October 27th, 2009
Denny’s, the diner chain of choice for those benighted locales that lack a better alternative (an IHOP, a Steak-N-Shake, a Taco Truck, readily available roadkill) has recently announced their new late night Rockstar Menu, featuring such indelible dishes as Hoobastank’s Hoobaburrito, Jewel’s Acoustic Roasted Chicken Quesadilla, Sum 41’s The Sumwich, Good Charlotte’s Band of Burritos, and Los Lonely Boys’ Texican Burger–who said regionalism was dead?
In an effort to broaden their musical and culinary tastes, I propose adding the options below. I’d say that the customer is always right, but you’d sooner catch me at a Bubba Gump’s than the place that coined the phrase, “Moons Over My Hammy.”
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Posted in It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 3 Comments »
October 7th, 2009
Following a spate of reports from several attendees at Thom Yorke’s recent solo set at the Echoplex last week, the Vatican has created a commission to investigate reports of celestial visions and miracles performed, including a Los Angeles native who claimed that Yorke’s celestial wail and boisterous dance moves miraculously cured his gout, rickets, and anemia of funk.
According to attendees, the unexplained phenomena occurred shortly after Flea started slapping his bass and Yorke unveiled a host of gumby-limbed dance moves learned following a careful study of Soul Train VHS tapes from 1981-1983.
“When Thom announced that he had spontaneously decided to play a warm-up show that had been planned for three months, I knew that I’d better start waiting outside,” said Joseph McGillicuddy, a 23-year old shepherd from Barstow, who was stunned upon hearing of the invention of Ticketweb.
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Posted in The Fakest News in Town, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 3 Comments »
September 28th, 2009
The instant MOST PRIZED POSSESSION of my vinyl collection, acquired this weekend at the Lower Haight’s outstanding record shop, Groove Merchant (thanks to a heads-up from the always on-point O-Dub). You can have your random rap full of arcane regional signifiers, I’ll take mine with Darryl Strawberry 16s, and guest-spots from UTFO, Whistle, and a very-young Richie Rich (with arcane regional signifiers). Considering that Mr. 415ivin was arrested a few years later on possession of cocaine and Darryl’s struggles with the drug are legendary, “Chocolate Strawberry” may rival Less Than Zero as the finest thing 80s Cali coke culture ever produced (other than maybe “Dirty Laundry.”) After all, the synth lines on here glow with glossy, nose-dripping, blood shot-eyed, Rockwell-esque paranoia–not to ignore that the song title sounds like a filthy sex act that only The Butterscotch Stallion would enjoy.
Recorded at the Bayside Recording Studios in Queens for Darryl’s short-lived Strawsome Records imprint, “Chocolate Strawberry” was manufactured and distributed via legendary West Coast indie, Macola Records. How bizarre is this 12″? Production credits are attributed to The Kangol Kid, Richie Rich, and Michelle Strawberry, Darryl’s sister. Presumably cut in the off-season following the Met’s ‘86 championship, The Straw’s rapping makes Ron-Ron look like Rakim, but the beat grooves in a codpiece funk sort of way and there are scratches from DJ Silver Spinner and Mixmaster Ice. For sheer kitsch value alone it’s priceless, but it also manages to nicely encapsulate the tail-end of the sequined suit electro-rap that ruled the West Coast pre-Straight Outta Compton. The only way to improve this for me would be an Eric Davis guest-spot.
Pictures of the vinyl below the jump, courtesy of West Coast Pioneers, who thankfully exist so that my feeble photo editing skills aren’t revealed to the world.
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Posted in It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 2 Comments »
June 7th, 2009
I don’t need to explain the Playboy Mansion. You’ve probably seen Girls Next Door, the E! Entertainment show that managed to successfully de-mystify the estate like the channel did Saved by the Bell, Puff Daddy, and Fabio. But despite the camera’s depiction of Heff as goofy and groping grandpa, with three ditzy but well-meaning Barbies, the mansion still retains a certain cache.
When you tell other males that you’re going to a party there, they tend to lapse into Pavlovian response, as though the per capita rate of orgies and salvers of strawberry cocaine hadn’t been on the decline since Dynasty was canceled. At least, that was the reaction when I told people that I was going to attend the Marijuana Policy Project’s fourth annual fundraiser gala at the legendary Gothic-Tudor mansion.
This leads to a state of heightened expectations. You’re not supposed to go to a party at the Playboy Mansion, sample a few rolls from the sushi bar, devour a few vegetarian paninis, and peruse the Spider Monkey cages. No, conventional logic dictates drunken and drugged debauchery like you were a British rock star named Keith, until you wake up in a cut-off New York Jets jersey, beside three girls named Amber, several drained bottles of Dom P., and smothered in viscous solution. The mansion’s steward does his best to preserve the adult Disneyland image, recruiting a corps of models, playmate manques, and random attractive girls ostensibly recruited off the street.
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Posted in LA Weekly, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 8 Comments »
January 26th, 2009
Bonnie “Prince” Tyler’s resume includes stops at The Pyongyang Post-Dispatch, the Eritrea Times-Picayune, and the Bollywood Bugle. He can be reached in care of his Sydney-based second cousin.
WASHINGTON D.C.: Ever since I accepted the position of Political Reporter at the Passion of the Weiss, I’ve been holed up, hobnobbing with the country’s political elite, meeting disgruntled public service officials in freezing cold parking garages, and drinking coffee and cocktails with the cream of the city’s backroom operatives and seedy spin doctors, all aimed at scooping the next Watergate, Whitewater, or at least a garden-variety Whiskey Ring for the Internet’s best music blog.
It’s been tough. I’ve talked to more old white men than a waiter at a Georgia country club, I’ve sniffed more coke than any reporter should in an entire lifetime, and I’ve discovered the best place on K Street to get a handjob (pretty much anywhere if you can offer enough in return). I’ve been told that nearly every politician in the city has a secret habit of cruising for gay sex in airport bathrooms, spending public funds on seven diamond hoes, or stashing stacks of Benjamins in a freezer to pay off the pages he propositions, but I pretty much knew about all of that before I arrived here. No, I wanted a real scoop. Something that would make a jaded, scandal-weary public sit-up and take notice.
I got it last week. With the whole city abuzz about the inauguration of some dude I haven’t been interested in since he won something or other last November (us political reporters have memories like goldfish), I was approached by one of the few guys in town not brimming with suspicious optimism. Being a professional, I can’t reveal his identity, but I can tell you that he has high-level connections with the Bush administration, and that his name rhymes with Zack Zabramoff. And, boy, did he have something exciting for me.
Chris Martin: The American Dad of Pop
Seems that back in 2005, British newspaper The Guardian interviewed Coldplay singer Chris Martin, and Martin mused about the power of music to soothe savage beasts:
“Actually, to be fair, I was wondering whether certain people’s policies would change if they heard certain songs,” he says in his slightly sinusy, barely West Country-accented voice. “Would it be possible to start Nazi Germany if you’d just been listening to Bob Marley’s Exodus back-to-back for the past three weeks and getting stoned? Would the idea of the holocaust seem so appealing? I know this sounds really trite, but I mean it seriously, because music is something every human responds to. There’s a reason why people who’ve had bad relationships with their parents listen to angry stuff.”
Martin then offered some listening advice to the United States’ then Vice President:
“So in some sense,” he continues, “I do think melodies can do a lot. It would be interesting to see how the world would be different if Dick Cheney really listened to Radiohead’s OK Computer. I think the world would probably improve. That album is fucking brilliant. It changed my life, so why wouldn’t it change his?”
According to my source, sometime after the interview was published, Cheney got wind of it. Now, in a Passion of the Weiss exclusive, I can, in what must surely be the biggest story in music-related political reporting since Bob Woodward revealed Jimmy Carter’s failed kazoo lessons back in 1978, share with you the missive Cheney wrote after reading Martin’s comments, which includes his review of OK Computer.
Cheney Gives it a 7.3, With Points off For Overly Derivative Liberalism
Dear G.W.
Have a read… uh… get Laura to read to you the attached newspaper clipping from this British rag. Now, being a death metal man, I don’t keep up with much of the rock ‘n’ roll the kids are into these days, but from what I’ve heard of this Chris Martin character, he’s one of those fair trade, environmentalist, limp-dick liberals. Seeing him make these comments about how I should be listening to some set of soft cock socialists called Radiohead made me think I should get Tony Blair on the phone and have him arrange for Chris Coldplay to experience a bit of rendition— the extraordinary sort. Have him flown out to one of those facilities in Eastern Europe that you don’t know about where I could get to work waterboarding him with my own piss. “What’s that Chris?” I’d ask. “’It was all yellow?’ You goddamn right it was.”
Then I remembered that Blair had quit in favor of that pussy Gordon Brown, and decided to give Martin a pass this time. I’d got all fired up thinking about pissing on someone though, so I decided to buy that OK Computer disc Martin was talking about, and piss on that instead. First, I wanted to test his theory about how listening to some modern rock would transform me into an NPR-addicted war protester, which I expected to be one hundred per cent garbage. I don’t know about Auschwitz and Bob Marley’s Exodus, but I can guarantee that Rumsfeld and John Yoo dreamed up Gitmo after a heady mix of mushrooms and Matisyahu. How could OK Computer have any effect on me?
Secondly, I’ve always had dreams of being a music critic like my hero Bob Christgau. So arrange to have this review sent to Rolling Stone, and tell Jann Wenner that I’ll be available for a regular position once 2009 rolls around. I know Wenner’s a terrorist-loving freedom-hater who can’t stand you or me, but remind him of the size of the file the CIA has on him, and that should make him a bit more compliant. I don’t actually know that the CIA has a file on him, but come on; the motherfucker was in San Francisco in the late ’60s. You couldn’t look at San Francisco on a map back in the Nixon days without attracting the attention of the Secret Service. Good times.
Matisyahu: Also the Vice-President of AIPAC
Radiohead
OK Computer
1997
4 Stars
Given that I began listening to this album on the recommendation of Chris Martin, I expected OK Computer to be the worst kind of nancy boy British moaning; tepid guitar strumming and songs about peace, warm lager and feeding the hungry. To my great… well, I understand many people experience a feeling they describe as “joy,” which I take to be something similar to the exhilaration I experience when I pull the trigger and launch a load of birdshot into another man’s face. If that is joy, it was to my great joy that I discovered Radiohead singer Thom Yorke is a man very much after my own heart.
I have recently begun to grudgingly appreciate the latest Coldplay single, “Viva La Vida.” The lines about rolling the dice and feeling the fear in your enemies’ eyes prompt a faint tingling in my (admittedly desiccated) loins. But Yorke is a more creative man than Martin. He knows when to go to the dark side. He knows when to stack his hostages into a naked man-pyramid. Yorke doesn’t roll the dice to decide the fate of his enemies; he looks them square in the eye and tells them that on his coronation, they’ll be first against the wall. A word of advice, Yorke: King? Vice-President is more than good enough. Trust me.
That delightful sequence occurs on one of the record’s best tracks, “Paranoid Android,” but Yorke lets his magnificently sadistic imagination run loose through the other eleven songs here as well. My favorite is “Climbing Up the Walls.” If I’d known about it a few years before, I would have suggested we make use of it to promote the NSA wiretapping thing (I would have preferred we didn’t make it public at all, but a horrible conglomeration of Anti-Americans consisting of the New York Times, the ACLU, the Senate and, worst of all, the courts, had to get involved). What red-blooded, responsibly Republican American would not get a charge out of hearing “Either way you turn, I’ll be there/ Open up your skull, I’ll be there”? And Yorke’s got a solution to any Moveon.org-ers wanting to talk about the Constitution too: “Fifteen blows to the skull.” I would have suggested sixteen.
I tell you, this Yorke fucker has some good ideas. I don’t know how a Karma Police would work, but it sounds just the thing to beef up our Homeland Security department. And “This is what you get if you mess with us” is such a glorious slogan I can’t believe I didn’t come up with it myself.
Cheney: A bigger fan of Hobbes
Yorke knows how to run a political campaign, too. In “Electioneering,” he lays out a strategy of such elegant sophistication that even Karl Rove would be in awe: “Riot shields, voodoo economics.” He proposes using cattle prods! Now that’s getting out the vote.
Such is Yorke’s ingenuity that he even manages to squeeze some balls in his drippy acoustic love song. He starts off spouting Shakespeare at some weeping dame, but by the end of the song he’s telling her he hopes that she chokes. It almost makes up for the “bring down the government” nonsense he spouts in “No Suprises.” However, given his strong form in the other songs, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s referring to the Reagan method of bringing down government, through less regulation and lower taxes, rather than actual sedition.
But what makes OK Computer the best album I’ve heard in a long time is that Yorke’s lyrical ingenuity is matched by his band’s inventive musicality. Jonny Greenwood’s guitars slice like razor wire, while Phil Selway’s drums clatter like bombs over Baghdad, or maybe even like that song “Bombs Over Baghdad.” Radiohead seems to realize that you can’t trust weak human flesh with anything important, and its music is bolstered by a computer framework that has all the cold sensibility of a corporation outsourcing its activities to India. And in a personally appealing touch, the machine voice narrating “Fitter Happier” sounds uncannily like me in the morning before my first cup of coffee. Ask my wife, she’ll back me up on that.
Chris Martin thinks if I really listened to this album, the world would improve. I suspect he is right. After fifty minutes with this disc, I’ve decided to run for President in 2012. I’ll be a jackknifed Juggernaut in the next world war. The Democrats might have yuppies networking, but I have dust and screaming. I will stop at nothing when electioneering. I trust I can rely on your vote.
Dick Cheney
Download:
MP3: Radiohead-”Paranoid Android”
MP3: My Morning Jacket-”Evil Urges”
Posted in Bonnie "Prince" Tyler, The Bradley Effect, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 4 Comments »
December 12th, 2008
EXT. THE ARABIAN DESERT-DAY
BUSTA RHYMES and jovial sidekick, SPLIFF STARR, stroll through a barren wasteland: famished, high and disoriented.
Busta:Where are we, Spliff?
Spliff Starr: Yemen.
Busta Rhymes: Don’t yeah man, me…I pay you for two things: carrying drugs and geographic know-how.
Spliff Starr: No, Yemen. It’s nearly 600,000 square kilometers, approximately the size of Thailand. It’s chief exports are oil, coffee, fish….
Busta Rhymes: (pointing) Put your eyes where my hands can see.
Spliff Star: It’s a bird…it’s a plane.
Busta Rhymes: It’s an Arab!
Busta & Spliff Starr (together): With money!
Greek Chorus Consisting of RICK ROSS, JIM JONES, AKON, DJ KHALED, SOULJA BOY, PUFFY and RON BROWZ.
Woe and peril are the fate of the man forced to confront the burden of getting Arab Money. We getting Arab Money.
Shaking them off, Busta and Spliff hold hands and frolic gleefully towards the palace.
The Scarecrow Obviously Being the Weed Carrier 
INT. THE ARABIAN PALACE-TIME CEASES TO HAVE ALL MEANING
Gone are Busta and Spliff’s threadbare hoodies, in their stead are magnificent garments made from the finest tailors in Aden.
Busta: Look at us, Spliff Star and Busa Bus, dressing the craziest, like an Arabiest.
Spliff: Does this mean Dre is taking our calls again?
Busta: No, it’s Middle East women and Middle East bread.
Spliff: Pita?
Busta: (ignoring Spliff’s response, fingering his new duds). Does this vest make me look fat?
Spliff: You look beautiful. But tell me if the sunglasses inside are too much?
They approach an Arab gentleman perched on a throne, surrounded by beautiful women. He extends his arms.
Arab Moneyed: Ah, Spliff Star and Busta Rhymes, I have been expecting you. Can I offer you a flute of champagne, an orange, an odalisque.
Touch It-Bring It-Pay It-Watch It-Turn It-Leave It 
Busta: Whoo-hah, you got’s it all in check.
Spliff: Thank you sir and may I say, your hair looks magnificent.What hair gel do you use.
Arab Moneyed: Bedouin Head.
Greek Chorus of Rick Ross, Jim Jones, Akon, DJ Khaled, Soulja Boy, Puffy and Ron Browz: Only at the golf course, can the secret of Arab Money begin to to be revealed.
Shrugging his shoulders, a melancholy Rick Ross leaves the Greek Chorus and addresses the crowd, holding a skull.
Rick Ross: Great shame has been brought to the house of Ross. No longer is he the biggest boss, he has seen thus far. Ross has been eclipsed. Ross is speeding no longer.
Ross looks gravely at the platinum chain of his own face that dangles around his neck.
Ross: Here hung those lips that Ross has kissed I know not how oft.
Seeing Ross disconsolate, Akon sidles up beside him.
Akon: Hang in there Rick Ross, you’ve sold millions of records, you’re beloved the world over by high school basketball coaches, the Florida Penal Community, and irony-loving bloggers from Texas to Tanzania.
Ross: But Ross pushes, he pushes.
Akon: You don’t know that he’s a bigger boss than you. You have no smoking gun.
Ross: Ross does not like your choice of verbiage.
Greek Chorus of only DJ Khaled: Greek chorus taking over. We the best.
Skull Gang! Santana!
INT. YEMENI PALACE-SUPPERTIME
Busta yawns and taps on the shoulder of his new associate.
Busta: Take me to a 7-star hotel! Busta Rhymes has Arab Money and Busta Rhymes intends to spend Arab money.
Arab Moneyed: Your wish is my command. Treat me like a genie, whatever your most stereotypical desires are, I shall obey.
Magically, they are transported to a lavish casino in Dubai.
Arab Moneyed: How would you like to play pinochle with the ghost of the great Muhamed Ali.
Spliff Starr: Just because a motherfucker got Parkinson’s don’t mean he dead.
Arab Moneyed: No, you don’t understand. I meant the other Muhammad Ali, the late-Pasha of Egypt.
Spliff and Busta stare quizically.
Arab Moneyed: Then the ghost of Yassir Arafat it is. But watch out he cheats.
Greek Chorus of Jim Jones waving dollar bills at the camera with a pelt on his back: SABLE! GET FURRY!
DipSquirrel: The Latest Hare-Brained Scheme
EXT. CROWD SHOT
Busta Rhymes and Spliff Star cavort triumphantly, watching a crowd of Middle Easterners affirm their love of petrodollars and the rappers who love them.
Spliff Starr: The people adore us again. It had been so lonely since “Pass the Coirvoisier.” Who needs Andre anyhow?
Busta Rhymes: They respect me in Maui, Malaysia, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Iran.
Spliff Star: Less than one percent of the island of Maui is Arab.
Busta Rhymes: But they know that we get money.
Spliff Starr & Busta Rhymes (together): We getting Arab money!
They hug. Spliff Starr sheds a single tear of joy.
Busta Rhymes: And you said I’d have to start wearing dresses again.
Greek Chorus (all): Antío sas! Antío sas! Antío sas!
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Best Of, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 9 Comments »
November 14th, 2008
Are you frequently fatigued? Do you lack the energy to assault major American film directors over the role of O-Dog? Do you find yourself drinking beverages, one part Alize, one part Cristal, and one part Suge Knight tear drop, while wondering why your particular brand of thug lacks passion? Well, with one sip of Hunid Racks’, 2Pac Energy Drink, you’ll be ready to smite all rotund rivals, pen rose poems of dubious merit, shoot yourself during robberies and keep hos in check (while clowning around with the Underground.)
Unless you’re Faith Evans or a postal service employee disgruntled by the character of Lucky from Poetic Justice, it’s clear that something refreshing and naturally effervescent looms in your future–something with healthy ingredients like carbonated water, high fructose corn syrup, citric acid, taurine, sodium citrate, natural & artificial flavors, glucuronolactone, caffeine, potassium sorbate, sodium benzoate, d-calcium concatenate, guarana extract, panax ginseng extract, inositol, l-carnitine niacinamide, pyridoxine hydrochloride, cyanocobalamin. I know, cyanocobalamin, right? Get ready for the ride of your fucking life!
Don’t believe me? Then listen to the sagacious wisdom of the fine people at Hunid Racks, who guarantee that if you “drink a can, [you] improve your daily hustle. Drink two cans, get ‘yo hustle on.” Rick Ross drinks 17 of these each day. Does this account for his obesity? Maybe. Does it account for his success? Absolutely. *
After Rick Ross Learned to Hustle at a Shirts Vs. Skins Basketball Game, He Never Looked Back
As Hunid maintains” “the 2Pac energy drink is for the “real Hustlers…focused on goals…who want to upgrade their mind body and soul and…reach their ultimate goals.” Lofty goals…like hanging out with Hussein Fatal and E.D.I. Amin of the Outlawz. ** After all nothing’s more wise than the company motto: “Don’t look behind, look ahead, erase the past get that cash!” Exactly the sort of forward-thinking economic policy implemented under the Bush administration.
Indeed, imbued such wiry energy, the makers of Hunid stay awake 22 hours a day, enabling them to read each issue of Harper’s, Field and Stream, and Retired General. Thusly, they’re aware of the deep economic rut and the many choices any hip-hop beverage connoisseur has to choose from: Pit Bull, Crunk, Drank, Pimp Juice, Hyphy Juice, Loud Energy Drinks and of course, good ol’ fashioned syrup. All , fueled by the spirit of condescending and everlasting stereotypes, yet none that can match the immortal power of the ghosts of overrated, dead rappers. The 2Pac Energy drink: Baby, toss it up! (and down).
* God knows, it isn’t his talent.
** One reason Biggie defeats ‘Pac is a stronger weed carriers JV. Lil Cease + Lil Kim > Outlawz combined (”All Eyez on Me,” “Hit ‘Em Up” exempted.) Conspiracy is better than you remember–it still isn’t that good.
Download:
MP3: 2Pac: “Toss It Up”
MP3: 2Pac: “Holler if You Hear Me”
MP3: Junior Mafia-”Step into the Realm of Junior M.A.F.I.A.”
Video: 2Pac-”Toss It Up”
Video: 2Pac-”Holler if You Hear Me”
Posted in It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 14 Comments »
August 7th, 2008
Last week reggaeton star, Daddy Yankee and Arizona Senator John McCain met to discuss immigration, education and a possible Yankee endorsement of the Republican candidate for president. While a transcript of the interview has not officially surfaced, my top-secret sources have thankfully provided the details of what transpired during Daddy Yankee and Granddaddy McCain’s summit.
Int. Secretary John McCain’s Washington Office-Early Evening.
A knock is heard. John McCain turns off the episode of Wheel of Fortune.
McCain: Come in.
The door opens, Daddy Yankee enters.
McCain: Hello Daddy Yankee. Can I call you daddy?
Daddy Yankee: Yo, it’s your boy Daddy Yankee, I got this game locked down.
McCain: I too enjoy a good game of Monopoly or Clue.
An aide whispers in his ear.
McCain: And Bible Bombardment. Gotta’ appeal to the base.
Daddy Yankee: Pump the bass. Move it. Move it.
McCain: That’s precisely what I’ve been telling my advisers. The base isn’t set in stone. We just need to devise a strategy that can get our point across. If only the media wasn’t so in love with Barack. Don’t they understand that my energy plan makes the most sense . I’m about lowering the cost of gas now!
Daddy Yankee: A ella le gusta la gasolina.
McCain: Of course, she does, it’s about off-shore drilling, nuclear power, tapping into the US strategic oil reserve. Everyone likes driving their car. When I used to be stationed in Pensacola, Florida as a young naval officer, I used to go cruising to the malt shop with this floozy named Trixie. We necked and necked and necked.
Daddy Yankee: Dame mas gasolina. Como encanta la gasolina.
McCain: Ha ha. You sound just like George there.
Daddy Yankee: I got my heart. I got my balls and enough heart to break y’alls jaws.
McCain: Have you ever given any thought to enlisting in the military? We could use a few more thousand people just like you if we’re going to be able to secure a peace in Iraq for the next hundred years.
Daddy Yankee: I’d rather round out my n—s from Puerto Rico to help me out with this war.
McCain: The Army is always recruiting too.
Daddy Yankee: Bring it on.
Another knock is heard at the door. Cindy McCain enters, pomegranate martini in hand. McCain adviser Carly Fiorina follows her inside the office.
McCain: Hello pookie, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine, a uh…Mr. Daddy Yankee.
Cindy McCain: I know who he is. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Yankee.
Daddy: You know who I am. I’m your papi, papi, papi, papi.
They shake hands, she looks seductively into his eyes.
McCain: How did you know who he was?
Cindy: C’mon, John. Get with the times. Everyone who’s anyone in Washington reads Dub.
Daddy Yankee: Daddy suena activa. Con el sandel Caribe. Les mamis se lo vive. Pega y te melato.
Cindy(squealing): Ooh, I just love it when he speaks in Spanish. It reminds me of back home. Can I offer you a beer?
Daddy Yankee: Tienes medalla?
Cindy nods blankly.
McCain: Ok, Daddy. Let’s talk about big things. Immigration policy. Education. This Ragu-tons thing you were telling me about over the phone.
Daddy Yankee: What you know about big things? Chrome wheels own deals.
Cindy: See John, this is why you need to read Dub.
Daddy Yankee turns to Cindy.
Daddy Yankee: Me and you, holding it down. It’s all real, come on.
Cindy: (blushing) Well, I’m flattered that you think it’s all real, but I have had a little work done.
Daddy Yankee: Yo lo tengo, whu-whu-what. Mucho carnito ma. El papi lover te lo da.
Carly Fiorina turns to Cindy.
Carly Fiorina: Did you know that viagra is covered under some health care plans but not birth control?
McCain grows flustered and grabs his wife’s hand.
McCain: Who said anything about viagra?
Daddy Yankee turns to Cindy.
Daddy Yankee: With a girl like you, you forget the nonsense. We peeps don’t give a fuck about the chicos and gossip.
McCain: This is positively preposterous, Cindy. Besides, at least I don’t plaster on my make-up like a trollop, you cunt.
Cindy: There you go with the trollop stuff again. That’s it, I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.
She grabs Daddy Yankee’s hand.
Cindy: C’mon Daddy Yankee, give me the straight talk express.
Daddy Yankee takes her hand and shrugs at McCain.
Daddy Yankee: I got this game locked down.
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 12 Comments »
March 5th, 2008
As the voters of Texas, Rhode Island, Vermont and Ohio filed to the polls yesterday to help decide the Democratic Party’s nomination for President, will.i.am., the capitalization averse mastermind of the Black Eyed Peas continued his steadfast efforts to help elect Senator Barack Obama of Illinois. Indeed, while most election-day volunteers focused on get-out-the-vote efforts, i.am. sat down in his studio to concoct his most powerful campaign song yet, one that reveals his inner-most feelings for the candidate, as well as offering tantalizing sexual favors that have been hard to come by on the campaign trail.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not gay,” i.am said giggling and adjusting the pink fedora that he wore on the set of the new Peas video, “Shake Yo’ Lumpy Love Bumps. “But if Obama needs a little stress relief, I want him to know that I’m there for him. That’s how dedicated i.am to the message of hope and change that Obama brings to the table. Rest assured, I won’t like doing it. At least not much.”
While i.am’s, first two videos featured cameos from the likes of intellectual powerhouses such as John Legend, Scarlet Johansson, Tyrese, Jessica Alba and George Lopez, the Los Angeles native decided that for video number three he needed to offer an honest revelation of the depths of his man-crush. While various beautiful starlets offered to help i.am. in giving Obama hand jobs, i.am. said that this time he needed to go solo.
“When I look into Barack’s baleful brown eyes, he touches the depths of my inner artist,” i.am. averred. “I’ve written many songs that have meant a great deal to many people. “My Humps,” has been proven to cure cancer, “Let’s Get Retarded,” has helped millions of Americans cope with mental retardation and “I Got It From My Mama,” artfully explained the complicated world of genetics. Yet the song-writing process was never more natural than for ‘Hands Holding Hope.’ One second I was wondering what more I could do for Barack, the next I knew the answer: hand jobs.”
Apparently, Oprah was Unavailable
While Obama was unavailable for comment as he gathered at his Chicago headquarters to watch the primary results, an Obama campaign spokesman, Ellis Frumerberg, denied reports that the candidate took i.am. up on his salacious offer.
“Those allegations are preposterous,” Frumerberg said. “Obama has been happily married to his wife Michelle for over 16 years and he would never think about accepting illegal campaign handtributions. And might I add, that if he were to accept one, it would most certainly be from Jessica Alba.”
Clinton campaign staffers were quick to spin this as another example of Obama’s lack of experience.
“When the President is woken up at 3:00 a.m with an emergency crisis., who do you trust to make the right decision?” Clinton said. “Do you want a president willing to go to third base with the man who introduced Fergie to the world? To say nothing of his solo record. He’s the only man on earth capable of making Wyclef Jean look like Bob Marley.”
Anonymous sources inside the Clinton campaign confirmed that Tina Fey had proposed to make out with Clinton on camera in an attempt to woo the MTV crowd. However, the offer was promptly rebuffed.
Download:
MP3: Skip Spence-”Little Hands”
MP3: The Smiths-”Hand in Glove”
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Best Of, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 9 Comments »
February 5th, 2008
Take That Chuck Norris.
- As you can see from his “Real American” video above, Hogan has the endorsement of the real JFK, not his younger, drunker brother and rest of the flotsam and jetsam that currently constitute the rest of the Kennedy clan. This displays Hogan’s ability to transcend the realm of the spirit and the flesh. Last time, I checked Barack Obama was only capable of communicating with the living. How is he supposed to bridge generation gaps and the partisan divide if he can’t even communicate with the dead? Pathetic.
- Hogan’s American flag guitar is at least six times more awesome and 14 times more patriotic than the pathetic ax that Mike Huckabee wields in D.C. cover band, Capital Offense. This leads me to believe that Huckabee is soft on terrorism, communism, nihilism, and rockism, and therefore not fit to be president. Who’s the pinko now, Suckabee?
- Hulk Hogan once defeated Andre the Giant and Big John Studd. Granted, John McCain’s six and a half years of torture at the hands of the North Vietnamese must’ve been no picnic, but let’s face facts, McCain is 5′7. The Hulkster is 6′10 and weighs 300 lbs (according to Vince McMahon). Let’s just say for instance that Iran continues to take steps towards a nuclear weapon, and let’s just that say Mahmoud Admadinejad challenges the sitting American president to a Greco-Roman wrestling bout, my money’s on the guy who used to be nicknamed Thunder Lips and who can body-slam 520 lb. Gallic Giants.
Hogan’s Power Is So Great That Everyone He Comes Into Contact With Slowly Starts To Look Like Him
- Hulk Hogan is capable of mystically beaming himself from the Washington Memorial, to the Badlands, to the St. Louis Arch, to a cornfield in Iowa, to the Hollywood sign and Mt. Rushmore, all in a matter of seconds, while continuing to rock the fuck out. All granite-face Mitt Romney can do is look like he belongs on Mount Rushmore. [Or insert Your Own magic underwear joke here.]
- If a potential voter asked Hulk Hogan how he did his hair every morning, he wouldn’t break down on the stump and lapse into a teary schpiel. Instead, he would tousle his platinum-colored locks, flex his 24-inch pythons, tell her to say her prayers and to eat her vitamins. Then he would hop on his “Hulkster” chopper, swallow two dozen raw eggs for the protein and proceed to fight for the rights of every man (and woman.)
- While none of the remaining candidates love Khadafi (I imagine Kucinich may have had a small crush), not one can match the fervor of the Hulkster’s nationalistic fury. How many times have you seen Ron Paul rip up a picture of a jheri-curled Libyan dictator? Perhaps you might note that our problems with the tyrant of Tripoli seem like old news. A good point. But what if our diplomatic relations with the another country sour similarly? Maybe even France. Were that to ever happen, I know who I’d want in the white house: a leader with the necessary strength fortitude to to be willing to shred up a picture of Nicolas Sarkozy in his music video (and possibly shut down America’s lycees).
Not convinced? Watch the video below and try to convince yourself otherwise. If might not contain cameos from Will I Am and Scarlett Johansson but it’s damn effective. Some might even call it propaganda, but I for one call it testament.
Download:
MP3: Brian Eno & David Byrne-”America is Waiting”
MP3: Broadcast-”America’s Boy”
Posted in It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 4 Comments »
