Category Archives: Television
Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
If you’re a regular or semi-regular reader of mine, you’ll know that I have a profound dislike for most everything. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things I like.
Perhaps, television is both my favourite and most hated of life’s little staples. It’s a harsh mistress; dressing up for you all pretty like one moment, then pissing all over you the next. God knows I hate television networks. These wonder-tards are responsible for some of the worst decisions in entertainment history. Fuck it. I’m talking about FOX. FOX has been anally raping its viewership since the dawn of Married: With Children. Let’s check the score:
- Arrested Development: CANCELLED
- Terminator- The Sarah Connor Chronicles: CANCELLED
- Lie to Me: CANCELLED
- Futurama: CANCELLED
- Family Guy: CANCELLED
- Dollhouse: CANCELLED
- Firefly: CANCELLED
Then, there are the shows that FOX execs gave a collective, “fuck it” and greenlit baffling shit like:
- Who’s Your Daddy: Fatherless child + paternity tests + slut mother + a group of guys who couldn’t keep it in their pants + TV audience + cash reward = eventual suicide
- Married by America: The viewing audience could now get involved with helping young couples fuck up their futures
- The Littlest Groom: He’s a midget! Get it? [It actually pained me to type “littlest”]
- Babes: Fat chicks. That’s it. There’s nothing else.
- House of Buggin’: John Leguizamo’s latest tragically unfunny attempt at replacing “In Living Color”
Even more ball-smashingly painful are the shows FOX, not only keeps on the air, but seem to have an L. Ron Hubbard type following. Again, let’s go to the board:
- American Idol: Definition of beating a dead horse and making it sing.
- X Factor: What they’re calling “American Idol,” but with Simon Cowell and Pepsi.
- House: Look, he’s a cranky ass, drug addicted, pompous, douchebag doctor. We get it.
- Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader: Short answer: No
- Glee: Fucking Glee
Although I can shake my fist and send human waste to FOX for the first two lists, there is no one to blame but the American people for the last. What the fuck is wrong with society? “But, Roode,” some of you are no doubt saying to your monitors like I give two shits, “if you don’t like these shows, don’t watch them.” If you’re one of the people who just said that, punch yourself in the kidneys as hard as you can. I’ll wait.
The excruciatingly painful root canal of a problem is that these entertainment equivalents to eyeball AIDS don’t just stay on TV. They’re everywhere. They spill over into every other aspect of life: water cooler chat, trite morning show coverage, bullshit marketing shenanigans, and a host of other methods designed to shove this camel piss down your throat. For fuck’s sake, you half expect the doctor to give you a rectal exam with an official “GLEE” probe.
Glee. Fucking Glee. Outside of “reality” shows, Glee has to be the prickliest cactus that has ever been shoved up my ass [figuratively, sickos]. It combines all the things I hate in life: singing, high school drama bullshit, singing about high school drama bullshit, hair styles from the 80’s, poser-hipster-geekdom, a Barbara Streisand wannabe, and all the douchebaggery contained therein.
Impossibly aggravating twirling paraplegic aside, I’m completely baffled as to how in the fuck this show became the runaway success it is. I guess it has all the ingredients of an asinine network TV show popular with the toothless public:
Unrealistically pretty high school “teenagers” + mismatched couples + painfully dubbed singing + forced and contrived gay character(s)
Alright, maybe most of that is superficial for a list of reasons why I hate this show more than a punch to the yam bag. But, it’s a goddamn TV show. What else do I need? It’s television cancer! The background music, itself, is enough to drive one into a murderous rage.
I tried to watch the show once [read: woke up on the couch while wife was watching it]. I timed myself. It was exactly one minute until I was filled with homicidal rage. It’s like fingers on a chalkboard. It’s not any ONE thing. It’s EVERYTHING. Individually, I’m pretty sure I could stomach each vomit inducing annoyance for an hour-long show. I hate singing in a television show, but I managed to put up with episodes of The Simpsons that shoe-horned musical sketches into the show. High school drama on TV makes me want to set fire to an orphanage, but I was able to sit through Veronica Mars.
But, all those little annoyances in concert is like being hit with a bag of oranges. It’s a constant left-hook, right-hook combination. It’s one of the few situations when running headlong into a wall is the better of two evils. Take the hits too long and you’ll end up like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky V. No, not the Rocky character. I really mean Sylvester Stallone.
Glee has become oh so fashionable! Why, everyone who’s ANYONE wants to have their songs shit on, ham-fisted into a “plot” then have the very essence changed to discuss the problems of kids in wheelchairs not being able to get enough blond poontang.
Ah, that’s what FOX wants you to think. Every now and then an artist is able to withstand the evil and money to protect his work from being shat out the prime time sphincter. Who? Who dared defy the FOX gods and deny them their power and inefficient hybrids?
Back in March of 2011, Dave declined to give the rights to his song, “Everlong.” [Read: Go fuck yourselves] Grohl feels that musicians shouldn’t feel pressured to bow down to Glee’s awesomeness and beg to give them any song out of their catalogue the studio wants. Check this:
“It’s every band’s right, you shouldn’t have to do fucking Glee,” Grohl, 42, told The Hollywood Reporter. “Dude, maybe not everyone loves Glee. Me included. I watched 10 minutes and it wasn’t my thing. “
Translation: Fuck you, Ryan Murphy, creator of Glee. Your shit absolutely DOES stink. Not only that, but we can see what you ate for lunch.
But, I suppose Dave Grohl’s story isn’t indicative of the norm. Well, that would be true if Slash and Kings of Leon didn’t do the same damn thing and FLAT OUT REFUSED to let their music be a part of that bile gargling sing-com. I can only hope this becomes some sort of movement within the music industry that has musicians actually KNOW what their songs are being used for when they accept a fat check. Just say NO, Alice in Chains. JUST SAY NO!
The ONLY redeemable decision this holocaust of a show ever made was just chance. Heather Morris was hired, originally, to work out the coreography for the mind numbing dance scenes. She worked with Beyoncé and knew a thing or two about choreography. It was her job to teach the cast of mouth breathers how to dance well enough for prime time television. I guess she did pretty well, because they ended up hiring her to play Brittany Pierce in a recurring role. In the second season she was made a full cast member. I wish I understood why.
Oh, yeah. I see why. Excellent job!
I enjoy the Terminator franchise. Alright, “Rise of the Machines” left a bad taste in my mouth, but I could stand it. Many a person via comments section, blog, or pointless water cooler discussion wax philosophical about the Terminator Universe. How many possible timelines are there? What was the Catherine Weaver T-1000 planning? If Kyle Reese dies after Judgement Day would it really matter? Would John Connor cease to exist or would that timeline just play out? I don’t care a bloody bit about any of these questions. I just want to know why the bloody hell John Connor insists on making the same shit mistakes. Isn’t he paying attention?
I am not really complaining about the versions of John Connor in the first three movies or in the television series. Those incarnations seem to have their collective shit together. Well, the John Connor of T3 was a whiny little bitch. I would embrace genocide if he were the only hope for mankind.
The worse offender is the John Connor of “Terminator Salvation.” Wait. Stop right there. Don’t complain that I’m late to the party with this one. Yes, the film came out an eon ago. It’s been playing non-stop on the premium channels. So keep your smart ass comments about my timeliness to yourselves.
Seeing it so many times got me to thinking that this John Connor is not a man groomed his entire life to lead the human resistance against the holocaust-happy machines. This bloke has seen, fought, and been pursued by these rampaging killbots before. So why the screaming fuck does he act like this is his first rodeo? Things like:
If one thing has been hammered into our heads repeatedly, it’s that the terminators don’t sweat small arms fire. Shotgun blasts? Sure, it will damage their pretty faces, but it won’t really phase them. What about rifles or machine guns? It depends on the calibre. It’s painfully obvious that your basic beer can shooting rifle isn’t going to do a damn thing but piss the metal harbinger of death off. Something attached to the side of a military-grade aircraft will do the trick. We know this. The terminators know it. Why does JC keep forgetting?
In the first few scenes of T4 we see John-John crawling out of an over-turned Huey. Then, WHAMO; a T-600 (or T-700; it’s all a little dodgy) with its legs blown off starts throwing him around. What’s the first thing Johnny does? He shoots it in the bloody head with a wimpy pistol. Seriously? You essentially grew up with virtually indestructible man-shaped machines and you still pull this bollocks? Someone didn’t pay attention during terminator school.
The Savior of Mankind tries it again toward the end of the film. He kicks his firearm up a notch to a relatively small calibre automatic rifle… expecting different results? Or, did he just say “sod it,” and figure he needed to use the ammunition anyway. Waste not want not. The little woman back home may be cross if Johnny Cakes comes home with leftovers.
2. He keeps trying to hit, smack, and punch the terminators
Right, then. This makes even less sense than #1. Toward the end of the film, after the prototype T-800 bursts from the cell and wreaks all sorts of havoc upon Connor’s person, an unbelievable thing occurs. He bitch slaps the CGI Arnold with the butt of his rifle. Isn’t this the equivalent of punching your concrete floor? At what point during his life did he learn that the Achilles Heal of the murder-death-kill bot was a stiff slap to the face? Was that a deleted scene in the second film?
With all that God-like knowledge J-to-the-C has about… well… everything, you would think he would remember this basic principle. Sissy-slapping the machines only makes your inevitable beat-down more pathetic. I’m not saying that he should just lie there and accept that his skull is about to be crushed like a peanut shell underneath Herman Goering’s patent leather jackboot, mind you. It’s just that this method of defense is slightly less effective than launching a barrage of “Yo Mama” jokes.
3. EVERYTHING is a trap
Is your young-adult father on a SkyNet kill list? Has a bloke who’s really a prototype infiltration unit shown up out of nowhere to help? Resistance Command hand you a foolproof plan to turn off the machines? Congratulations! You’re about to be buggered. You don’t need to be Admiral Akbar to realize it’s a trap.
Everything‘s a trap. JC knows this. Mama Connor told him via outdated audio cassette tape. The machines are cold, calculating sods. Come on, Johnny Appleseed! You’ve been fooled a few times before. Remember your injured mom calling out for your help in the smelting plant? TRAP. Remember the T-850 in “Rise of the Machines” telling you it was able to get close and kill you because of your emotional attachment to the model? TRAP. This isn’t news, John-a-ling-a-ling. What are the odds of a SkyNet built and programmed machine practically delivered to your door is going to help you rescue your pop without it being a trap? So what are you supposed to do? “He has to save his father or he’ll never be.” Firstly we don’t really know that. That’s using “Back to the Future” temporal math. If you use Star Trek Mirror Universe math, killing off dada while Connor is an adult may not effect things at all. JC already exists. There’s nothing written in stone that he HAS to send pops repeatedly back in time to protect and bump uglies with mother. For fuck’s sake, he already knows all the bloody moves the machines are going to make.
But, I suppose if you want to play it safe Connor-mania could launch an all out search mission for daddy, then lock him in a closet for ten years. Here’s an idea, call for him during one of your fireside chats. Tell him to meet you at the burned out Starbucks. Too risky? Well you know he lives in Los Angeles. There are three people left in that burned out husk of a city. Kyle isn’t going to be hard to find.
4. If you can’t blow the bloody thing up, just run
As I covered in #1, anything short of a 80 calibre or a Howitzer isn’t really going to do jack. Sure, it may make you feel like you’re accomplishing something, but in the grand scheme of things it’s just wasting everyone’s time.
Here comes mechanized death. You have an axe, lead pipe, and nunchucks. What do you do?
A: Break out your finest Bruce Lee moves.
B: Smack its head around with the lead pipe and hope it gets dizzy and has to lie down.
C: Use the axe to smash your way through the door and get the hell out of there.
If you chose anything but C, you are destined to die a horrible, painful death. It makes as much sense as starting a fight with a motorcycle club armed with a juice box and fuzzy dice while wearing ONLY a speedo.
Run! Don’t think. Just run. Unless you have a portable rocket launcher and/or a small thermonuclear device, just beat cheeks out of there. There’s no shame in it. You’re a pansy if you run away from a bee. You’re just being realistic when running away from a soulless killing machine that wants to rip out your spine.
Running away from this = PUSSY
Running away from this = SENSIBLE
IF there’s a sequel to “Salvation” I do hope they put together some sort of Idiot’s Guide for fighting terminators and other machines that want you dead. These little facts are like the laws of physics. They do not change. They cannot be changed. You look like an asshole attempting to change them.
By Abby K.
If I were to tell you Len Lesser died yesterday you would give me a blank stare. Then, if I told Uncle Leo died you would immediately open palm slap your forehead and say, “No! Uncle Leo? Say it ain’t so.” OK, maybe you wouldn’t say it exactly that way, but you know what I mean.
Len Less… ah screw it… Uncle Leo had a long and storied acting career. He was in Clint Eastwood flicks like, The Outlaw Josey Wales and Kelly’s Heroes. Remember? Come on! I can let Kelly’s Heroes slide, but if you never heard of The Outlaw Josey Wales , you’re either a particularly dainty woman or a castrated man.
Don’t feel bad. The majority of the Free World really only know Lesser as Uncle Leo. To tell you the truth, that’s good enough. No, he didn’t get Orson Wells spherical nor was he well known for his penchant for hookers and rock cocaine. He just, I don’t know, COMPLETELY BECAME ONE OF THE 20TH CENTURY’S BIGGEST PRIME TIME TELEVISION POP ICONS. Don’t agree? You’re lying. Quick, which one of these characters from Lesser’s career do you remember?
Or Uncle Friggin Leo?
That’s what I thought.
Uncle Leo was a character that stuck out in a sitcom that already had tons of quirky goofy ass one-dimensional circus clowns. That’s no small feat. Sure, he wasn’t in the main cast, having just appeared in 15 episodes. 15 out of 180 episodes. That’s nothing, it’s a speck of corn in the cow pie of life. But, those 15 episodes are among the ones we best remember. Why? Uncle Leo had it all; dashing good looks, a wardrobe to die for, and one of the best catch phrases of 90’s television. “Jerry! Hello!”
But, why did we take notice of our dear, precious Uncle Leo within the sea of Neumans, Kramers, Mickeys, and close-talkers? Was it talent? Gravitas? Yes. But, it was more than that. Only one word can sum it all up accurately. Genius. Uncle Leo was the Macbeth of our time. He was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern all wrapped up into one hunk of a thrift store sweater wearing man.
The real tragedy is that Uncle Leo never had his own spin-off series. Think about it. Episode after episode of “HELLO!” We would finally get to see Uncle Leo’s personal side. His sensitive side. His studly side. Hey, don’t be so quick to judge. That description was already more than Jersey Shore gives you and those hosers make millions for being stupid and VD ridden.
Look, all I’m saying is that growing up in Alberta didn’t exactly provide a girl with an ample supply of man candy. We had Eugene Levy while the US had David Hasselhoff (in his pre- cheeseburger/bathroom floor stage).
How was this fair? You tell me!
Maybe I was a traumatized child. I did see my father in a speedo once. I guess that pushed me into the strong, slightly mothball smelling arms of Uncle Leo. Look, don’t judge me. Funny is sexy.
Apparently, I’m not alone in my Uncle Leo worship.
That’s right, a tribute to Uncle Leo set to “Hello” by Lionel Ritcie. And you thought I had issues.
Safe home, Uncle Leo. Without you, life is meaningless and dark. We no longer have the bright light of your “hello” to warm ourselves by. I guess I’ll just nurse my crush on James Earl Jones.
Oh, yeah. That eases the pain.
It’s time to re-visit Roode’s complete and utter hatred of marketing mascots.
Step in the way-back machine for this classic that actually tells you more about us than it does about the Weather Channel.
So, the other day, How the Grinch Stole Christmas was on tele. Per usual, I watched it. It’s hard to ignore things like that from your childhood. My son loves the program, but seems to root for the Grinch. He makes me so proud.
The clever boy that he is, he pointed out that the Grinch didn’t really steal Christmas. He just stole “things.” As long as the Whoos were still around, they would keep Christmas alive in their hearts. I sat there and pondered his observation for a bit. He was completely right. It’s not possible to steal an entire day, let alone one with such reverence and centuries of religious ideology. The little furry buggers would still sing, wish each other a “Merry Christmas,” and be as annoying as ever. No, sir. It wasn’t the day that was the problem. It was the Whoos. They were the problem. In order to effectively end his torment, the Grinch has to dispatch of them. ALL of them.
But how? How could the Grinch take care of his Whoo problem in one, efficient moment? Well, building a bloody sled, making a Santa costume, and dressing up your little dog sure as hell won’t help. He has to get creative. Luckily, human history is riddled with pointers for the person who wants to wipe out an entire people.
1. Nuclear explosion
Perhaps the most obvious way to take care of the Whoo menace is to detonate a nuclear warhead in the center of town. It’s fast, thorough, and (if done correctly) will leave the area completely uninhabitable for decades. The Grinch lives far away on a mountain top. There’s a good chance that the trade winds will blow the fallout away from his cave. However, just to be safe, he will want to invest in the proper safety equipment. Hey, to solve the problem, one must make sacrifices. The bastard is already green and covered with fur. How much more damage can radiation do?
Alright, some of you may wonder how the Grinch could get his green hands on such a device. Apparently, it’s not too difficult. With thousands of surplus Soviet nuclear weapons out there, every half assed wanker with enough cash and a certain level of insanity can start his own collection.
2. Blankets infected with small pox
This method of extermination is nothing new. Conspiracy theories tell us the US Army perfected this little ditty in the 19th century when it wanted to get rid of those pesky Plains Indians. Well, that’s what wannabe Indian and political controversy whore Ward Churchill would have you believe. This story is, more than likely, a complete fabrication and a poor attempt to shoehorn douche bag behaviour into history.
Regardless of whether the US Army actually did this or not, it’s a viable option for our grinchy fellow. Under the guise of making peace, he can have crates of infected blankets sent to every Whoo in Whooville. He just wants to make sure they are all warm and snuggly throughout the winter. But, wait. Something is wrong. One Whoo gets sick. Then another. Then another. They’re dropping like flies now! I guess the Grinch kept the small pox vaccine all to himself.
3. Fuel-Air Bomb
A Fuel-Air bomb is a thermobaric weapon that, quite literally, sucks in all the available oxygen and sets the surround atmosphere on fire. This gives you all the horrific face melting punch of a nuke, without those pesky radiation side effects. The only issue is that this Satan-spawn engine of destruction must be dropped on its target. I’ve watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas many times. I don’t recall ever seeing an airplane hangar carved into the mountain side, so it’s safe to say he doesn’t have adequate air transportation. He could have a helicopter sitting on a pad somewhere, but the topography of his mountain makes it terribly unlikely.
Given the Grinch’s knack for building, I have no doubt he is fully capable of constructing some sort of rudimentary catapult on his mountain top in order to sling that bad boy to its target.
If Zombiland has taught me anything, it’s that the walking dead are dumber than a bag of hammers and easily killed. An assortment of other zombie movies show that, once the human food supply runs out, they start to feed on each other. It’s a win-win for the Grinch.
I’m going to skip over how, exactly, our green genocide machine can acquire the needed mutant gene/bio-weapon/magic spell. It’s the bloody Dr. Suess world. If those little hairy tossers in Whooville can invent completely ridiculous contraptions to play with (and they work), then the Grinch can be just as resourceful and get his hateful hands on some zombie-making fuel.
Once the plan is in motion, that yellow eyed engine of hate can sit back and watch the fun. What he chooses to do is completely up to him. For a little sport, he can set up shop on a rocky outcrop of his mountain fortress and pick off the zombie Whoos one by one with a high-powered rifle. Or, if he’s in the mood for something more passive, simply watch the Whoos turn on each other and feast, feast, feast.
5. Poison the Town’s Food and Water Supply
If the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan taught us anything it was that the fastest way of eradicating an entire town is by poisoning their food and water supply. Well, that and the historical precedent of easily invading Afghanistan, but being unable to leave it once you’ve finished. That’s another story, entirely.
Chances are Whooville’s water comes from a source in the high mountain tops surrounding them. Perhaps a cold mountain stream like the one shown in the Coors commercials. Yes. Just like that, but without the horrible, tasteless moose piss that is Coors Light.
As with old Cold War nuclear weapons, there are multiple caches of unused biological weapons dating back to the First World War. He doesn’t even have to break into the Deseret Chemical Depot in Utah and pinch a few pounds from their stockpile of over 6000 short tons. That’s a good thing, because 1. He will, more than likely, be killed trying to break in and 2. He won’t have to set foot inside Utah. If given the choice between the two, choose death.
Luckily, our Grinchy Grinch doesn’t have to make that decision. No, sir. This green embodiment of Whoo hate can wait for the shells of World War I mustard gas to come to him! A clamming vessel off the shores of Long Island is hauling this stuff in like there’s no tomorrow. There won’t be a tomorrow if someone drops one of those bad boys.
These are just a few ideas off the top of my head. No doubt the Grinch could come up with a dozen more ideas; all equally effective and horrific. Then, he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking into every Whoo house in Whooville, stealing all their decorations and gifts, and avoid the mind games of Cindi Lou Whoo.
I can hear you judging me now. How disturbing. A grown man who wants to bone cartoon characters. First off, you judgmental prick, it wouldn’t be “boning.” It would be banging. The difference is subtle, but it’s there. Secondly, this is just all theory. Hot is hot. If the opportunity ever arose that either 1) you found yourself in cartoon form and able to knock water-color boots with the animated hottie of your choice or 2) you were able to blur the real world/cartoon world boundary and do some of the inter dimensional nasty.
There are just some two-dimensional girls on the tube a guy wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers. No, not the two-dimensional girls you see on E! or other mindless television programming like Rock of Love . Venereal disease ridden yeast oozing frat whores can’t touch any of these animated honeys.
there drawing their personal R rated fantasies of a cartoon mouse.
Hey, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Lois is a hot redhead with one hell of a computer animated body. She’s into S&M, bondage, and the occasional cocaine binge. I’m not making this shit up. It’s all in the series.
The research team had no problem coming to a consensus with Lois. She’s that wild MILF that has no problems twirling around a stripper pole at night. Ryan was particularly adamant about her “boneability” factor. Hey, don’t give me that look. It’s a scientific term, just like bangtastic or humpalicious.
The only thing that took away from Lois’ bangable factor was that she has three kids. One way or another, we’re thinking some elasticity was lost in the fun zone along the way.
We are sort of baffled how she ended up being married to a buffoon. Yes, there are chubby chasers out there. Are there functional retard chasers too? If there are, that opens up a lot of opportunities for some of the research team.
Oh, yea. If your first response to the “We are sort of baffled how she ended up being married to a buffoon” line from above was something like “I don’t know, Roode. Let’s ask your wife,” I hope you catch gout you fucker.
2: The Princess of Hyrule/Zelda- Legend of Zelda
*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Vodka
After deciding that beer was for chumps, we started downing vodka. We kicked around a few more animated cuties, before Phil brought up the old Legend of Zelda television series that aired every Friday on The Super Mario Bros. Super Show in the late 80s. Hmmmm, intriguing. All of us downed another shot of vodka and mulled it over.
[Yes, in this pic, Zelda is high beaming. Hey, I didn’t draw it.]
Yes! Absolutely! Now it all came back to us. Zelda was hot! I don’t know what the hell the animators were thinking when drawing this bangable cartoon Betty. Many a Third World tracer had a stiffy while diligently cranking out the animation cells for the weekly show. It almost made up for the shitty wages DIC was tossing to them.
In this cartoon, Zelda was more than some stuck up princess locked in a tower somewhere. That dumbass just sat there waiting for someone to rescue her. Shit no! This Zelda was proactive; going on adventures with Link because, she knew that elf dipshit would fuck it up alone.
As young boys journeying to manhood, having a shapely, active, and oh so nimble blond to watch on TV was friggin OK with us! It was our version of porn damn it! She had a better rack than most of the girls we knew in the real world at the time.
That made even me feel dirty.
Link didn’t even want to be there. His entire motivation for putting forth the effort to thwart Ganon was to get a kiss from Zelda. For our purposes, we decided “kiss” meant using his sword to penetrate Zelda’s secret treasure.
But, um, we’d like to watch her sleep for a little longer..
3: The Black Cat- Spiderman animated series
Anyone who watched the 1994- 1998 version of Spiderman, the Animated Series should be familiar with the character Felicia Hardy. Yes, she’s another cute cartoon blond. But, her alter ego, the Black Cat gave all of us a new standard for female cartoon hotness. Not to mention another way we could defile the cartoon world with our sick and twisted male minds.
About ten minutes after we traded up from vodka to whiskey, James made a fantastic philosophical proclamation. The Black Cat was groin grabbingly hot. Shit, look at her. That outfit was made for form AND function. What better way to incapacitate the villain than by wearing a get- up that all but promised to suffer a wardrobe malfunction? We imagine that a few bad guys had problems standing up and just surrendered after a quick bathroom trip and a cigarette.
It wasn’t even just her look that got her on our scientifically compiled list. Her constant double entendres, sexual innuendos, and all out aggressive sexual behaviour helped knock the ball out of the park. After a minute or two of the “deep soul-searching in this clip from “Spiderman- Web of Shadows” you’re not sure if she’s prodding Spiderman to throw away the mask and run away together or get him to sling his web in her secret hideout.
This is based on a kid’s show? How many super heroines wear costumes tight enough in the crotch to sport camel toe? Not enough, damn it! We have a feeling that more than a few young men wore out their VCRs pausing and slow motioning the tape when the Black Cat’s scenes were up. Not that we would know anything about that.
4: Rogue- The X-Men Animated Series
Somehow we went from single malt whiskey to cheap bourbon. But, with the switch, came a new entry into our scientific research. That’s right, this is STILL scientific research. This is all in the name of science! Stop being judgmental!
In 1992, FOX blessed us with X-Men the Animated Series. This show was arguably the pioneer of animated comic book cartoons. Why? It did stay pretty faithful to the comic plot. Not that we cared. When the research team reviewed all the available data (drank), Tom postulated a hypothesis. This series was successful because Rogue was built like a brick shit house.
Alright, I feel like I’m losing you now. Let me take you back to 1995. This show was in its prime. Story lines were finely crafted; the characters well defined. What mattered even more than character development and story arcs? The fact that the cartoonist decided that Rogue should have the body of a porn star.
We’re beginning to think that every animator/cartoonist/artist has a hardwired need to draw female cartoon characters that will increase that chances of male viewer pitching a tent. That’s what we call developing a loyal fan base.
Rogue was sassy, impervious to most types of harm, and could beat a guy to death with the Rock of Gibraltar. There is no part of that last sentence that isn’t a turn on. Why do you think Gambit kept trying to get in those ridiculously tight spandex pants? Sure, Rogue could absorb his powers, potentially killing him. Quite frankly, it would be worth a life force draining or pelvis crushing to get some of that action.
5: Belle- Beauty and the Beast
By this time, we were drinking rye straight from the bottle. Ryan may have vomited all over Tom’s shoes. It’s also a sure bet that someone was just in his boxers at this point. I’m just not sure which one of us it was. Amazingly, we were allowed to continue our important research.
No self respecting man has ever seen Beauty and the Beast the whole way through. Somewhere between the singing furniture and realizing the portly mantel clock butler was really the even portlier Major Charles Emmerson Winchester from M*A*S*H, we bailed.
The only thing any of us remembered was Belle, the hot little peasant brunette that had a thing for hairy, tall men with anger management issues. It’s probably because she heard somewhere in the village that the size of a man beast’s tail is directly proportional to the size of his…forget it . This is crossing that whole bestiality line I drew in the sand earlier.
See? She’s equally pants tightening in naughty school girl wear or boob highlighting formal attire.
6: Erin Esurance- Esurance commercials
*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Grain
Our research was almost complete. We were missing one last animated vixen, however. At this time only James and I remained conscious. The rest of the research team was exhausted after a full night of scientific investigation. Some may have mistaken their exhaustion for being passed out under the pool table. That’s dedication damn it! That’s mother fucking commitment!
When we ceased to be able to function under our own power, we were hit with an epiphany. Erin Esurance was on television all the time. You couldn’t watch a show without her strutting her fine self around. She’s a double agent in a, you guessed it, skin-tight body suit. We really couldn’t ask for more. We really couldn’t speak without slurring.
Because James and I were drunk to the point of being color blind, I made a quick call to Tresckow to verify Erin’s cartoon boneability. His contribution of, “Oh, yeah, I’d get full coverage with her. In my PANTS!” substantiated our deduction. He then proceeded to launch a long soliloquy about the prospect of Ms. Esurance and Eliza Dushku in a three-way with… To tell the truth, I don’t really remember how the call ended. I hurled my phone at the head of who I thought was Oprah Winfrey. Don’t ask.
This mistress of insurance is athletic, flirtatious, and a closet dominatrix. She shoots out sexual innuendo after sexual innuendo. That’s our kind of woman! Well, animated woman. Shit, we’re past the point of semantics. She even has her own Chickipedia page.
The cartoonist doesn’t even bother attempting to hide Erin’s blatant ani-sexy-mation. It’s his intention to make us stop fast fowarding the DVR during the commercials. Nothing makes you want to buy car insurance like a tight bodied pink haired secret agent donned in what might as well be black body paint.
We would have no problem taking it out for Erin. Better yet, she can reach in and grab it. Just put her hand in there…
What? Reach in my glove compartment. That’s where I keep my insurance card. What did you think I meant? You’re a pervert. What did you think I was talking about? Sicko.
Esurance has even set up Erin’s World on their website. Essentially, you are in her apartment and can snoop around. You can watch her adventures on the flat screen, read her diary, go through her pics, and check out her Andy Warhol-ish art gallery. I know what you really want to know. No, there isn’t an option to root around her underwear drawer. We tried. We tried for hours.
Erin even has her own Chicipedia page. Did I mention that already?
A quick spin around the internet revealed that our petite car insurance fox is much appreciated by her fans. Maybe disturbingly so. The sheer volume of erotic/pornographic fan art [NSFW] is both impressive and frightening. As much as we would love to fill her insurance application… we are only willing to take it so far. We’re not total perverts.
Shit, we are.
As we’ve pointed out before, Hell’s Kitchen has become, to us, a necessary evil. I stated watching since season 4. I don’t remember why. Some combination of being drunk, bored, and… well, that’s really it.
Whatever the case, I was drawn in. Maybe, it’s because I enjoy seeing dumbasses getting their chocolate chutes stuffed with Gordon Ramsey‘s shoe. Maybe, it’s because of the occasional cute female contestant.
One thing I’ve noticed, over the seasons, is that there are a few enduring contestant personality types. No matter how many seasons the show has aired, these fuckers don’t learn. It’s like they go on the show without ever have actually seeing it. I’m not even sure how that shit is possible. Doesn’t it make sense to do a little research on the company that’s about to interview you? You want to know everything there is to know; especially who their ideal candidate is. Above all, you don’t want to make the same mistakes previous applicants have made. But, fuck that. If you’re going to crash and burn, do it Hindenburg style.
The Over Confident Douche
Confidence is important in many avenues of life. It shows that you know what you’re doing and, at least, have half of your shit under control. However, when you don’t have any of your shit under control, it’s down right ridiculous. If you consistently and constantly fuck up there is no reason to be full of yourself. OK, I’ll concede that (most of) the chefs wouldn’t be on the show if they at least didn’t know their ass from a stock pot. Even so, their ass-chappingly outrageous hubris smothers their talents like a fat man on a scooter.
One second they’re on the “confessional” cam talking up their mad skills and referring to themselves with bat-shit retarded nicknames (See: K-Greese from season 2 above). Sure, they have the world by the balls, until it’s go time. Then see how fast they go from “I can rock this shit!” to crying in the fetal position.
The Pretentious Asshat
Over confidence is one thing. Being an outright fuck-tastic asshole about your skills is another. Fine, you’re a good chef. Maybe you’re even one of the best ones in the contestant pool. Stop being a condescending bastard about it. Take the chuckle head above, Benjamin from season 7. This guy ended up with a god complex Bill Gates would envy. When not belittling the skills and ideas of others, the little turd actually tried to usurp control from sous chef, Scott. That’s sort of like making a grab for R. Lee Ermy’s bullhorn.
The other thing that irked the piss out of me was his incessant use of the word, “Oui.” Fucking say YES like every other human being in LA! That, alone, justifies a colonoscopy with a rusty pipe.
The Clueless Wonder
As good old Bonnie from season 2 shows us, Hell’s Kitchen is chocked full of clueless dipshits. They wander around from station to station in the kitchen with a perpetual “Huh?” look stamped to their faces. These people can’t tell time, remember what they’re cooking, and consistently confuse Chef Ramsey with someone who gives an ape shit.
Think back to high school (assuming you graduated/attended). If you’ve ever taken a science class with a lab assignment there’s a good chance you were saddled with a clusterfuck partner with a perma-duh expression. Maybe YOU were that kid. Hey, I’m not judging here. In any case, these dopes are less than dead weight. In the event of a nuclear attack, we can cram ourselves into their thick skulls to stave off radiation.
Oh, and there is NO way I’m not mentioning the waste of precious oxygen and space, Lacey from season 5. The pant load shuffled from station to station, hoping no one would notice that everything she did turned into a steaming pile of suck.
The Delusional Dipshit
This dillhole refuses to accept reality. No matter how many times they get a verbal beatdown or a vocal raping, they honestly believe that Chef Ramsey wouldn’t have done so if he didn’t “see potential.” OK, so you set fire to the kitchen, accidentally ground Ramsey’s dog into pate, and took a dump on the fish station. You’re only getting yelled at, because he BELIEVES IN YOU!
“Chef Ramsey wouldn’t take the time to read me the riot act, call me a donkey, then throw my raw fish in the air where he proceeded to shoot it like a clay duck with a .45 pistol he conveniently on him, because I’m a walking fuck nut. I KNOW he see something in me. He wouldn’t have shot my raw fish if he didn’t care.”
While we’re at it, let’s kick over a few corpses and look at each season’s clusterfuck who has destroyed everything he’s touched. I’m talking; everything was raw, except for the things that were SUPPOSED to be. He sneaks undercooked meat into the microwave with fingers crossed to fool the chefs into thinking it came out of the oven that way. Oh, my personal favorite, absolutely knowing what he’s doing is wrong but attempts to make some sort of Vegas casino Harry Blackstone shit to slide his monstrosity across the hot plate. Then, during their confessional sessions, they tell the audience how he rocked the service or challenge. He’s going to be the winner hands down! Christ, people! You fuckers as supposed to be chefs. The third time you bring a piece of meat to the hot plate, still cold and horrifyingly under cooked you need to get the fuck out of Hell’s Kitchen and never walk into any kitchen again. March straight to a doctor and get tested for autism or cholera or something. There has to be a physical reason for that much stupid.
This fucker is a combination of the delusional dipshit and pretentious asshat. On one hand, he knows he’s a cooking abortionist. On the other, their ego won’t allow them to admit it. So, in order to succeed, this slap happy fart knocker has to throw a monkey wrench or two into the works.
This joker has thrown so many people under the bus he might as well be charged with serial homicide. It’s not just that he Bill Clintons his way around the rules, it’s that this sick bastard actually gloats about it on camera. Hey, numb nuts, you think you’re super cleaver, right? Has it ever occurred to you that Chef Ramsey could be watching the dailies of the show recording?
The Near Dead
For the love of all that is holy, if your ass can’t walk up a flight of stairs without needing to camp out midway and finish the trip the next day DON’T FUCKING WORK ON A REALITY SHOW! Hell’s Kitchen has been a sad parade of the morbidly obese, infirmed, and plaque ridden. Many a season has had a contestant that needed to go to the emergency room for some sort of debilitating issue. Robert had to drop out of the finals in season 5, because he was two steps away from a full on heart explosion. In season 6, this portly summabitch almost passed out when peddling some sort of bicycle contraption. Season 2’s Larry didn’t even make it to the first dinner service before his ass was bounced to the hospital.
Don’t get me started on Tom from season 5. This hapless turd had to have come from 15th century England, because he had a constant and inexplicable case of sweating sickness. Let’s just say he put a little bit of himself in every meal.
*Side note: Being sweaty is perfectly forgivable in certain cases.
This sexless wonder-tard unleashes a never-ending barrage of sexist comments, but doesn’t understand why women think he’s a pig. Take Jason up there from season 4; this whiny, snail-like, Humpty Dumpty motherfucker had enough problems cooking Spam and not shitting on the floor. The sexism is really the only quality the series could showcase. Take a look for yourself to see this train wreck of a ball sack at the 1:55 mark.
In an effort not to be a one hit wonder, Tom from season 5 joined the “I hate bitches” train. Sweaty got all pissy when he was chosen to be on Virginia’s team in the finale. But, what did he care? That handsome son-of-a-gun could get any woman he wanted.
Finally, we’re at the most entertaining, albeit banana sandwich nuts, Hell’s Kitchen personality. Whether this window licker is talking to the voices in his head, getting into a karate fight with imaginary friends, or just plain losing his shit one thing is clear– they’re all making sandwiches without bread.
Let’s take Matt from Season 4. There were more than a few times when it was completely conceivable this fucker could have gone completely ballistic and wore someone’s pancreas as a hat.
In, not surprisingly, his last appearance as a contestant, this simple bastard started what can only be described as a nuclear grade meltdown. Check the video, below. At the 3:07 mark he starts smacking himself on the head and whimpering. Not crazy enough? At 3:39 he makes an oh so subtle death threat to Christina. NO? You fuckers want blood. Alright, how about at 3:05 mark where he can be seen going through a range of pants-shitting emotions, all of them insane?
Then, there’s Raj from the current season (8). It became quite evident after his third karate fight with the refrigerator that he was destined for the laughing academy.
But, the elite of the giggling shit-flingers is most definitely Joseph from season 7. This chuckle head went through too many obstacle courses without a helmet. Not only does he seem completely incapable of answering a question without going completely John Rambo, he decides that this whole Hell’s Kitchen thing is bullshit. It’s time for motherfuckers to throw down!
Hey, I’m all about throwing a dash of UFC into Hell’s Kitchen. That’s appointment TV! But, Joey comes off as a slightly retarded steroid popper. This whole scene was so goofy-stupid, yet enthralling. I’m still not sure it wasn’t completely rigged.
As long as this damn show is on, I’ll watch. It’s a long spiral to hell. I don’t want to watch it. I’m an educated man. I know better. But, it’s like a traffic accident on the interstate; no matter how gruesome it is, I simply cannot look away.