Liked cock

In celebration of our country’s assumption of independent statehood, Senator Jesse Helms died yesterday. He was 10,000 years old.

A five-term North Carolina senator, Helms was perhaps best known for hating black people, Chinamen, Canadians, gays, women, puppies, circus clowns, rainbows, warm summer days, love songs, table tennis and sentient life. What was NOT generally known about Helms is that he was actually one of the masked members of the band Slipknot. In fact he was this guy:

When he wasn’t touring with his metal band or submitting legislation that would require all minorities to live in heavily-guarded labor camps until they could no longer work 15-hour days, at which point they would be ground into a protein-rich nutrient paste for use as an additive in McDonald’s hamburgers, Helms enjoyed blowing hobos. A lot. Not a day went by when Jesse Helms didn’t have some drifter’s junk in his mouth. He’d let the spooge drool down his chin and he’d say “yummy!” over and over again until the hobo got scared and ran away. Then he’d shoot the hobo in the back. The end.

Ah, the mid-nineties. Gas was still a $1.25 a gallon, something called “the internet” was all the rage, and the last of the dirty grunge musicians had finally committed suicide, paving the way for Third Eye Blind to come teach the world to ROCK with tunes like “Graduate,” “Jumper,” and their smashive hit “How’s It Going to Be.” And though our country was caught in the vice-like mechanical claws of a tyrannical despot who used a thriving economy, strong dollar, non-existent federal dept, decreases in violent crime and drug abuse, peace, prosperity and good will for all Americans to cloak his true nefarious intentions — i.e. cigar-banging chubby young interns – we still persevered, thanks to our money, strong stock portfolios, and the comfort of knowing our FRIENDS — Rachel, Monica, Ross, Phoebe, Chandler, Joey, Rikki, Jar-Jar, Snowflake, Punjab, Skittles, Samantha, and Crowbar – would be there for us.

Of course we knew it couldn’t last forever. And we weren’t surprised when in 2004 — after democracy was restored thanks to the valiant efforts of our brave kung-fu expert warrior/president George “the ‘W’ is for Whoop-Ass” Bush — our FRIENDS, perhaps sensing they were no longer needed to infuse America with the strength and hope to carry on, bid us a fond adieu. Oh, tears were shed. Cries were cried and wails were wailed; but we knew that though our weekly dose of “Friends” would no longer be shot into our brains care of the cathode cannons in our living rooms, they weren’t REALLY going away. Oh no. Because our FRIENDS would always be THERE for us — in our hearts. In our hearts, you query? Yes, Poncho. In our hearts.

But now, perhaps thanks to a new threat looming on the horizon – a radical communist Islamic freedom-hating half-negro hobo-rapist threat whose name rhymes with Zarack Ogama – our Friends return to us, like white-robed Gandalfs riding on giant eagles, armed with mirth and laughs and the hope to persevere through these impending dark times! Because at least according to today’s internet rumors, the “Friends” gang will reunite for a Sex-and-the-City-esque film version of the TV show that gave us all a reason to live, with shooting to begin as soon as 18 months from now. Rejoice! Rejoice! Unfurl the flags of freedom and prepare the babies for ritualistic sacrifice to our prodigal TV Gods!

We’ll post further details as the story develops.

Those of you too young to remember the 80’s might be surprised to learn of the existence of something we referred to back then as “music.” This “music” was comprised of a synchronized mélange of fixed sound-wave frequencies known as “notes,” accompanied by less defined, more intermittent sounds known as “beats.” Often the “notes” were created care of human vocal chords – without the aid of computers — by a person known as a “singer.” The “singer” would marry these “notes” to an arrangement of words known as “lyrics,” and would, while accompanied by people known as “musicians” — who would generate complimentary sound-waves on devices known as “instruments” — perform these “music” compositions – or “songs” – before an audience of appreciative listeners, known as “fans.”

At the forefront of this long-forgotten technology was a man named Huey Lewis. Huey and his musical accompanists, aka “the News,” crafted catchy, entertaining pieces of ear-candy that were thankfully free of pretense, contrived angst, ironic detachment, verbatim references to music that was popular 20-years-prior, product placement, digital pitch correction, muddled politics, and overly emotional whining. He was, in a word, awesome.

And by “was awesome” I mean “IS awesome” — a fact your ears will no doubt verify after following this link to the Pineapple Express Soundtrack MySpace page.

For those of you who DO remember the 80’s, Huey’s dulcet baritone should instantly whisk you back to that happier time, that better time, when actual adults created music for people of all ages to enjoy, and this music was popular and appreciated by the masses. For the rest of you, on being exposed for the first time to this “music,” you’ll likely find yourself involuntarily performing an uncharacteristic act such as vacating your bowels all over your Panic at the Disco! CDs, or flushing your iPod down the toilet, or hunting down the Jonas Brothers, killing them in some dark alley, and eating their defiled corpses. Go with it. It’s a natural, beautiful thing. Welcome to the human race. But please, don’t thank me. Thank Huey.

In case you were wondering when Alexandre Aja – the French director responsible for the excellent Haute Tension and a surprisingly good remake of The Hills Have Eyes – would cash in his horror cred for a big fat bag of feces-smeared Hollywoood sell-out cash, the answer is… wait for it… wait for it… now.

I thought the point of red-band trailers was to fill them blood and guts and tits and foul language. This thing’s about as hardcore as my church’s haunted hay ride, only without the creepy “abortion doctors in hell” exhibit which at least makes the hay ride worth the ticket price. Burn you damned abortion doctors! That’s what you get for killing innocent zygotes! Anyway, Mirrors is probably a remake of some equally lame Thai or Korean horror schlock, because Hollywood studios aren’t even original enough to come up with their own unoriginal concepts anymore; Ironically, I believe they farm the work out to the same child-labor sweatshop that stitches together my Nikes, which are admittedly quite comfy. Because of this little air-pump thing right here. How do they do that? Amazing.

Mirrors opens August 15 against Tropic Thunder, which at least had a severed head in its red-band trailer.