My reaction to the film was somewhere in between those two extremes. While I found it enjoyable and entertaining, I did not find it to be some sort of transcendent experience.

That evening, I Googled "Black Swan" to read a few reviews of the film in a vain attempt to validate my own options.  One of the first posts that I came across was a piece from Huffington Post written by Tina Sloan.

Sloan is a geriatric actress who was cast in a very small role in "Black Swan." Her post, titled, "Seen ‘Black Swan’? Yes, I’m In It!" is easily one of the most pathetically pretentious and self-important collection of words ever compiled.

I have reprinted Sloan’s post below, in its entirety. The paragraphs in italics are the comments that Sloan carelessly omitted from the original piece, but go a long way long way to reinforcing the general theme of this awful post.

::

When I went to the audition to meet the director of "Black Swan," Darren Aronofsky, who is a legend in my world, I dressed for the part which was "a society woman" and since I live on Park Avenue and know the world well, he was suitably impressed.

Clearly, this was not a role for a commoner, but for a sophisticated woman with exquisite tastes, such as myself.

I had on a black Armani suit, pearls, Chanel heels, diamond ring, and a rather well worn black Hermes handbag.

While not outwardly visible, I also possessed several accoutrements that bolstered my status as a bona fide "society women." My undergarments were spun from the silk of an endangered species of Bolivian silkworm, while my dentures were crafted from the ivory of a young and virile Asian elephant that was later killed in the name of sport and European bloodlust.

He asked me several questions about where I lived and so on and then said, "Okay, you look the part, but can you act?"

"Can I act?" I thought to myself. I was delighted at the opportunity to regale him with my impressive resume, in the form of a 101-word rambling run-on sentence.

Aha, my 35 years on daytime TV came to the rescue and I hoped to impress him with all the parts I had played on soap operas; from being a Nobel Prize cardiologist on "Another World,"

Winning a Nobel Prize might be a bit challenging, but capturing the essence of a Nobel Prize winner in a soap opera character takes true talent.

…to a Chanel suited nurse to a murderess, mother of a murderess and grandmother of a seven-year-old murderess (Hayden Panettiere, no less) on "Guiding Light."

Clearly, I possess an exceptional range, provided the role calls for committing a murder or being related to one who has committed a murder. Also, I feel it necessary to note that Hayden Panettiere is not only a prolific actress, but a Grammy-nominated singer. Did I mention that I worked with her? Because I totally did.

I added my parts of being an abused wife, a breast cancer survivor, the mother of a daughter who drowned twice (both times leaving one red shoe behind and who returned healthy and happy as a different person each time.)

I hoped that he would be impressed by my experience in soap operas, which are the benchmark for realism in storytelling, as evidenced by the repeated-drowning-red-shoe-personality-changing plot.

I was not sure that worked, so I mentioned I had been in a lot of movies.

Six, to be exact, most of which he had never heard of. However, I did mention that I had small roles in movies starring Al Pacino, Dan Aykroyd and Jodie Foster. In retrospect, I probably should have mentioned that I received a pre-nomination for a Daytime Emmy in 2010. The mere thought of that prestigious pre-nomination delights me; in many ways, the honor is the crown jewel of my 37-year acting career.

He still nicely asked me to read the one line I had come downtown to the Lower West Side to audition for. He asked me to do it many times and in many different ways. The line was — "Thomas, come and meet Barbara — she is from Dallas. No, she is Dallas." (The last part of the line was cut in the film.)

I performed the line in several different styles that I had honed over the course of my esteemed career, channeling voices such as "murderess," "murderess’ mother," "murderess’ grandmother," and "Nobel Prize winner."

I was just thrilled when I got the part! I was to play Mrs. Fithian, the patroness of the ballet, and I was to be the deus ex machina who calls Vincent Cassel ("Thomas, come meet Barbara") from Natalie Portman so Winona Ryder can walk in and attack her verbally.

For non-diamond owning commoners not familiar with the term, "deus ex machina" is Latin for "god out of the machine." It is an improbable device unexpectedly introduced to resolve an otherwise irresolvable plot point. While my role was small, it was absolutely critical to the plot of the film. Surely, the writers would have struggled with a way to introduce Natalie’s character to Winona’s were it not for me.

I am obviously not someone who is unwilling to do small parts. I was thrilled to do it and work with everyone in that film.

Hell, I was happy to have any work at all. Since "Guiding Light" has ended, I have been occupied writing blog posts for the "everyman," such as "Ode To New York City Doormen." This work, while satisfying, pales in comparison to the glamour and glitz of daytime television, the format that made me a household name.

My proposed changes to the “Black Swan” promotional poster.

Thrilled was I as I arrived on a freezing, bitter, bitter cold night with my black velvet evening gown and strands of pearls and earrings for the wardrobe to decide on.

While I have neglected to mention brand names here, rest assured that everything that I was wearing was far more expensive than anything you have ever owned.

I was sent to my own trailer where the heat was turned up on high. The winds were blowing over 30mph and we were to do the scene outside.

Did you know that the slanted "I" button in Microsoft Word gives words an elegant slant to the right? This is delightful.

I could hardly stand against the wind as I walked to the makeup trailer. They have someone to walk with you wherever you are going. Sort of fun!

I briefly considered hiring someone to do this every day, but I realized that I do very little walking, in light of the fact that my servant Osvaldo fetches most everything that I need in my Park Avenue condo. What would we if we didn’t have our strapping, young Latino man-servants to do our bidding?

When I entered there were Natalie Portman and Winona Ryder and I was plunked down between them. I said "Hi, I’m Tina Sloan" and they nodded and said "Hi."  That was it of course as they had lines to study and so on.

Clearly, they had both instantly recognized me and wanted to beg for my autograph, but were unable to because of the demands of their work.

But never to be silenced I added to Natalie, "I am Renny McPherson’s mother."

(Sometimes, I second guess myself, wondering if Renny is truly suitable to evoke the wealthy, WASP upbringing that we have blessed him with. If I had to do it again, I would have likely named him "Branforth Covington", but I digress.)

Now Natalie beamed and said, "Oh, I saw him at Ivanka and Jared’s wedding last weekend." Renny and Natalie had been in the same class at Harvard

(Did I mention that I am immensely rich and famous, and that I have worked with Hayden Panettiere?)

…and so through my son, I was warmly included and chatted with as we went via makeup transformation from normal to movie stars (I of course was not transformed as they were since the age differential precludes my glowing with dewy youth)

Alas, one of the disadvantages of working in movies is that they do not use the "dewy youth" lighting that is ever present in soap operas.

I queried as to how they felt about going into the 30mph gusts to do the scene and they both just shrugged. They weren’t going to complain at all about it and I kept thinking the winds would blow them away as they are both so delicate and lovely.

"Enjoy it while you can, skinny bitches," I thought. "You might laugh at my saggy tits, wrinkled skin and perpetually dry, grey vagina now, but you will meet the same fate in due time."

But they were there to work under any conditions. So, I decided to be as good natured and brave as they were and not to discuss it.

It was quite difficult to do so, as my arthritis left me with a throbbing pain in my joints, and I was quite backed up due to the conspicuous lack of FiberCon on the set.

Fortunately, the powers that be decided to do the scene inside and I stepped from behind a pillar to beckon Thomas/Victor away from Nina/Natalie so that the real moment could happen when Nina is affronted by a furious Beth/Winona.

Typing that last sentence was delightful. I wish that all names contained slashes, so that I could have named my son "Kensington/Reginald/Hunter Stone/Barrington/Longworth."

This was one moment in a long scene that was filmed all night for two nights down on Wall Street in a gorgeous structure. When I saw it in the theater, my tiny moment made me glow, but the genius of Natalie Portman and Vincent Cassel, who said the lines on the stairs again and again and never complained, was what stayed with me.

It is difficult for me to understand how actors being paid millions of dollars to star in a hit movie would not complain about braving the elements. Granted, I earned only $412 dollars for my part, but I longed for the comforts of my lavish Park Avenue condo throughout the entire process.

Darren Aronofsky goes for perfection in the tiniest details and it makes a film like "Black Swan." So when someone says, "have you seen ‘Black Swan,’" I get to smile and say" Oh, Yes I am in it" and watch them register. Oh such fun! One line!

And then I follow up by saying, "Did I mention that I worked with Hayden Panettiere?"

I was astonished when President Obama’s health care bill was passed. Despite the fact that earthquakes are now happening every 13 minutes, I am still stunned when another country is devastated by a quake. 9/11 caught me off slightly off guard, even though I had a job at the Pentagon at the time.

The collapse of Sandra Bullock’s marriage, on the other hand, was something that I fully expected to happen. In fact, I wish that I had found a way to wager on this when Bullock married motorcycle guy Jesse James in 2005. If I had, I would be enjoying a significant payout right now. I would probably be eating a lobster instead of writing this.

A few weeks ago, a creature named Michelle McGee admitted to making sex with James while Bullock was busy pretending to be the savior for a black kid. Bullock won an Oscar, James issued a public apology, McGee became famous and lawyers were contacted. The cycle of life continues.

Bullock and McGee have little in common, aside from their shared affinity for James’ phallus. Sandra Bullock is an actress with a penchant for taking on the role of the quirky “girl next door” in comedies, and a proven box office draw. McGee is makeup enthusiast with a diverse set of obscure occupations, including “tattoo model,” “white supremacist,” “semen depository,” and, quite possibly, “sexually transmitted disease-carrier.”

Bullock embraces the image of the clean cut “girl next door.” McGee treats her body like a NASCAR driver treats his vehicle, branding it with a plethora of obscene tattoos. Even her forehead is decorated with a large amount of green ink, giving her a distinct reptilian appearance.

Ms. McGee in her natural habitat, stalking mealworms.

When the average American male sees a picture of Michelle McGee, he might be curious about the care and feeding of such a being. For example, how large of a tank does a Michelle McGee require? Does a Michelle McGee eat vegetables or does she nosh on live crickets from Petco? Does Michelle McGee require continual warmth, or can her heat rock be unplugged overnight? How often does Michelle McGee molt?

On the contrary, Jesse James is not an average American male. When he sees a picture of Michelle McGee, he thinks, “Can I put my penis into that?” Then, he sends her a personalized message using MySpace, because MySpace is the preferred mode of social interaction for classy American gentleman.

Next, James relentlessly engages in sweaty intercourse with McGee while his wife serves as the household bread-winner, putting food on the table and whatnot. James is pleased because McGee is far more adventurous than his spouse. For example, McGee permits James to defecate on her chest as he masturbates and shouts racial slurs. Sandra Bullock would never allow that. She prefers the missionary position.

Bullock eventually heads home after filming The Blind Side. As she pulls into the driveway, James stands over the bathroom sink, frantically scrubbing McGee’s wretched smegma from his tough-guy genitals.

James greets his wife at the door, and all appears to be well in their world: he got away with having an affair and, as an added bonus, his penis smells like lavender and chamomile-flavored Softsoap. Bullock’s film turns out to be a critical success, eventually earning her an Oscar. As she accepts the award, she thanks James for being the ideal husband.

Once Sandra Bullock and Jesse James were wed, these two objects were put on a collison course.

Unbeknownst to Bullock and James at the time, the proverbial shit would soon hit the fan, and their relationship would fall apart in the most public manner possible. 

In the wake of Bullock’s Oscar win, McGee saw a golden opportunity to advance her own fame. She had been fully content serving as James’ personal fuck-socket, his filthy piece of ass on the side. However, she could not pass up on the opportunity to snatch away some of Bullock’s limelight, in hope of boosting the page views of whatever novelty porn site hosts graphic videos of her tattooed clitoris.

McGee publically announced that she had an extramarital affair with James. Within days, two other classy women of high moral fiber crawled out of the woodwork, making similar claims.

The media’s reaction to the story was quite predictable. James was rightfully demonized for his actions. Bullock was cast as a victim that was blindsided by her husband’s inexcusable actions.

While I fully agree that Jesse James is a seeping bag full of douche, I am unable to feel a shred of sympathy for Sandra Bullock.

::

Several years ago, I had the misfortune of becoming acquainted with the work of Jesse James by watching television series Monster’s Garage. The reality program chronicled the day-to-day operations of West Coast Choppers, James’ custom motorcycle shop.

(I am embarrassed to admit that I ever watched Monster’s Garage. The show, and the entire motorcycle lifestyle, isn’t my style at all. The only excuse that I can offer is that I was stoned at the time and one of my closest friends is a gear head.)

Much of the show centered on Jesse James, the consummate asshole. As his crew toiled away building a motorcycle, James would engage the individuals in passive-aggressive conflicts. Occasionally, he would throw a tantrum, storming off to his office and violently slamming the door. All along, James struck a machismo posture, flexing his biceps and communicating using grunted, short phrases consisting of words no larger than five letters long.

I cannot explain exactly why, but James’ tough guy persona seemed completely contrived. He always appeared a bit unnatural as he tried desperately hard to portray the stereotypical image of a tattooed, outlaw biker-type. One might think that James adopted the machismo image to compensate for his own insecurities, but I believe that it was a deliberate marketing strategy designed to bolster the perceived masculinity of the West Coast Choppers brand.

This is not to suggest that all motorcycle enthusiasts or men with tattoos are poseurs. In fact, I believe quite the contrary. Most adults convey a particular image due to a lifestyle choice; their image serves as a reflection of their persona. Jesse James’ posturing, on the other hand, did not like a natural fit, as if his behavior were carefully calculated in order to support his public facade.

I initially thought that James was a bona fide douchebag, but I quickly came to realize that he was not worthy of such an esteemed title. Douchebags are genuine people with personality defects. James is merely a man who devotes incredible amounts of energy to representing a carefully-crafted douche-like image. He is a wannabe douchebag – a vacant douche vessel, if you will.

::

A few years later after the show began, James married Bullock. Many viewed the pairing of the tattooed motorcyclist with the clean-cut actress as an unlikely pairing, and a testament to the power of love. The James-Bullock union proved that love conquers all and that, like Paula Abdul once famously said, “opposites attract.”

Have you or someone you know been sexually assaulted by a cartoon character? If so, call our help line.

In this modern-day recasting of the Paula Abdul’s hit music video, Sandra Bullock assumes the role of the pop star, while James is MC Skat Kat, the animated, stray feline that eats garbage from dumpsters.

Of course, I was quite skeptical of the celebrity couple. I felt that it was painfully obvious that Bullock showed terrible judgment in marrying James. After all, he was a well-established dick hole whose marriage to a porn star had just ended. I reasoned that James would eventually find his home life mundane when compared to the bad-ass, tough guy, rootin’ tootin’ biker lifestyle that he had been programmed to strive for. I predicted that the marriage was destined to end in a disastrous manner.

My female friends admonished me for my skepticism. They said that I was a jaded, immature boy, incapable of understanding the true, wondrous nature of love.

Nearly five years later, it became clear that James spent part of his marriage painting any dirty, tattooed surface that he could find with his ejaculate. My skepticism seems warranted.

Days after news of the scandal broke, James checked himself into a rehab facility for sex addicts. This measure is common among celebrities hoping to avoid damaging their public reputation, but it is largely unnecessary in James’ case. In fact, marital infidelity only serves to reinforce the James’ image as a tasteless, immature man who has no need for your pesky “rules.”

They look so happy together!

Bullock has been treated as a victim who was stunned and devastated by her husband’s callous philandering. In reality, she is part to blame for creating this mess. She willingly married a man who was helplessly devoted to maintaining a false persona, like an adolescent in the midst of an identity crisis.

Furthermore, she married a man who was on the rebound from a marriage with a porn star. I lack expertise in this particular area, as I have never been married to a porn star, nor have I even been romantically involved with a man who was previously married to a porn star. Regardless, this does not seem like a recipe for a healthy life-long relationship.

In choosing to marry Jesse James, Bullock exhibited the same poor judgment that she has used in selecting movie roles. Her professional miscalculations have resulted in film such as Speed 2: Cruise Control, the artistic equivalent of a coat hanger abortion. Bad decisions in her personal life will inevitably lead to a messy divorce and years of paying hefty alimony checks to a world-renowned scumbag.

On the other hand, it is possible that Bullock was caught completely off guard by James’ indiscretions. Perhaps she was shocked by her husband’s contemptible and unethical behavior.

If that is the case, Sandra Bullock is a fucking moron.  

Dana Walsh (Katee Sackhoff) is a senior data analyst at CTU, a job that effectively amounts to “Lord of the Computer Geeks.”  Her preposterous and convoluted subplot has been a major part of season eight.

At the start of the season, viewers learn that Walsh is engaged to Cole Ortiz, and that she has an antagonistic relationship with Chloe O’Brian.  These innocuous beginnings soon gave way to the character’s increasingly ludicrous story arc. 

Walsh repeatedly received phone calls from her ex-boyfriend Kevin, a goateed hillbilly who had recently been released from jail.  After begging Kevin to stop contacting her, she reluctantly met him in the CTU parking lot.

“What part of ‘Git-r-Done’ don’t you understand?”

Kevin revealed that Walsh’s real name is Jenny Scott, and that they had both been arrested for murder.  While Kevin spent seven years in prison, Walsh a minor at the time, so she was released early.  Kevin pledged to leave Walsh alone if she would use her role at CTU to aid him in committing a crime. He threatened to reveal her true identity.  Fearing potential damage to her career, Walsh agreed to walk Kevin and his trailer park companion Nick through a robbery of an NYPD evidence warehouse.  

Most of this convoluted diversion is generally implausible.  First, Walsh repeatedly ducked away into the corridors of CTU to take a series of personal calls from Kevin on her cellular phone.  The audience is lead to believe that a CTU analyst in a management position is allowed to repeatedly leave her workstation during a national security crisis, a theme which reoccurs throughout the season.  It is also doubtful that the highly secure government building lacks any restrictions on cell phone use or a means to monitor these conversations. 

Walsh was able to successfully conceal her former identity from the government in order to obtain her job at CTU.  One would assume that the government would, at very least, perform a cursory background check for a position which grants access to extremely sensitive information about national security.  Such a background check would surely reveal information such as unpaid parking tickets and criminal convictions for murder.

In aiding the bumbling hillbillies, Walsh tapped into the evidence warehouse’s security cameras to direct the robbery.  She provided Kevin and Nick with play-by-play feedback from her workstation, which went unnoticed by her CTU cohorts.  Walsh also conveniently neglected that fact that this activity would be logged, a problem that is later conveniently resolved by the detonation of a pulse bomb in CTU.

The redneck lads were pleased with the results of their sloppy robbery, and Kevin reneged on his promise to leave Walsh alone.  Walsh decided to take matters into her own hands, leaving work with a pistol with the intent of dispatching the troublesome hillbilly duo.  She followed the men to a wooded area, but Ortiz magically interceded before she could make her move. 

After a violent confrontation left Kevin and Nick dead, squeaky-clean Ortiz helped his fiancé dump the bodies.  Within minutes, Kevin’s parole officer became alarmed because he was unable to reach the goateed con, and because Kevin had not updated his Twitter status in over an hour.

We hold this joke to be self-evident.

The parole officer, Bill Prady (Stephen Root of Office Space fame) discovered that Kevin had contacted Walsh several times.  He traveled to CTU to confront Walsh and grew suspicious due to a combination of terrible lies and terrible acting.  Soon, Prady learned of the robbery and discovered that the warehouse’s surveillance system had been tampered with.  He requested access to the footage, which would implicate Walsh in the crime.

Fortunately, the aforementioned pulse bomb destroyed all traces of the footage.  When Walsh explained that she could no longer be helpful to Prady’s investigation.  Believing that Walsh played a role in the robbery, he decided to discuss the matter with Hastings. 

Upon learning of the meeting between Prady and her boss, Walsh killed Prady and hid his body inside of a wall.  Next, it is revealed that Walsh is actually a mole working with the terrorists when she phones on of the bad guys to check in. 

Walsh’s complex story arc exposes several gaping plot holes.  Her progression from a CTU employee with a checkered history to a full-blown supporter of terrorist was forced in a quite awkward manner.  For example, she was incredibly hesitant when she was plotting to kill Kevin and Nick, but she gleefully choked Prady to death and disposed of his body like a seasoned pro.

Furthermore, Walsh’s links with the terrorists underscored that her interactions with Kevin were a superfluous distraction.  Walsh’s position inside CTU would be incredibly valuable to a terrorist organization, and Kevin’s attempt at blackmail was a great threat to her career.  Instead of aiding Kevin and Nick’s risky gambit, she could have dispatched a friendly local jihadist to kill the hillbillies and eliminate the problem.  I am sure that the terrorists would have been happy to comply.     

In retrospect, the insertion of Prady’s character in the storyline proved to be a harbinger of absurdity.  Prady is allowed to loiter in the CTU building for several hours, most of the time completely unescorted.  He eventually wanders onto the floor of CTU where Chloe and her fellow geeks work without as much as a visitor’s badge pinned to his dirty flannel. 

When Walsh finally kills Prady, she disposes of his body by removing a panel from the wall of a holding room, then dragging his bloated corpse into the exposed cubbyhole.  This may most pathetic attempt at disposing of a body in the history of storytelling.  Prady was a very large man who presumably reeked of a combination of stale nachos purchased at a gas station, bowling alley shoes and butt sweat.  One would assume that the scent of his decomposing corpse and his natural musk would combine to form a potent odor that would quickly alert CTU employees that an obese man might be rotting inside the walls of the building. 

Fortunately, Hasting quickly forgot about his meeting with Prady, leaving him at peace in a makeshift casket which would impress even Bob Vila.  This oversight afforded Walsh the opportunity to begin diligently working as a traitor. 

The most disappointing aspect about this entire season has been the revelation that Walsh is actually a mole working for the terrorists.  The “mole in CTU” plot device has been a convenient crutch for the writers over the course of the entire series.  It is a ploy that has been repeatedly used to add interest in the storyline, and it has become senselessly trite.  In fact, the Wiki 24 website lists 14 different moles that have appeared in the show, 8 of which worked for CTU or the FBI. 

It is quite fitting that the show was cancelled days after the audience discovered Dana is a mole.  Justice is served when hackneyed, uninspired writing earned the show cancellation.

Walsh’s silly story arc will likely unfold like many of the moles before her.  She will funnel information to the terrorists, helping them evade capture.  Jack will reason that the bad guys had a tip from the inside.  CTU may intentionally plant misinformation to root out the leak.  Walsh might cover her tracks well, temporarily implicating an innocent person.

Ultimately, Walsh will be apprehended and interrogated by Jack.  She will initially be defiant, refusing to divulge any information.  She will eventually relent, but only after having being granted immunity from prosecution with a statement signed by the President herself.  This will all occur while Jack is running out of time. 

While it is possible that the story will not take such a predictable turn, but I have little faith in writers’ ability to break the habits that they have formed during the past eight seasons.

::

Perhaps the most maddening aspect of being a fan of 24 is witnessing how drastically the quality of the show has declined.  It was once one of the most innovative shows on television, and it was acclaimed for its taut, gripping storytelling.  Today, 24 is a plodding collection of convoluted, derivate storylines. 

Parting with 24 will certainly be bittersweet, but doing so is necessary.  The show is like a childhood pet that has grown into a sickly, aging shell of its former self.

It is time to take 24 behind the shed and blow its fucking brains onto the lawn. 

On Friday, Fox announced that action series 24 would not be renewed for a ninth season.  I was elated as I read Fox’s press release, despite the fact that I have often referred to the show as “The Finest Television Program in the History of the Known Universe.” 

Merely three months ago, I would have found this news devastating.  However, the quality of the show has dramatically dropped this season, making it clear that it is best for the 24 crew to call it quits.

The show chronicles the exploits of counterterrorist agent Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland), a gritty, flawed and often reluctant hero repeatedly tasked with saving the world.  The first season centered on a plot to assassinate a presidential candidate, while subsequent seasons involved thwarting impending terrorist attacks. 

These diverse terrorist threats include, in chronological order: nuclear weapons, a weaponized mega-virus, nuclear weapons again, nerve gas, even more nuclear weapons, another weaponized mega-virus and, finally, nuclear weapons. 

One might assume that the repetition of these themes would cause the show to become stale and unimaginative, but this is not the case.  In many ways, the nature of the terrorist threat was immaterial.  Compelling characters and unexpected plot twists helped establish the show’s cult following.  Disposable characters and an increased reliance on trite plot devices led to the show’s downfall.

The show’s eighth season is set in New York City, as the newly reformed Counter Terrorist Unit struggles to thwart a nuclear attack.  CTU: NY is rife with characters struck from common 24 templates.

Brian Hastings (Mykelti Williamson) serves as the hunchback Director of CTU.  Like several CTU Directors before him, he begins the day skeptical of Jack’s unconventional but highly effective tactics.  Eventually, he learns to trust and respect Jack and develops a willingness to break the rules when necessary.

Hastings’ evolution occurs over the course of several episodes and is designed to transform the audience’s attitude toward the character.  The goal is for viewers to be shocked when they discover that a character that once drew their ire has become far more sympathetic and likeable.  Unfortunately, long-time fans of the show knew what to expect when Hastings began the season as a bag of douche with poor posture.  Viewers have been on a similar journey with many of Jack’s former bosses, including Ryan Chappelle, George Mason, Erin Driscoll, Bill Buchanan and, to some extent, Larry Moss. 

I didn’t even notice you were fighting terrorists. I was too busy swooning.

Heartthrob Freddie Prinze, Jr. is terribly miscast as Cole Ortiz, CTU’s young and inexperienced Director of Field Operators.  The show’s writers have struggled to define a clear identity for the character. 

Ortiz is often described as an ethical “boy scout” type character with a reputation for playing by the rules.  He began the season as a reverent neophyte, expressing his appreciation for Jack’s past work.  Later, he is heroic, frantically steering his car in front of Omar Hassan’s motorcade to prevent an assassination attempt against the Arab President.  In recent episodes, viewers have seen the mischievous side of Ortiz as he helps his fiancée Dana Walsh cover up her misdeeds, including dumping two bodies into a swamp in one of Manhattan’s many wooded areas.   Then, he becomes Jack’s loyal sidekick, though his character has failed to differentiate himself from dozens of other past CTU field agents, other than having more speaking parts.

The show’s writers may have been attempting to craft a complex, nuanced character, but they failed miserably.  Cole Ortiz’s behavior lacks any semblance of continuity, preventing the audience from formulating a solid opinion about the character.  After 13 episodes, most viewers are unable to watch a scene with Ortiz character without thinking, “Hey, that’s Freddie Prinze, Jr.”  This is a clear sign of a poorly developed character.

Arlo Glass (John Boyd) is in charge of piloting the drones (unmanned aircraft) that survey New York City.  Glass is a young and sarcastic man who is incredibly vocal about his desire to caress Dana Walsh’s naughty bits.  The Arlo Glass character is derivative of Morris O’Brian from seasons five and six.  Like O’Brian, Glass is a proudly horny individual.  While Morris O’Brian was comically flirty and had a charming British accent, Glass is a creepy lad with patchy facial hair. 

Furthermore, Arlo Glass has done very little to advance the show’s storyline.  His drone piloting skills were shown in an early episode as a showcase of geeky eye candy, but Glass had quickly descended into becoming an uninspired comedic foil. 

Sexy gingers are incredibly rare. Here are two examples.

There are trillions of female gingers on Earth, yet only a small number are sexually attractive.  This tightly-knit group of redheaded hotties is led by Christina Hendricks, and Annie Wersching serves on the board of directors.

Wersching reprises her role as Renee Walker from the show’s previous season.  Renee began season seven as a disciplined and methodic FBI agent, later learning to embrace Jack’s more forceful style of terrorist hunting, torturing, killing and blood-lusting.  Though similar character progressions had become trite, Walker’s conversion into a bona fide badass was well executed and the character became a fan favorite.

The events of season seven sent Renee into a downward spiral.  She was fired from the FBI for her aggressive interrogation tactics.  She withdrew from her friends and family and attempted suicide.  She vacationed at the Jersey Shore and got into a fistfight with Ronnie after a long night of chugging Jägerbombs.

CTU reluctantly called Renee into action after realizing that the stereotypical Muslim terrorists had connections to the stereotypical Russian terrorists.  During an undercover operation, Renee developed deep ties to the Russian syndicate, so CTU hoped that she would be valuable in their investigation.

As a part of a field operation, Renee’s behavior proves to be violent and erratic.  She saws off the thumb of a Russian man in order to free him from his court-ordered monitoring bracelet.  In a fit of rage, she kills a suspect by stabbing him 836 times with a butter knife, then accidentally stabs Jack in the stomach.  Later, she pisses on the Pope’s blouse and chews with her mouth open.  It is clear that Walker is an unstable train wreck.

Wersching’s performance and the development of her character are one of the few highlights of season eight.  Yet the writers chose to awkwardly conjure up a love story between Renee Walker and Jack. 

During season seven, there was an understated sexual tension between Jack and Renee.  Fans were begging to see the two characters procreate, resulting in horrific babies with red hair, freckles and attached earlobes.

By the start of season eight, Jack had not spoken to Renee in over a year.  After witnessing her self-destructive, irregular behavior, Jack professed his love for her.  They both expressed that they wanted to be together, and Renee returned to Jack’s apartment, desperately awaiting a sweaty session of intercourse after Jack eventually saves the world. 

Granted, Jack’s romantic history has been checkered, including rounds with devilish turncoat Nine Meyers and whiny guttersnipe Audrey Raines, but this plot twist is utterly absurd.  Jack and Renee spent one day working together, then fell out of contact.  She is a very different woman than the one that Jack worked with in season seven.  It is inconceivable that Jack fell madly in love with Renee in 24 hours, harbored a deep-seated crush for over a year, and then declared his love after learning that Renee had become a violent lunatic.  Such fanciful tales of romance belong in daytime soap operas, not in an action series. 

While all of these grievances have made watching 24 a maddening experience, they pale in comparison to my frustration with Dana Walsh.

Click here for the stirring conclusion

Prior to Sunday night, the notion of Sandra Bullock winning an Oscar was unfathomable.  I now realize that anything is possible.  I would not be surprised to learn Paul and Ringo decided to reform the Beatles with Justin Bieber and Eminem as replacements for John and George.  If Dick Cheney defeats Barack Obama for the presidency in 2012, I will not bat an eye.

In recent years, Bullock’s name has become synonymous with terrible movies.  Her resume is a roll call of cinematic abortions, ranging from notable big-budget disasters such as Speed 2: Cruise Control to last year’s universally panned comedy All About Steve.  Movie review aggregator RottenTomatoes.com rates 23 of her 32 films as “rotten.”

Such harsh critical reception does not mean that Bullock lacks talent, but that she lacks discretion in choosing projects.  That said, it is extremely difficult to separate an actress’ performance from the pathetic films she stars in.  While Bullock’s portrayal of Gracie Hart in Miss Congeniality 2 may have been the work of a master thespian, this is difficult to discern in the context of an insipid comedic chick flick. 

Over the course of her career, Bullock helped to usher in an era of vapid comedies that are the scourge of American cinema.  For her continued contribution to the degradation of the arts, Bullock should be condemned, not rewarded.

The Academy’s decision to present the award to Bullock is incredibly puzzling, in that it reflects a highly inconsistent set of criteria for winners and a clear break from precedent.

Occasionally, the Academy will chose a winner not based upon the merit of their particular performance, but as a way to honor their entire career.  One notable example was in 1992, when Al Pacino received the Best Actor award for his role in Scent of a Woman.  Pacino’s Oscar was effectively a lifetime achievement award, as he had been nominated on four other occasions, but had never won.

Pacino’s illustrious career provided the Academy added incentive to award him the Oscar for Best Actor in 1992.  Conversely, Sandra Bullock’s penchant for performing in spectacularly awful movies should have been a factor in this year’s race for the Best Actress Oscar.

Bullock should have to atone for her previous cinematic sins.  Regardless of how strong her performance was in The Blind Side, she should have been required to star in at least two more movies that are not wretched wastes of film before being considered for an Academy Award.

(I will admit that I did not see The Blind Side, because boqueen does not allow me to watch movies where a white person becomes the savior for one or more blacks.  Other movies prohibited in our home include Dangerous Minds, Radio, Music of the Heart, Sunset Park, Freedom Writers, and even Cool Running.)

The Oscars are cheapened by the fact that Bullock owns one of the golden statuettes.  By handing an award to Bullock, the Academy undermined their credibility as an organization.  This will become far more obvious when the trailer for Miss Congeniality 3: Plodding and Plotless premieres, and the words “Academy Award Winner Sandra Bullock” figure prominently in the marketing campaign.

::

The Best Actress award was the lowlight in a thoroughly uninspired evening.  I would have found the Academy Awards completely intolerable were it not for Twitter, which enabled me to trade smarmy remarks with thousands of other viewers.  This made for an entertaining evening, despite the fact that boqueen commandeered our television against my better judgment.

I would like to channel my inner curmudgeon and complain about a few other aspects of the 82rd Academy Awards.

::

Next year, invite Carrot Top instead
After witnessing Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin share hosting duties, I am convinced that a laugh track was piped in to the Kodak Theater Sunday night, or that complementary hallucinogens were offered to audience members.  The tepid banter of the two hosts was terribly unfunny, yet the audience inexplicably responded with laughter each time a joke fell flat.

The decision to pair the two hosts was questionable at best.  Martin was once an incredibly popular comedian, but that was long before the fall of the Berlin Wall.  For over two decades, Martin has taken roles in inane family comedies, such as Cheaper by the Dozen and Pink Panther.  He clearly struggled with the fact that he is comedically irrelevant as he attempted to channel the safe and affable hosting style of Billy Crystal.

Baldwin, on the other hand, does not have an extensive background in comedy.  He seemed rigid and uncomfortable at times as he attempted to establish chemistry with his co-host.  Baldwin is extremely limited in that he is only as funny as the lines that he is reading.  This is a testament to the exceptional writing for NBC’s 30 Rock, as Baldwin creates humor not with his own talent, but with his stoic delivery of brilliant material. 

Martin and Baldwin made for a particularly awkward pairing.  I would call it a “train wreck,” but that would be disrespectful to anyone that has ever been injured or killed in a rail accident.

Featuring Sarah Jessica Parker as a sausage
I am normally not critical of the wardrobe choices of others, as I completely inept when it comes to fashion.  In fact, I feel a profound sense of accomplishment when I successfully leave the house with a pair of pants on. 

I will make an exception to this rule for equine actress Sarah Jessica Parker, whose ill-advised choice of dress made for an utterly horrifying scene on the red carpet.

Parker is truly a terrifying creature.  Each year, hundreds of people wager sizeable amounts of money, picking Parker as the winner of the Kentucky Derby.  Such confusion is understandable, based upon her close resemblance to a horse and the impressive length of her mane.

Why you gotta hide to the goods, horsey lady?

In addition, Parker has the frail, wrinkled hands of a zombie. 

Despite these horrendous deformities, Parker does have a few appealing qualities, such as her boobs, ass and stomach – collectively referred to as her “chassis.” 

At a high-profile event such as the Academy Awards, one would expect Parker to dress in a manner that showcased her impressive chassis while distracting from the fact that she is uglier than most barnyard animals.  Instead, Parker chose to wrap her body in a loose-fitting, satin gown that did little to flatter her figure.

Ultimately, Sarah Jessica Parker looked like the ungodly lovechild of Mr. Ed and a bratwurst. 

Gabourey Sidibe, your five minutes of fame is over
Sidibe is the globular being that starred in Precious, the single most depressing collection of images ever captured on film.  The film was nominated in dozens of categories, including Best Picture, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Visual Effects, Best Foreign Language Film, Best Documentary Short and Best Use of Live Animals.

Since the release of the film, Hollywood has continued to heap adulation on Sidibe, which continued at the Academy Awards.  In her acceptance speech for the Best Actress Award, Bullock referred to Sidibe as “exquisite.” Oprah made reference to the long career that Sidibe has ahead of her.

Hollywood has demonstrated a deep commitment to ceaselessly commending Sidibe to the point of absurdity.  Sidibe is a mammoth specimen, so extolling the virtues of her performance has become a politically correct endeavor.  If one were to forget the obligatory shout-out to “Gabby,” they would be deemed a racist, insensitive person with a deep-seated resentment towards obese people.  Careers would be ended, the sky would fall, and the universe would implode.

Furthermore, I disagree with Oprah’s projection of Sidibe’s future.  While Oprah foresees a bright, promising career for the young actress, I envision her jockeying for a spot in the unemployment line in the very near future. 

Unfortunately, Sidibe is a hulking glob of flesh.  There are few acting opportunities for hulking globs of flesh.  Sidibe will land a few small roles in the coming months, in hopes of capitalizing on the success of Precious.  It is highly unlikely that she we ever have another starring role. 

Put away the goods, bovine lady!

Imagine a casting director with a trite script for a romantic comedy in hand.  Matthew McConaughey or Ryan Reynolds or Bradley Cooper or another talentless container of douche has been cast as the male lead.  The casting director must find a female counterpart for the aforementioned douche receptacle.  He has Reese Witherspoon, Sandra Bullock, Brittany Murphy and famed Hollywood semen dumpster Jennifer Aniston in mind.

Then, a colleague informs him that Brittany Murphy is dead, shortening his list to three actresses.

While mourning the loss of Brittany Murphy, the casting director notices a commercial for the Precious DVD on television.  He recalls Gabourey Sidibe’s heroic performance of the title character, and the overwhelming depression that overcame him when he first saw the movie.

The casting director picks up the phone to call Sidibe’s agent.  Is he calling to offer the job of the female lead?

Fuck no. 

The casting director offers Sidibe the job as a comedic foil, a vehicle for making jokes about fat people.  A small amount of slapstick will be involved, as Gabby will be required to fall down.  If she is lucky, a quip about flatulence will be involved.

The harsh reality is that this is the best-case scenario for Sidibe’s career.  Due to her massive girth, she would be incredibly fortunate if she is able to find another credible acting gig. 

Hollywood is a cold place, which is why I prefer to conduct business from my home in Chicago, or on the mean streets of South Central Los Angeles. 

Of course you haven’t, because you aren’t as plugged in as me.  I am always aware of the latest trends on the Interwebs, because I am a social media expert and a bona fide SEM, SEO and web 2.0 marketing professional.  It says so in my Twitter profile.

Chatroulette allows you to strike up a video chat with random strangers.  Clicking “Play” puts you in touch with one the site’s hundreds of thousands of users.  If you do not like what you see, you can click the “Next” button to find a new chat partner.

To refer to Chatroulette merely as a “social networking website” is an understatement.  It is a social networking tour de force that opens a window to the world of the morose individuals that live on the Interwebs.

Armed with my webcam and a fifth of Captain Morgan, I decided to explore the Chatroulette experience.  After several hours of repeatedly clicking the “Next” button, I developed a strong understanding of the Chatroulette audience makeup.  Also, I got shit-faced drunk in the process.

 I would like to share my findings with you in the form of this spectacular gallery of screenshots.

 
 

Cracker-ass crackers
The vast majority of Chatroulette users are young, white males that troll the site in hopes of coaxing a female chat participant into flashing her breasts.  In many ways, Chatroulette is like Mardi Gras, without the music, beads and, tits.

I was a bit disappointed to discover that nine out of ten users are white males, as they are terribly boring people.  There are few interesting topics to discuss my fellow white males.  We could have discussed the advantages of living a life of privilege, chatted about the rewards of living in a world run by our own kind, or compared our favorite methods for oppressing women, minorities and handicapped people.   However, these white males are in full trolling mode, in pursuit of the elusive Interwebs booby, so we did not have the opportunity to discuss such cracker-ass topics. 

 

“Show me your tits” signs
Some Chatroulette users cannot be bothered with actually convincing females to disrobe, as this is an incredibly taxing endeavor.  These users elect to display a sign that invites women to brandish their breasts.

This tactic seems incredibly lazy, and I suspect that this method of trolling has a particularly low conversion rate.  However, some of the signs show a high level of creativity.

This sign invites women with small breasts to showcase their limitations.  I appreciate the psychological aspect of this sign.  The sign owner clearly hopes to leverage a small-breasted woman’s lack of self confidence.  Little Miss A-Cup might experience a moment of weakness, hoping that another adult human could appreciate her sickly figure.  She would experience a brief rush while she displayed her boy nipples, and the owner of the sign would be recipient of pathetic gratification.

The sign is devilishly manipulative.

I saw dozens of signs on Chatroulette, but this one had the most potential to be highly effective.  I do not understand how flashing one’s mammary glands can contribute to the Haitian relief effort, but it is a small thing to ask.  Any woman that would refuse to show her tits to help Haiti is a bad person.

Foreigners
I often forget that the Interwebs reach users across the globe, and I am inevitably shocked when I encounter a user that does not speak fluent English.  When this happens, I will often yell, “This is America, speak English or go home!”

This strategy is quite ineffective, as most users of the Interwebs are already in their homes.

The androgynous humanoid above began speaking to me in French.  I responded by speaking in faux Italian like a mustachioed Peter Griffin. 

“Bonjour. Où habitez-vous?” the creature asked.

“Scoozy, bobba di boopy?” I replied.

“Dans quel pays vivez-vous?” it responded.

“Bobbada boopy. Beepbada boobada babbada babbada,” I retorted.

This exchange continued for four minutes before I lost interest and clicked “next” to find another curious individual to engage.

Eventually, I encountered another foreigner.  Unlike the aforementioned sexless mammal, this man was far less impressed by my command of romance languages.  His voice was quiet yet forceful and he spoke in German.

After about a minute, he clearly became frustrated.  While I believe that he was cursing, I am not certain, because all German phrases sound incredibly dirty to me.  German is not a sexy language; it is a language of oppression and abuse.

Masturbators
Many Chatroulette users are men seeking to demonstrate their masturbation skills.  The number of exposed penises on Chatroulette varies depending upon the time of day.  Late in night, approximately five percent of users are choking the proverbial chicken.

I have never found images of people masturbating compelling or titillating.  Granted, I am a heterosexual male, so I am somewhat repulsed by the sight of penises, other than the glorious tube of meat that lives in my own pants.  Yet I would not be excited if I found a live video of a woman furiously massaging her clitoris.  It would not arouse me at all, unless she was squirting.  Watching broads blast liquid out of their lower fuck organ gives me a hearty erection. 

Creepers
Some of the men on Chatroulette are not content with taking the approach of the aforementioned crackers or sign owners.  Their trolling ability transcends that of mere mortals, and they treat the site as if it were an audition for To Catch a Predator.

The man pictured above did not say a word.  When our chat session began, he stared longingly into his webcam as if to say, “Come to my van, I have candy.”  He continued to sit nearly motionless, and I was briefly convinced that his video feed was frozen until I saw him blink. 

He stared at me for several minutes, his eyes conveying a simple message: “Whip out your penis and start cranking it.  Come on, this is Chatroulette.  Everybody does it.” 

Instead of a frightening glare, this man offers a shot of his sagging, pierced nipples.  This user’s strategy is rather unique. I am sure that is an extremely successful method for enticing chat participants to meet him in a tool shed located in a remote wooded area to play a game called “Get sodomized then die.”

 

Spiderman, et al
Occasionally, I encountered users wearing masks.  After finding dozens of videos of college-aged boys and dicks being stroked, this was particularly jarring.  In each case, the masked user refused to speak, instead preferring to communicate by typing into the text chat.

The Interwebs offer quite a bit of anonymity, so donning a mask for a Chatroulette session seemed like a bit of overkill.  I assumed that these were prominent individuals who would be instantly recognizable without the masks.  In my mind, the man wearing the Transformers mask was actually Barack Obama, while the man in the zombie mask was Nicolas Cage.

The masks immediately reminded me of Halloween, so I offered to send each of the users a piece of candy if they would type “trick or treat.”  Both complied, so early today I sent two Snickers bar via FedEx.  One was sent to an address in Hollywood Hills, while the other was sent to a “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.” 

I hope that my newfound friends write back.  If they do, I will totally show them my penis the next time that I see them on Chatroulette. 

 

Females
During my exploration of Chatroulette, I occasionally encountered a bona fide female member of my species, though this occurred quite rarely.  I would estimate that less than one percent of Chatroulette members are women.

These women seemed committed to using Chatroulette for its stated purpose – having actual conversations with strangers.  Unfortunately, after several hours of using the site, I had been conditioned to behave like many of the site’s users.  The moment a female face appeared on my screen, I pulled my pants down and began furiously wagging my flaccid penis at my webcam as I shouted, “Show me your tits!” 

The women were not impressed by my elaborate mating dance and quickly disconnected the chat sessions.

::

My experience using Chatroulette was somewhat enjoyable, though I quickly lost interest in the site.  The concept of video chats with random strangers seems marginally novel, but Chatroulette actually serves up a great deal of disturbing seriously imagery.   Low resolution videos of penises and masked men now haunt my dreams.

However, if you are a fan of jacking it on camera, you should definitely check out Chatroulette. 

::

There are other glorious galleries of Chatroulette screenshots on the Interwebs. BuzzFeed offers not one, but two seperate collections, and ChatrtScreenshots.com is a small blog dedicated to this modern art form. Use Lycos or HotBot to find more.

I am sure that millions of people tuned in to the closing ceremonies to watch the elaborate parade of athletes with funny European names smiling and waving.  I imagine that silly national anthems were played, and that Bob Costas said very positive things.  I assume that a torch was involved and that viewers felt a heartwarming sense of national pride.

The extravagant pageantry of the closing ceremonies is thoroughly uninteresting to me.   In fact, I despise the Winter Olympics as a whole. 

I can relate more to the summer games, since I have actually participated in many of the summer sports.  The sports in the Summer Olympics are simply more accessible.  If I want to play basketball, I can purchase a ball and a pair of sneakers and go to a nearby schoolyard.  A desire to run 400 meters could be quenched by stepping outdoors, after phoning the British Empire to determine how far 400 meters is.

If my friends and I wanted to play tennis, we would break into a Bimmer and steal the racquets from the trunk.  Then, we would steal a tennis ball from my neighbor’s dog.  As a child, we referred to this procedure as “Instant Tennis.” 

The Summer Olympics are sexy. The Winter Olympics feature German broads with guns.

When I have an itch to play volleyball, I can head to North Avenue Beach, if the weather permits.  As an added bonus, I would get to see dozens of pairs of exquisite female mammary glands in their glistening, bikini-covered glory.  If I wanted to play baseball, I could purchase a ball, bat and glove at Target, call a few friends, and head over to the nearest park.  Unfortunately, I have the debilitating handicap of retarded ambidexterity which forces me to throw a baseball with the same hand that is most comfortable for wearing a mitt, so I do not play baseball.  Clearly, God hates me. 

In comparison, participation in winter sports is a logistical nightmare.  They require snow, which is only present in Chicago for three to six fucking grueling months each year.   For most of the year, participating in winter sports is not an option.  In addition, winter sports require a significant capital investment in the form of highly specialized equipment.

When I was a kid, snowboarding was still an emerging spot struggling for mainstream legitimacy.  I had a few friends who would snowboard from time to time, but they were mostly spoiled little bastards.  Snowboarding is a sport which requires expensive equipment and periodic vacations to picturesque, snow-covered hills.  My family did not go on vacation when I was a child.  My parents both earned modest incomes, and most of their money was spent on alcohol, anti-depressants and the payment of whatever fines had been assessed to me in juvenile court.

My friends and I never went skiing, bobsledding or figure skating.  If one of my friends invited us to luge, we would have played “Smear the Queer” instead, pummeling the poor lad in the genitals until we eliminated any chance that he would procreate in the future.  The notion that we would have the desire, let alone the funds to acquire the necessary equipment to luge was obscenely offensive.

Creepy-looking speed skater Apolo Ohno wears gloves with gold fingertips. Also, he is still perfecting his “jazz hands.”

Speed skaters wear special gloves with reinforced fingertips to prevent their precious digits from inadvertently being sliced off by the razor-sharp edge of a competitor’s ice skate.  I briefly scoured the Interwebs to learn the cost of these sturdy gloves, but my searches were unsuccessful.  Apparently, this type of equipment is made exclusively for professional skaters and is not available to the general public.

It is safe to assume that such exclusive gear is very pricy, and that many amateur speed skaters have bled to death after having their finger sliced open while practicing.

Most kids never participate in winter sports, due to these absurdly high costs.  As a result, I perceive the Winter Olympics as games of privilege, dominated primarily by Caucasians with wealthy upbringings. 

Alpine skier Lindsey Vonn was skiing at the age of two.  When I was two years old, my parents were scrubbing my feces out of cloth diapers because they were too fucking broke to afford disposable diapers.  Clearly, I have nothing in common with the athletes at the winter games, so I have a hard time giving a shit about them or their extravagant sports.

The Summer Olympics, on the other hand, are far more relatable for the average person.  For many summer sports, the list of required equipment is short, consisting of “shoes” and “legs.” 

An athlete need not be a part of exclusive club of caviar-eating, summer-home-owning, Anglo-Saxon Protestants to be successful in the Summer Olympics.  This assertion is supported by the fact that track and field events are routinely won by athletes from African countries that lack luxuries that we take for granted, such as clean water and the Malaria vaccine.

These common tales of athletes from impoverished countries overcoming adversity make the summer games inspiring.  The winter games are an exposition of rich athletes participating in sports that I cannot connect with.

The best example of this is the biathlon, which features the curious combination of cross-country skiing and rifle shooting.  I have never been compelled to ski with a gun, because the awkward mishmash of skis and firearms seems unnecessarily complex.  Inevitably, I would wear my rifle as a ski and blow my toes off, leading to the most gruesome biathlon injury in recorded history.  

The summer games offer an elegant simplicity, while the winter games are a convoluted mess of complex, expensive sports that I cannot summon enough energy to give a shit about. 

Furthermore, all winter sports involve snow and/or ice.  Snow and ice are the two most wretched substances in the entire universe.  I am unable to enjoy the Winter Olympics because snow is a total fucking bummer.  When I see snow, I instantly become angry; it usually means that I have to shovel pounds of the shit in order to move my car, and that I will inevitably fall on my ass.  This is a conditioned response that extends to watching television. 

(Whoever wrote the song White Christmas was a delusional asshole.  I hope he died a slow and extremely painful death.)

As I write this, thousands of athletes are taking their last opportunity to bask in the glory of the Olympics before packing up their medals and equipment.  Soon, they will return home, to places like Norway, Finland and Sweden.

In four years, many of these blond-haired, blue-eyed athletes will head to Russia to compete in the next round of the games.  Once again, millions of white people around the world will be transfixed on the games.  They will breathlessly follow the medal count, hoping that their country will be declared physically superior to all others. 

(I believe that this is how World War II was started.)

I will continue to be puzzled by the world’s collective fascination with the Winter Olympics, or as I call them “Crackers on Ice.”  Part of me wishes that the games would never return, though I can appreciate the quiet tranquility that occurs when millions of Americans are distracted by the events. 

For example, I acquired four new tennis racquets during the closing ceremonies last night.    

Surely, my opinion will prove to be unpopular in light of the popular “I’m with Coco” social media campaign.  I will concede that Conan is one of the more talented individuals in the late night talk show business. 

However, since Conan’s field is a wretched morass, virtually devoid of discernable talent, this a backhanded compliment at best.  In many ways, the title of “Most Talented Late Night Talk Show Host” is akin to “World’s Tallest Midget,” “Most Honest Politician,” or “Most Celibate Catholic Priest.” 

For over two weeks, the Interwebs and old fashioned media outlets have been atwitter with news and commentary about the impending shake up of NBC’s late night lineup.  I found the contractual ménage à trios between Jay Leno, Conan O’Brien and NBC Universal President Jeff Zucker incredibly compelling.  In fact, I have changed my browser’s start page to TMZ.com, and I click “refresh” between nine and 215 times each day, eagerly anticipating the next twist in this amazing storyline.  My carpal tunnel is acting up. 

Tonight is Conan’s last night hosting The Tonight Show, but there are still many compelling unanswered questions. How soon will he ink a lucrative deal with Fox?  How soon will he return to the air after contractual Conan embargo expires in September?  How would Conan compete head-to-head against Leno?  Will Leno be gunned down by members of Conan’s entourage in front of the MGM Grand in Vegas?

Most importantly, will someone please cancel Late Night with Jimmy Fallon?

I will not bore you with a lengthy commentary on the NBC late-night debacle, which I am officially dubbing Conangate.  Simply put, NBC brass has repeatedly fucked up in their handling of their late night programming, and their decisions will ultimately bite them in the ass.

Promising Conan a spot on The Tonight Show in 2004 was a mistake, though it seemed wise at the time.  Moving Jay Leno to an earlier timeslot was a foolish gambit which predictably failed.  Bumping Conan to make way for Leno at 11:35 p.m. is a long-term mistake with a short-term benefit.  Leno will likely deliver exceptional rating for NBC, but Conan is 13 years younger.  Conan will be a late-night powerhouse – for network other than NBC – long after Leno retires or, preferably, dies in a horrific and bloody accident. 

NBC’s recent follies are so comically shortsighted that they warrant no more than the 90 words of analysis contained in the previous paragraph.  Jeff Zucker obviously attended the George W. Bush School of Executive Management. 

Instead of rehashing the Conan-Leno Deathmatch, I would like to provide my review of each of the late night hosts, or, as I like to call them, “Jibber-jabber talking fuckheads that make me wish all networks ran reruns of The Simpsons or Family Guy late at night.”

::

Jay Leno
I have been told to “respect my elders.”  Jay Leno’s success causes me to resent my elders.

After taking over The Tonight Show from Johnny Carson in 1992, Leno became a ratings juggernaut, despite competing directly against fellow late night “luminary” Dave Letterman.  In addition, Leno is no more funny than my filthy toe clippings.

Any comparison between Carson and Leno is utterly futile; as Carson was a comedic genius who innovated late night talk shows and transformed The Tonight Show into a transcendent franchise.

Upon taking the helm of The Tonight Show, Leno methodically destroyed credibility that Carson had built.  Carson had genuine comedic sensibilities, while Leno is formulaic, his success predicated upon the quality of his staff’s writing.  Monologues became predictable and stale, wrought with jokes about John Bobbit’s penis or Bill Clinton’s philandering or George W. Bush’s stupidity.  Leno stripped the show of insightful comedy, choosing to lean on silly jokes based upon current events.

He is hopelessly devoted to being well liked, which is reflected in his comedy.  Leno plays it safe, avoiding controversy at all costs.  In fact, he is the only comedian on Earth who is capable of telling a G-rated dirty joke. 

Leno’s interviewing skills are woefully lacking when compared to Carson or any of his present-day peers.  With Leno at the helm, interviews on The Tonight Show became rehearsed commercials, devoted to promoting the guest’s latest movie or album and sprinkled with an occasional joke. 

Despite his inadequacy as a host, Leno became and huge success and was dubbed “The King of Late Night.”  Unfortunately, NBC overlooks the fact that Leno caters to middle-aged Middle America, who inexplicably tune in for his stale brand of inoffensive comedy, and who will all be dead or asleep shortly. 

By becoming the standard-bearer of late night, Leno effectively lowered the standard for his fellow hosts.

David Letterman
It is difficult for me to provide a detailed commentary of Letterman’s work, because I am completely unable to watch more than 90 seconds of The Late Show in one sitting.  I find Letterman to be utterly intolerable.

Fans of Letterman will praise the comedian for his biting, sarcastic sense of humor and his petulant personality.  As a young lad, I thoroughly enjoyed his show and viewed him as an edgy, adult alternative to Carson’s upbeat and friendly brand of humor.

Both Letterman and I are much older now, both growing more curmudgeonly with age.

Today, I am unable to ignore Letterman’s smug, narcissistic personality.  I have not found a shred of humor in anything that Letterman has said in more than a decade.  I cannot see past the thick veneer of self-importance that coats Letterman, nor can I understand the impatience and ire that taint every one of his jokes. 

When used properly, sarcasm is a powerful comedic weapon.  Letterman uses sarcasm like Asians use rice, adding a heaping spoonful to every word he utters.  To me, this fundamental misunderstanding of this basic tenant of his comedy makes The Late Show a torturous experience. 

As a self-proclaimed douchebag, I have the keen ability to recognize my own kind.  David Letterman is the Grand Wizard of Advanced Doucebaggery.    

Conan O’Brien
A large number of Americans sprout a throbbing, veiny boner at the mere mention of “Coco.” I feel left out of this nationwide pants party.

As with Letterman, there was a time when I genuinely appreciated Conan.  During my college years, I enjoyed his offbeat sense of humor.

It is worth noting that I was extremely high at the time.  I have since sobered up, and watching Conan’s show has become a sobering experience.

It is clear that Conan has an excellent sense of humor.  At his best, he delivers an unconventional blend of intellectual comedy deftly blended with absurdity.  He is a quicker wit than his elderly peers.  Unlike Leno, Conan is unafraid of controversy and willing to challenge the status quo.

However, these occasional flashes of brilliance are interspersed with uninspired, moronic humor.

Some of the most noteworthy reoccurring sketches from Conan’s late night tenure are also shining examples of insipid, sophomoric comedy. 

Triumph the Insult Comic Dog is an inane and irritating means for delivering lame jokes that mock celebrities, a staple of late night television.  The Masturbating Bear is a cheap sight gag that became Conan’s go-to dick joke.

In Noches de Pasion con Señor O’Brien, Conan becomes Conando, speaking ridiculous, elementary Spanish phrases.  Conando relentlessly milks the audience for laughs in absurd skits that would be far more enjoyable if they were much shorter.

I simply do not understand the humor in Conan’s trademark “string dance.”  In an informal survey of my friends, many of whom are Conan fans, not one was able to explain why it is funny.  In fact, several explain that they enjoy the dance because “it’s Conan’s trademark.”

I don’t get it.

Jimmy Fallon
I will keep this brief, as Late Night with Jimmy Fallon is not worthy of my words.

To call Fallon’s tenure on Late Night a “train wreck” would be a gross understatement.  It is a disaster of a far greater scale.  Late Night with Jimmy Fallon is like a coat-hanger abortion being performed in a wrecked train during an earthquake as fire pours from the sky to reveal the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Nearly ten months after taking the reins of the Late Night franchise, Fallon still appears ill-equipped to handle his job.  He seems awkward and uncomfortable during monologues.  His comedic timing is incredibly poor.  His unpolished interviewing skills are teemed with the “gee whiz” enthusiasm of a prepubescent lad.   He struggles to deliver a punch line without smirking or laughing, which was his trademark on Saturday Night Live.

With Conan’s departure, Fallon is now the heir apparent to The Tonight Show.  I am certain that handing the storied franchise over to this incapable and unqualified boob would anger Johnny Carson, prompting him to rise from the dead and go on an unprecedented killing spree. 

If I were Jimmy Fallon, I would be terrified of Zombie Carson. 

Jimmy Kimmel
Jimmy Kimmel Live has quickly become my favorite late night host.  This may be a testament to Kimmel’s talent, or it may be attributed to the fact that his show begins at 11:35 p.m. Central, a time when I am far more likely to be drunk and willing to laugh at anything.

Kimmel lacks the glaring shortcomings of his contemporaries.  Unlike Leno, he embraces off-color jokes and his interviews do not seem meticulously planned and rehearsed.  He comes across as a regular, affable fellow, unlike Letterman, who is sheltered in a cocoon of his own perceived awesomeness. Like Conan, he embraces intelligent and absurd humor, yet Kimmel delivers more consistently.  Unlike Fallon, Kimmel is not a lucky stoner who inexplicably found the affection of Lorne Michaels and rode their relationship to success.

While Kimmel is my favorite host, I am not willing to declare that his show is the finest on late night television.  That backhanded honor is reserved for reruns of The Oprah Winfrey Show. 

The greatest shortcoming of Jimmy Kimmel Live is the lack of consistent, quality writing.  Leno has a war chest of cash to throw at the best quality writers in the business, only to deliver their jokes in the hackneyed Leno style that I have grown to hate.  Kimmel makes up for this discrepancy by being the finest comedic performer in late night television.

Once blessed with fuckloads of money and tremendous success, Leno, Letterman and Conan became caricatures of themselves.  Each carved out their identity as a host and clung to their script.  Soon, irreverent became predictable and sarcastic became cocky.  Fresh young faces with a unique perspective became wrinkled faces pumped full of Botox, reliant upon a comedic formula rather that innovation.

Now, late night sucks.  My last vestige of hope is Jimmy Kimmel. 

::

I detest late night television, but I desperately desire to be entertained while I drink beer and scratch my genitals before bed. 

NBC decided part ways with Conan in the interest of short-term gain, with little consideration of the long-term effect.  When Leno reclaims the helm of The Tonight Show, he will undoubtedly produce substantial ratings.  Advertisers and affiliates will be happy, and order will temporarily be restored to the NBC kingdom.

Inevitably, Conan will return to the airwaves by the end of this year.  The most likely scenario places him at Fox, competing against his former mentor, with a show that starts 35 minutes earlier.

I hope that Conan demolishes Leno, forcing him into retirement.  NBC will scramble for a host for The Tonight Show.  Options will include the aforementioned ass clown Jimmy Fallon, or another young fuckfaced dickhole such as Ryan Seacrest.

Regardless of how Conan’s next show performs, NBC will be reeling.  Leno is an old man who will eventually have to retire to tend to his prostate.  In comparison, Conan is young and has several years ahead of him.

Perhaps the ensuing late night battle will inspire ABC to take their chances with Kimmel.  After all, Oprah is leaving her show soon and Nightline is consistently as boring as watching my ball hair grow.  ABC could enter the late night fray, placing Kimmel’s show in an earlier slot and pitting him against Conan. 

Once Letterman retires, CBS may have to lead off with Craig Ferguson or bow out of the late night game.  I am not qualified to assess the quality of Ferguson’s show, as I do not understand a fucking word that blimey Brit says.  I am told that it is entertaining.

My dream late night scenario has Conan (Fox) competing against Kimmel (ABC), Fallon (seriously?) and Ferguson (whatever). 

This late night landscape is much more appealing than Leno versus Letterman, with Conan as sideshow.

I wish that Leno and Letterman would both die of a terrible flesh-eating disease in order to accelerate this process. 

Well, living on the edge is for pussies.  The term “the edge” evokes the concept of a boundary, so the phrase suggests behavior that flirts with a legal or safety limit. 

Using this definition, examples of “living on the edge” would include paying one’s cell phone bill one day before service was disconnected, driving at the speed limit or falling asleep without brushing and flossing first. 

I do not live on the edge.  In fact, I absolutely obliterate the edge and refuse to acknowledge its existence. 

Every morning, I shave with a chainsaw and scratch my back with a mace.  I season my eggs with pepper spray.  While driving to work, I do not wear a seat belt.  In fact, my foot never touches the brake pedal.  Instead, I prefer to pull the emergency brake, resulting in a dramatic, spinning stop.

Some refer to people walking on the street as “pedestrians” or “little old ladies.”  I call them “bystanders,” and randomly punch them accordingly. 

When I get home at night, I do not use a letter opener to open my mail.  I use a sword.

I eat steak for dinner every single night.  I do not like my steak rare.  Rare meat is for pussies.  Instead, I chew on a live baby cow until the delicious beast dies on my kitchen floor.  I love veal.

After dinner, I enjoy an alcoholic beverage.  I do not drink beer or vodka.  Beer and vodka are for pussies.  I drink warm grain alcohol out of highball glasses. 

At the end of the night, if I cannot fall asleep, I repeatedly punch myself in the face until I am unconscious.

Aerosmith’s concept of “living on the edge” pales in comparison to my daily routine.

"My prostate is acting up again."

In fact, I fail to understand what the band means by “living on the edge.”  After all, lead singer Steven Tyler was 45 when the single was released.  Middle-aged men are not known for high-risk behavior.  Perhaps when he was writing the song, he envisioned himself skipping his annual prostate exam or eating too much ice cream despite the fact that he is lactose intolerant. 

::

Livin’ on the Edge was released in 1993, coinciding with start of the country’s unhealthy and inexplicable obsession with the letter X and the concept of “extreme.” 

As the popularity of grunge music increased dramatically in the early 1990s, the mainstream media ceaselessly lamented the cultural impact of Generation X.  Eventually, marketers would embrace the seldom-used letter as a symbol for “extreme,” and by extension, “edgy” and “awesome.”

In 1995, ESPN introduced the “X Games,” an annual showcase of extreme, edgy and awesome action sports such as skateboarding, snowboarding and competitive genital kicking. 

The trend continued with junk-food brands repositioning themselves as “extreme.”  Mountain Dew lent its name to an extreme sports tour.  Slim Jim hired aging wrestler “Macho Man” Randy Savage as a shouting spokesperson.  Jack Links, a fellow distributor of dried meat, followed suit by inking Sasquatch to a lucrative, multi-year endorsement deal. 

Wait…this is the wrong Macho Man?

The marketing message is simple: “Our competitor’s product is for suburban soccer moms.  Buy our product if you like rock and roll, BMX bikes and living on the edge!”

I find this marking approach to be hackneyed and devoid of creativity, yet it is clearly effective.  Marketers will continue to position their products as “extreme” and use seizure-inducing motion graphics, shouting spokespersons and multiple explanation points to seduce mindless consumers as long as the tactic produces results. 

Unfortunately, there are downsides to society’s fascination with the concept of “extreme,” such as the staggering popularity of unhealthy energy drinks or the existence of people like “The Situation” on Jersey Shore. 

A day will inevitably come when a professional shark puncher is hired by Procter & Gamble to shout about the latest innovation in extreme products, Crest Habanero Kick Extreme Toothpaste.

::

Certain products simply should not be positioned as “extreme,” as it creates an awkward juxtaposition when the use of the product is considered.

One excellent example is condoms.  Condoms are not the least bit extreme.  In fact, if I were writing a thesaurus, I would include “condom” as an antonym to “extreme.”

Alas, Lifestyles decided to defy this logic entirely in marketing their “X2” condom. 

A large, metallic “X” graces the packaging, suggesting the inherent extreme awesomeness of the product within.  Abstract streaks of light appear in the background, evoking the trail of light left behind by a glow stick in a darkened discothèque as house music throbs in the background. 

These condoms are EXTREEEEMMMMEEE!!!!

This condom is not meant for the soccer mom, your college professor or your priest.  No, this is an extreme condom, designed specifically for the Red Bull chugging, BMX-bike riding, tattooed and pierced, rock and rolling, extremely awesome extreme consumer.  (Or as advertisers refer to it, “The coveted 18 to 25 demographic.”)

The packaging also touts the features and benefits of the extreme prophylactic.  Large text explains that the condom is “lubricated inside and out” to “intensify sensitivity and sensation.” 

(Technically, the name “X2” is meant to imply “times two,” noting that the condom is lubricated on both sides.  Regardless, I am certain that the marketers that selected the brand name had the X Games, Slim Jims, “Macho Man” Randy Savage, Mountain Dew, BMX bikes, Malcolm X, xylophones and the trend to position products as “extreme” in mind when making their decision.)

Having lubricant inside of a condom sounds like a bad idea.  First, it seems that this would increase the likelihood of the condom slipping off of one’s dick.  In addition, I fail to understand how extra lubricant results in increased “sensitivity and sensation.”  Lubricant reduces the amount of friction between to objects.  The purpose of sex is to create enough friction between the partners’ genitals to create a sensation that ultimately results in orgasms.

The additional lubricant seems like it would create a slippery mess, with the condom sliding back and forth on the penis reducing the chance that the male would feel his partner’s vagina or rectum or ear or belly button.

Furthermore, I find lubricant completely unnecessary.  I am blessed with a commanding sexual prowess which leads to the instant arousal of my partner.  boqueen and I never need lubricant, as her naughty bits get juicy on my command.

Smaller text on the box redundantly mentions the ExciteGel Lubricant, again noting its benefits to “sensitivity and sensation.” Two bullet points note that the condoms are made from “premium latex” and include a natural supplement known as “L-Arginine.”

I find it curious that LifeStyles notes the “premium latex” of the X2 condom.  I question whether Lifestyles’ other condoms also contain premium-grade latex, or if they are manufactured from recycled doctors’ gloves.

Also, while I do not know what “L-Arginine” is, I do not feel that it is necessary to have natural supplements on a condom.  I prefer to take my supplements the old-fashioned way, such as in vitamins or anabolic steroids.  Besides, my penis is in pristine shape – it is truly a breathtaking organ to behold.  I do not feel that it requires any supplements, as it has already reached perfection. 

The phrase “individually tested for maximum protection” appears along the bottom of the packaging.  While I am sure that the testing process involves sanitary machinery that ensures all condoms meet Lifestyles’ metrics for durability, an “individually tested” condom inspires disgusting imagery. 

I envision an overweight man in a humid Mexican sweatshop strapping on each condom as it rolls by on a conveyor belt, and then briefly fornicating with a warm piece of boneless skinless chicken breast to ensure the condom does not break.  He is a rather sweaty man and his body odor disturbs his coworkers.  He also forgets to use hand sanitizer from time to time, but he is a union employee, so his job is safe. 

::

I believe that condoms are one of the worst inventions in the history of mankind.  They take a great deal of pleasure out of sex, the single most enjoyable activity conceivable.  Having sex with a condom is much like eating a delicious meal while having a cold or watching porno with a blindfold on.  Sure, these activities would be mildly enjoyable, but you would be missing the complete experience. 

Instead of having sex with a condom, I would rather masturbate while wearing an oven mitt. 

Fortunately, I do not use condoms.  Condoms are for people who merely live on the edge, choosing to color inside the lines.  I am not that type of person.

I am not suggesting that my readers should not use condoms.  They are a great way to prevent from contracting AIDS, swine flu, cooties, cancer or a god damned unwanted baby. 

I am blessed to be in a committed, long-term relationship with boqueen.  We can fornicate with reckless abandon because of her daily diet of “baby-killers,” commonly known as “birth control pills.”  We also intend to produce one or more mulatto offspring at some point.  If that day comes sooner that we plan, I will either push her down the stairs or marry her.  I am leaning towards that latter.

In the meantime, please pray that we do not inadvertently conceive a child.  My father is kind of a dick.  I am a total douchebag.  This trend would indicate that “bokeen: the squeakquel” will grow up to be the Antichrist.

I promise that he will be the “extreme” Antichrist, sponsored by Mountain Dew. 

This may seem a bit hypocritical, as I recently decried celebrity news outlets for continually churning out mindless drivel.  I make an exception for the tales of Woods’ philandering, as two captivating storylines have been brought to the forefront by the burgeoning fleet of women that have taken turns serving as the golfer’s personal semen dumpster.

Thanks to Rachel Uchitel and her fellow skanks, America has been given a behind-the-scenes look into the sex lives of rich and powerful men.  Celebrities like Tiger hire experienced pussy wranglers to gather a collection of young dames eager for their chance to mount a famous penis.  The ladies are treated to top-shelf liquor and a fun night out, and the lucky lad gets to pick the gal (or gals) that he will bed.

The women are treated like cattle in this extremely organized and businesslike approach to sex.  It is quite similar to high-end restaurants that allow you to pick your lobster from a tank, or your preferred cut of porterhouse from a silver platter. 

(Several years ago, one of boqueen’s friends was recruited to be a part of Michael Jordan’s harem in Vegas.  While she is a woman of striking beauty, she was not selected to be one of the plump ex-superstar’s mates for the evening.  She felt quite fortunate to avoid an awkward situation, and, as an added bonus, she drank free Grey Goose cocktails all night long.)

"Your pussy is ready, Mr. Woods."

This is a fascinating glimpse of the daily lives of the wealthy and famous.  Apparently, when a man has great sums of money at his disposal, he can eschew the courtship of potential mates.  Instead, he can hire people to gather a few dozen women and have his pick of the litter.

This is precisely why the terrorists hate us.  For once, I actually agree with the bearded fellows running Al Qaeda.  Such behavior is absolutely reprehensible. 

Another byproduct of the Tiger Woods mistress parade is the damage to the man’s credibility, which I find thoroughly enjoyable.  

For over a decade, Tiger has been revered as a demigod.  Nike, Gatorade and the sports media worked tirelessly to craft his squeaky-clean image.  Certainly, he is the greatest golfer in the world, but we were lead to believe that he embodied perfection as a mixed-raced Christ of sorts.

The media gleefully co-opted the absurd storyline.  In 1996, Sports Illustrated named Woods “Sportsman of the Year.”  In the epic narrative, Wood’s late father states that he golfer would have a greater impact on the world than Gandhi, Buddha, or Nelson Mandela. 

The author briefly challenged Earl Woods’ boastful assertion before lending it credibility.

“Surely this is lunacy. Or are we just too myopic to see?” Gary Smith asked.

“We are witnessing the first volley of an epic encounter,” Smith continues, “the machine at its mightiest confronting the individual groomed all his life to conquer it and turn it to his use.”

In reading this, I quickly realized that humanity was short-changed by the unfortunate timing of Woods’ birth.  Perhaps, if he has born 50 years earlier, he could have killed Hitler and prevented the Holocaust.  Or, if Woods was around a few centuries earlier, he might have been able to end the exile of the Jews by knocking them out of the desert with his nine iron. 

Perhaps part of the obviously cartoonish portrayal of Tiger Woods is due to his intense desire for privacy.  We never learned who he was as a person, and his sponsors filled the vacuum.

Regardless, it always reeked of bollocks to me, which is why I relish in his downfall.  After 13 years of being told that Tiger Woods was a superhuman family man who was entirely beyond reproach, I am happy to learn that he is in fact, a fucking scumbag.

::

I will not write a sanctimonious piece about Woods’ infidelity or speculate on how he can repair his image.  The Interwebs are full of articles which take these angles and, frankly, I don’t give a shit.

Instead, I would like to focus on Woods’ questionable taste in pussy.

::

Soon after Tiger Woods plowed into a fire hydrant, a fleet of white women went public with their personal tales of mounting the golfer. 

I cannot understand his obsession with white women.  After all, he is married to a smoking-hot Swedish broad, and those people are whiter than any people in the known universe. 

Hey girl, I like your braids!

When cheating, one would expect Woods to seek some variety in his sex life.  For example, my girlfriend, boqueen, is black.  If I were to cheat on her, it certainly would not be with another black woman (in part because boqueen is the only black woman in the world willing to see my pasty body in the nude.)  Instead, I would pursue a more exotic sexual conquest, such as one of those blue broads from the Avatar trailers.  Those blue bitches are smoking hot. 

Instead, Woods kept his philandering inside of his comfort zone.  As a result, the lineup of skanks claiming to have been bedded by Woods resembles the charts that appear on the side of teeth whitening products.

One of the women stands apart from the rest.  To continue the whore-to-tooth reference, Mindy Lawton is the snaggletooth of the bunch.

Lawton provided graphic detail about her alleged affair with Woods.  She described sultry text messages and spoke about the size of Woods’ penis like only an elegant lady could.

Get your feet off of my blog, bitch!

I neglected to mention an important point: Mindy Lawton is a fucking sea monster.

As with all of the allegations made against Woods, Lawton’s stories may be true, or they may be the stories fabricated by a desperate woman hoping for her turn in the spotlight.  For the purpose this post, I will give Lawton the benefit of the doubt and assume that she is telling the truth, as that is the far more entertaining option. 

I cannot understand why a multi-millionaire – one of the most famous men in the world – would decide to bed such a grotesque creature.

While most of Woods’ mistresses range from “pretty decent” to “fully bangable,” Lawton is a downright ugly woman.  Her bulbous forehead extends to the heavens and is complimented by a wide, awkward shaped nose.  The dark bags of middle age underline her glassy gaze.  The curious girth of her upper arms creates an odd juxtaposition with her human-sized forearms and hands. 

The woman is a ghastly mutation of the human form.  Mindy Lawton is one of God’s mistakes. 

When I first saw Lawton’s picture, I was certain that she was a transsexual caught in an uncomfortable stage after his/her operations had begun, but before the gender reassignment was complete.   

Woods’ attraction to this beast is utterly incomprehensible.  Even if I were single, drunk, desperate and mentally challenged, I wouldn’t buy Lawton a drink, let alone engage in physical contact with her presumably disfigured genitals.

::

Famed celebrity-problem-troubleshooter Dr. Drew Pinsky suggested that Tiger Woods might be addicted to sex, explaining his shameful behavior.  This explanation is complete bullshit. 

The entire concept of “sexual addiction” is preposterous.  Sex is the single most enjoyable activity on earth.  If you do not agree, you are doing it wrong.

I would have sex 15 times per day if I was not certain that my scrotum would rupture from physical exhaustion.  Several times per day, an unannounced and unwelcome erection will magically appear in my jeans, despite the fact that I am more than a decade removed from puberty. 

My point is that sex is awesome.  If you are not addicted to sex, you clearly aren’t getting any. 

Sexual addiction is a convenient cop-out used to justify otherwise inexcusable behavior. 

When I learned first learned about Woods’ growing army of fuck-buddies, I assumed the man was a scumbag.  Once Mindy Lawton came forward, I reached a different conclusion: the man is stark, raving mad.  There is no other coherent explanation for his attraction to this androgynous blob of pale flesh. 

Clearly, Tiger Woods is not capable of making rational decisions on his own.  He is a danger to himself and those around him.  For the protection of society as a whole, he should be apprehended immediately – dead or alive.

Preferably dead.