Friday, September 26, 2008
Holy Black Cats, It's That Time of Year Again
Insane Halloween Costumes
by Chris Bucholz
We feel the need to point out that we didn't photoshop this, although clearly, this is exactly the kind of thing we'd photoshop were we inclined to create a monkey costume with an obscenely large sack and a tiny penis.
On a related note, if any of our readers work for a charitable organization, we'd be willing to bet that the "monkey with an enormous ball sack and tiny penis costume" might just be the hot new successor to those rubber Livestrong bracelets.
From the world famous "Party Costume" line of party costumes, we have here a bodysuit patterned with what appears to be one of those Magic Eye things. "Don't focus on my ass. Focus through it."
Nothing says "I love the US of A!" and "man camel toe" like an American Flag bodysuit.
If you ever wanted to connect your head to your penis like some insane M.C. Escher drawing, this Halloween, consider the Mobius Giraffe.
This is sort of what we'd imagine a holiday film by Quentin Tarantino would look like.
Dasher: "Have you ever given a guy a foot massage?"
Blitzen: "Fuck You."
Here' a giraffe, wearing a nice yellow collared shirt. Plaid too. Guess he couldn't afford the bottom half of the giraffe costume, so he wore the yellowiest thing he could find.
The closer you look at the way the mouth is hanging open like that, the more you have to wonder if we've stumbled upon an outfit for an unusually specialized type of fetish.
This might be the most racist thing we've ever seen.
This eggplant clearly has somewhere to be, so we won't keep him.
We were a little torn about whether to use this picture or not, as the model is clearly not Japanese. We decided to include it, and a few others, simply because they were too ridiculous to pass up. Our favorite part of this one is the cocksure look on the guy' face. "Yes, that is the lower body of a swan ballerina, thank you for noticing. My skull is an enigmatic and magical being, and has a complicated back-story and creation mythology. I would be happy to explain it to you over coffee, or perhaps a drink sometime."
And finally, we have the last costume from Japan. And we don't mean the last costume in this article, or the last costume wefound. We mean the last costume ever. The Omega Costume. Over the course of researching this article, we discovered that the huge amount of heroically retarded costumes we saw were only incremental steps of the development process of the Japanese Costume industry. Incremental steps that led to this, the greatest costume to ever exist:
by Chris Bucholz
Full Body Costumes
On a related note, if any of our readers work for a charitable organization, we'd be willing to bet that the "monkey with an enormous ball sack and tiny penis costume" might just be the hot new successor to those rubber Livestrong bracelets.
Masks
Dasher: "Have you ever given a guy a foot massage?"
Blitzen: "Fuck You."
The closer you look at the way the mouth is hanging open like that, the more you have to wonder if we've stumbled upon an outfit for an unusually specialized type of fetish.
And finally, we have the last costume from Japan. And we don't mean the last costume in this article, or the last costume wefound. We mean the last costume ever. The Omega Costume. Over the course of researching this article, we discovered that the huge amount of heroically retarded costumes we saw were only incremental steps of the development process of the Japanese Costume industry. Incremental steps that led to this, the greatest costume to ever exist:
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Gulp, The Rachel Zoe Project; Ignore If You Don't Have Cable
I just watched a couple of episodes, against my better judgment, and my mouth was so dry from hanging agape throughout the ordeal, that I had to plunge it into my iced tea in order to hydrate it enough to smirk, or eat. Well, maybe not eat.
First, I would like to discuss the husband. A lot of people have joked that he clearly seems gay, but he is too much of a wuss to be gay. He’s a dorky mama’s boy who wears so much jewelry that it looks like he robbed a gold kiosk at the Palisades mall, and he’s way too into his hair. I haven’t watched enough of this garbage to figure out what he actually does for a living, besides pout and put on scarves, but I fear the Grateful Dead conversation in one of the episodes may provide a clue. The thought of he and Rachel at a Grateful Dead show defies my ability to conjure even a shadow of this image to my mind’s eye. Do they tailgate in those get-ups? I also couldn’t help but notice that he has an icky paunch, and puffy hands. ICKY PAUNCH AND PUFFY HANDS, I won’t sleep now and my gag reflex is going into overdrive.
During the New York Fashion Week episode, I bet when he asks Rachel to drop him off at 21st Street and Fifth Avenue, he is actually going to have sex with a sloppy, teenaged Shoshanna Lonstein type that he picked up earlier in the week at a falafel stand near Union Square. And what the fuck is up with that plaid “newsboy” cap-hat he plopped onto his Katie Holmes bob???? I bet he has a “guitar” propped up somewhere in their apartment that he doodles on mercilessly, and every opportunity he gets, he waxes on about the “band” he used to play with back in New Jersey before he became a banker (just a guess, but I bet he is some sort of nebulous "hedge fund guy"). Insert picture of Dawn Wiener’s brother’s band playing in the garage in Welcome To The Dollhouse…
I guess for Rachel, it must be like having a sister. You know, that sister who tries to be a cool, butch tomboy despite the fact that she whines when you don’t pay her enough attention (he's her Sam Ronson!). He plays pool! He drinks beer! He’s a Deadhead! This guy is 13 years and a highlight away from turning into a dead ringer for Martha Stewart. Can’t you picture it: in 10 years, he’ll be waving a turkey baster full of Brad’s sperm at a now-Rue McLanahan-resembling Rachel who, pointing to a wrinkled and dehydrated vagina in a pickle jar, will scream, “Taaaaaay! Get in here and get inseminated! Are you kidding me right now? Let’s Bounce!”
He looks like he exfoliates.
First, I would like to discuss the husband. A lot of people have joked that he clearly seems gay, but he is too much of a wuss to be gay. He’s a dorky mama’s boy who wears so much jewelry that it looks like he robbed a gold kiosk at the Palisades mall, and he’s way too into his hair. I haven’t watched enough of this garbage to figure out what he actually does for a living, besides pout and put on scarves, but I fear the Grateful Dead conversation in one of the episodes may provide a clue. The thought of he and Rachel at a Grateful Dead show defies my ability to conjure even a shadow of this image to my mind’s eye. Do they tailgate in those get-ups? I also couldn’t help but notice that he has an icky paunch, and puffy hands. ICKY PAUNCH AND PUFFY HANDS, I won’t sleep now and my gag reflex is going into overdrive.
During the New York Fashion Week episode, I bet when he asks Rachel to drop him off at 21st Street and Fifth Avenue, he is actually going to have sex with a sloppy, teenaged Shoshanna Lonstein type that he picked up earlier in the week at a falafel stand near Union Square. And what the fuck is up with that plaid “newsboy” cap-hat he plopped onto his Katie Holmes bob???? I bet he has a “guitar” propped up somewhere in their apartment that he doodles on mercilessly, and every opportunity he gets, he waxes on about the “band” he used to play with back in New Jersey before he became a banker (just a guess, but I bet he is some sort of nebulous "hedge fund guy"). Insert picture of Dawn Wiener’s brother’s band playing in the garage in Welcome To The Dollhouse…
I guess for Rachel, it must be like having a sister. You know, that sister who tries to be a cool, butch tomboy despite the fact that she whines when you don’t pay her enough attention (he's her Sam Ronson!). He plays pool! He drinks beer! He’s a Deadhead! This guy is 13 years and a highlight away from turning into a dead ringer for Martha Stewart. Can’t you picture it: in 10 years, he’ll be waving a turkey baster full of Brad’s sperm at a now-Rue McLanahan-resembling Rachel who, pointing to a wrinkled and dehydrated vagina in a pickle jar, will scream, “Taaaaaay! Get in here and get inseminated! Are you kidding me right now? Let’s Bounce!”
He looks like he exfoliates.
The Day New York Stood Still, and Looked Like This
Just once, I would like to walk the streets of New York City, and see every single person looking like this, inexplicably. Even the pets.
I am imagining that these wonders of crochet are full-body encasements, and not merely reserved for the head. Looking at those pictures, I think we now know what happened to The Children of The Corn.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Cintra Wilson's Pissed About Palin - As Everyone Should Be
Do yourself a favor, and read Cintra's hilarious and frightening take on the scourge that is.... Sarah Palin as White House Bunny and her legion of deluded lunatics, er, followers...
www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/09/10/palin_feminism/
www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/09/10/palin_feminism/
Thursday, September 18, 2008
I Could Not Agree More With Harry Burt - Especially When It Comes To "Prehensile Tails"
Phrases I'd Rather Not Be Used at My Funeral.
BY HARRY BURT
"autoerotic asphyxiation"
"found by cadaver dogs"
"hopped up on goofballs"
"minutes from rescue"
"prehensile tail"
Part of Streetwalker played by Undercover Shoveler
Okay, I’ll admit it. I am a bit of a junkie for horrible, cheesy, soul-destroying cable television. Arch and exploitive crime shows that highlight inconceivable crimes, the odd kidnapping, forensics, well, these are among the favorites before which I kneel, guiltily. If you met me on the street, you would never guess this unsavory fact about my use of valuable spare time. You would not instantly, or remotely, conjure an image of this tall, willowy woman folding herself into a sea of linen and dogs, lit only by the gray flicker of televised murder and mayhem littered with more mullets and belly-shirts than one could possibly imagine. Yet, there it is, the truth in all its unsightly glory.
One thing that has always nagged at me is, who are the “actors” procured for these reenactments? I know that a fair amount of these people, particularly the cops and doctors, play themselves, but what of the rest? Is there some sort of niche agency for ugly people that exclusively traffics in reenactment actors and talk-show guests? For example, on a recent episode of a cold case program, there was an unwieldy and overweight woman hunkered down at a bank during a robbery – she of the raggedy waist-length hair, disconcertingly bifurcated by 7-inch half-permed with two-tone roots, which had clearly remained unwashed for a significant period of time – was she playing herself? If not, does she fancy herself a professional actress? If so, how did she get this gig? I shudder at the mental picture of her go-sees and the potentially awkward audition process. I mean, would she be waiting in line at the casting call for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, while all the other hopefuls wondered (some aloud) if the producer’s crystal meth dealer got caught in the wrong line?
All I know is, I want in. I have to do one of these shows, just once. There are no delusions of grandeur clouding my dreams here. I aspire to nothing overtly big, no starring role as the Prime Suspect, or the Glamorous Victim With the Sordid Past, or the Sexy Black Widow on the Run.
Oh no.
I would be perfectly happy as the loopy witness with an uneven accent, the bucktoothed neighbor with the cockeyed kids, the lazy, alcoholic, tramp cousin, the halting and obtuse patrol cop or even the discreetly posed corpse. No nudity though unless my privates are obscured by an overgrown shrub, or hidden from view by a filthy dumpster in a Popeye’s parking lot. Hmmm, interesting career direction to consider. Moonlighting, perhaps?
Questions, questions! Does one need a SAG card? How much would it pay (I’m guessing it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of $50 - $200 a pop or, more likely, just free Craft Services for the afternoon)? Also, if you are booked on the Jerry Springer show as a dim-witted honky from the sticks who inadvertently married her brother/son and now happen to be pregnant with a genetic time-bomb, would this be a conflict of interest if you had recently appeared on Forensic Files as the scorned mistress who hired a handyman to chop up her lover in a bathtub with a pick-ax, and turn him into meatsicles? I would speculate that it might depend on the talent of the person or persons responsible for the hair/makeup/wigs or, at the very least, one’s dialect coach. Oh, and there is something else.
One of the unfortunate side effects of watching these crime shows incessantly is an alarming tendency to “speak the language” of the “authorities” and various “experts.” One starts to say things like, “I’ll wait over here with the bags until the scene has been fully secured, and you have successfully exited the vehicle,” upon exiting said vehicle, and waiting for one's boyfriend to park the car in front of one’s apartment. However, you know you have gone too far, when you pull out the yellow police tape and cordon off the area until said boyfriend arrives, nonplussed, to find you picking up lint with the back of a dampened envelope flap.
Hey, as long as during private, sexy time he doesn’t ask you to “reenact” the corpse you "played" on the last episode of Cold Case, then I don’t see the problem.
One thing that has always nagged at me is, who are the “actors” procured for these reenactments? I know that a fair amount of these people, particularly the cops and doctors, play themselves, but what of the rest? Is there some sort of niche agency for ugly people that exclusively traffics in reenactment actors and talk-show guests? For example, on a recent episode of a cold case program, there was an unwieldy and overweight woman hunkered down at a bank during a robbery – she of the raggedy waist-length hair, disconcertingly bifurcated by 7-inch half-permed with two-tone roots, which had clearly remained unwashed for a significant period of time – was she playing herself? If not, does she fancy herself a professional actress? If so, how did she get this gig? I shudder at the mental picture of her go-sees and the potentially awkward audition process. I mean, would she be waiting in line at the casting call for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, while all the other hopefuls wondered (some aloud) if the producer’s crystal meth dealer got caught in the wrong line?
All I know is, I want in. I have to do one of these shows, just once. There are no delusions of grandeur clouding my dreams here. I aspire to nothing overtly big, no starring role as the Prime Suspect, or the Glamorous Victim With the Sordid Past, or the Sexy Black Widow on the Run.
Oh no.
I would be perfectly happy as the loopy witness with an uneven accent, the bucktoothed neighbor with the cockeyed kids, the lazy, alcoholic, tramp cousin, the halting and obtuse patrol cop or even the discreetly posed corpse. No nudity though unless my privates are obscured by an overgrown shrub, or hidden from view by a filthy dumpster in a Popeye’s parking lot. Hmmm, interesting career direction to consider. Moonlighting, perhaps?
Questions, questions! Does one need a SAG card? How much would it pay (I’m guessing it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of $50 - $200 a pop or, more likely, just free Craft Services for the afternoon)? Also, if you are booked on the Jerry Springer show as a dim-witted honky from the sticks who inadvertently married her brother/son and now happen to be pregnant with a genetic time-bomb, would this be a conflict of interest if you had recently appeared on Forensic Files as the scorned mistress who hired a handyman to chop up her lover in a bathtub with a pick-ax, and turn him into meatsicles? I would speculate that it might depend on the talent of the person or persons responsible for the hair/makeup/wigs or, at the very least, one’s dialect coach. Oh, and there is something else.
One of the unfortunate side effects of watching these crime shows incessantly is an alarming tendency to “speak the language” of the “authorities” and various “experts.” One starts to say things like, “I’ll wait over here with the bags until the scene has been fully secured, and you have successfully exited the vehicle,” upon exiting said vehicle, and waiting for one's boyfriend to park the car in front of one’s apartment. However, you know you have gone too far, when you pull out the yellow police tape and cordon off the area until said boyfriend arrives, nonplussed, to find you picking up lint with the back of a dampened envelope flap.
Hey, as long as during private, sexy time he doesn’t ask you to “reenact” the corpse you "played" on the last episode of Cold Case, then I don’t see the problem.
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