lasers and whatnot, but still…)

It’s all too much for one person to take in.  Going unprepared to a Coldplay concert is like going to rent Field of Dreams and accidentally getting Requiem for a Dream.  It can ruin your life.  There should be a Surgeon General’s warning on the tickets. (WARNING: This concert may dismantle your worldview, and render all other life experiences unimpressive in comparison.  Please do not attend if you are pregnant, may become pregnant, or are easily transfixed by flashing lights and shiny things.)  Since there is no such warning, me and the 20,000 other concert goers were puddy in Mr. Martin’s hands by the end of the first song.  You cannot “respond” to a Coldplay concert, you can only be hypnotized by it.  In that respect, it ceases to be a fun summer activity and becomes a threat to our national security.

Sure, this time his only desire was for us to lavish him with praise and visit the merch booth.  But what if his motives become subversive?   At every concert, Chris Martin and Co. create for themselves an army of stupefied disciples.  Had he instructed us to pillage San Diego’s military bases and invade Tijuana we would have gladly obliged.  The next time they visit Northern Virginia, Chris need only give the word and the CIA’s headquarters in Langley will be overrun by tens of thousands of stoned, half-crazed revelers wearing VIVA shirts.

It seems our government, in its zeal to root through my carry-on bags, has missed these terroristic troubadours touring our country.  It’s time someone exposed this band as the dangerous, habit-forming drug they are.  Ok, fine, I’ll do it.  Coldplay is not a band.  They are purveyors of techno-musical demon magic and they must be stopped.  I hear David Blaine might be traveling with them on their next tour.  If this is true, I plan on stockpiling thermal blankets and heading for higher ground.  The end cannot be far behind.

By: Harry Potter

Those of you out there who have spent over 500 weeks on the New York Times Bestsellers List will know the…oh wait…that’s right.  I’m the only one who’s done that.  I guess I’ll  just tell you.  Once you’ve been the king, it is difficult to bear an effeminate and unworthy successor to your throne.  That is why – after spending a decade being translated into 67 languages, selling 400 million books, being optioned for film, and inspiring several pornographic knockoffs – I have returned to cast a spell of derision over the literary skid mark that is Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series.

I almost feel silly dignifying the likes of Edward Cullen with my attention.  In the hierarchy of the magical realm, vampires rank just above flobberworms and just below merpeople.  They’re the kind of people you might sell some old jewelry to, but you wouldn’t want to sit next to them at the movies.  How Bella Swan managed to fall in love with one is beyond me.  Perhaps she was raised in a swamp by a family of manticores!  Hahaha!  I jest.  This is impossible of course, manticores eat their young.

What I mean to say is: vampires are petty, unhygienic parasites and it is impossible to center a compelling narrative around them.  I’m sure there have been some perfectly decent vampires in the past (Hugh Jackman and Michelle Obama seem relatively normal), but let’s be honest, Edward Cullen isn’t one of them.  He is perhaps the least interesting immortal bloodsucker since Sesame Street’s Count von Count – all weepy glances and waxed eyebrows but no brawn and balls.  Edward Cullen is me if I’d been sent to live in Dawson’s Creek instead of Hogwarts.

He’s, like, 100 years old, right?  What has he done with his life?  Eaten a bunch of animals and gotten completely whipped by a neurotic muggle.  That’s it.  Shoot, by my fifteenth birthday, I’d gained control of the Ministry of Magic, killed Lord Voldemort (twice!), and destroyed a whole ton of Horcruxes.  All Mr. Cullen has to show for his century on earth are a few whore crushes. (see what I did there?)

For those fortunate enough to not have read Twilight, here’s a brief synopsis.  Insecure girl moves to Washington State.  Insecure girl falls in love with beautiful vampire (a logical impossibility).  Vampire battle ensues.  Beautiful vampire goes into hiding to save insecure girl.  In her grief, insecure girl turns to werewolf for comfort.  Heavy petting ensues (PUN!).  Beautiful vampire returns.  Steals insecure girl from werewolf.  Marries and impregnates insecure girl.  Vampire supreme court rules their child an abomination.  Custody battle ensues.  Beautiful vampire and insecure girl are exonerated.  The end.

Did you notice that bit at the end?  That’s right, this “epic” series of love, loss, and redemption ends with a court case.  Also, the jilted werewolf marries the daughter of the vampire and the girl.  It’s weird, probably illegal.  It also reads like a John Grisham novel would if Mr. Grisham had stayed home and watched Days of our Lives instead of going to college.

Doesn’t it feel like something is missing?  Don’t you want more?  Wouldn’t you like – and I’m just going off the top of my head here – an epic struggle between the forces of good and an all-powerful lord of unspeakable evil?  Wouldn’t you like to see the protagonist battle through insecurity, adolescence, and a whole army of glumbumbles only to simultaneously save the world and avenge his parent’s death in a battle so intense it would make Frodo Baggins deuce in his pants?    Maybe not.  Maybe you prefer vampire court TV.

Take it from me, you deserve a higher caliber of fantasy fiction.  If you’re looking for a good 600-page book this summer, I have at least seven alternatives I’d be happy to recommend.  If you really need a vampire fix, get some Count Chocula and stare at the box.  I promise you’ll get more enjoyment from the nutritional facts on the side than you will from the 2,500 pages of the Twilight series.

P.S. Go see my movie.  It’ll change your life.  There aren’t any vampires, but there is some pretty serious neck sucking.  Hermione has a thing for hickies.  What are you gonna do, right?

And that subject is Michael Bay movies. Not his movies, actually; his critics. I’m not sure if you’ve ever read a review of ANY of Michael Bay’s movies, but they all generally criticize him for the same things: the plot is horrible, the characters are flat, the pacing is ridiculous, the dialogue is unrealistic, racial stereotypes, blah blah blah, etcetera etcetera etcetera. We get it film critics, Michael Bay doesn’t make the “deepest” or the most “meaningful” movies.

I’ll tell you what he does though – he delivers what he promises to deliver. This man makes action movies. He does not make art films. I’ve heard some people say “the plots in Michael Bay movies are just weak stories strung together to allow for more explosions and car chases.” You’re exactly right! That’s exactly what they are. I’m not going to argue that he makes “good” movies in the traditional sense. These movies won’t change your life, grant you some deep emotional catharsis or lead you to some kind of revelation or epiphany. Here’s the thing, though: Michael Bay isn’t trying to make that kind of movie. When you criticize him for doing exactly what he wanted to do, it really just makes you look like a pretentious, ignorant dumbass.

You don’t go to a fireworks show and bitch about the lack of narrative or the shallow characters, do you? No. You go to watch explosions. You can’t go into a topless bar and expect to have a deep, meaningful conversation with a stripper. You’re not paying for that, my friend. You’re paying for some boobies. If you want deep, meaningful conversations, you’re in the wrong place. Similarly, you don’t go into a gun store looking for a vinyl recording of Beethoven. Let’s take these metaphors to the next level: When you walk into Michael Bay’s Guns, Fast Cars, Explosions, and Cleavage Store to take advantage of their well advertised special on giant robot fights, you shouldn’t complain about how you can’t find a Shakespeare anthology. They don’t sell that there. Are you following me?

You can’t go into Michael Bay’s movies thinking you’re going to be watching The Departed or American History X. This isn’t deep stuff, guys. This is an action movie. You go to watch things happen that you will never see in real life, not watch some violently depressing depiction of real life like The Wrestler. This is truly mindless entertainment, and that is exactly what it is intended to be. You can’t criticize it by saying “this is mindless.” Of course it is! It’s called Transformers for craps sake! It’s based on a cartoon about robots! What in the hell were you expecting!?

Don’t act like you’re some kind of glorious film critic just because you can point out that the movie was just a bunch of explosions, boobs, and penis jokes. Anyone could see that, it just takes an idiot to act like that was a bad thing. If you want to criticize it, criticize it for being bad at what it was trying to be. Talk about how the explosions could have been cooler, or how there weren’t enough slow motion boob bounces, or how the cars didn’t do enough power slides around corners. Don’t sit there and try to wax intellectual, talking about how Shia LeBouf’s character was “so two dimensional.” This isn’t a new phenomena! Watch any Schwarzenegger action movie. This is how they do it.

So please, if you go see a Michael Bay film or any action movie for that matter, go in with the correct expectations. I’m honestly really damn tired of hearing the same pissing and moaning about action movies. If you don’t like them, don’t go see them. Otherwise, stop trying to rain on my parade just because I know how to enjoy two and a half hours of wanton destruction.

The Jolie-Pitt Twins: Cute Cast, Unimpressive Producers

By: Jennifer Aniston

Before I get into this let me just say that I really, really, really love kids.  I love kids so much I once divorced my husband because he said he didn’t want to have kids.  Also, he may have been cheating.  We’ll never know.  The point is, I think children – almost without exception – are precious gifts from heaven that should be cherished, and treasured, and dressed up in Raggedy Ann outfits and taken trick-or-treating.  That being said, am I the only one who is a little creeped out by Angelina Jolie’s most recent kids?

In a classic case of quantity over quality, Mrs. Jolie has embarked on yet another infantile publicity stunt that is long on gigantic foreheads and misshapen noses, but short on personality and motor skills.  My impressions of the latest Jolie-Pitt collaboration drifted from “incredulous” to “underwhelmed,” lingered briefly around “depressed” and eventually settled somewhere in the vicinity of “probably-an-accident.”  The ill-conceived double feature will no doubt draw comparisons to Die Hard IV and the final season of The OC, in that it is an unnecessary and irrelevant chapter in a once enjoyable, now depleted franchise.

With their vaguely European-but-not-quite titles, Knox Léon and Vivienne Marcheline Jolie-Pitt briefly call to mind the epic celebrity babies of days-gone-by (see: Moxie Crimefighter Jillette and Pilot Inspektor Lee).   Unfortunately, a shortage of name brand onesies and morning show appearances makes the pair come off as dull, maybe even disabled.   The directorial decision to debut the twins in France definitely did not do them any favors, and honestly, when you’re preceded into this world by a menagerie of exotic characters unseen anywhere since the beginning of The Lion King, where can you go but down?

Was it wrong for me to expect a little production value out of this one?  This is, after all, the director’s fifth time around.  You’d think she’d figure out how to make a decent one by now.  Did you know the budget for the first publicity photos was something like $14 million dollars?  When I heard that I remember thinking, “Geez, how many Michael Phelps bong pictures could they have gotten with that money?”  The answer is 23.3.

I know a good baby when I see one and I’ll tell you this: Knox Jolie-Pitt was clearly not who Scott Stapp from Creed was singing about in “Arms Wide Open” nor was Vivienne who John Mayer had in mind when he penned his timeless classic “Daughters.”  They came close.  Perhaps with a bit more makeup or a bit longer in post-production they could have joined the Hollywood baby elite.  As it stands, they’ll probably end up like the Olsen twins: emaciated, addicted to coke, and uncomfortably intimate with an aging John Stamos.

In the end, my problem is not so much with the pint-sized protagonists, but with their producers.  I’m told the creators of this series are two of the most beautiful people on the planet.  To be honest, I don’t see it.  But still, with so many attractive people involved in this project you would think the finished product would be the most shockingly adorable baby this side of Bethlehem.  These kids don’t come close.  In fact, if you put them in a bathtub with the other toddlers I watch at the park on Saturday mornings, they are maybe a 6.5 (and that’s only if the cute little Indian kids with gigantic eyes don’t show up.)

This is due in part to the fact that they are shadowed by a subtle yet undeniable “my father is an asshole” motif.  The rest of the blame can be placed squarely on the bony shoulders of the female producer.  I am familiar with this woman’s previous work and everything she does strikes me as a bit, you know…whorish.  Can I say that?  Whorish?  I’ll just say it.  I think their mother is a whore.

That pretty much sums it up.