(Now, Barbara Kent. She was a real looker of a whore.)

Peter Lauria is a media reporter like Animal is a drummer: really good at his job, but bystanders should probably make sure their immunizations and rabies shots are up to date. Which means not only should Jenny McCarthy’s kids stay at least a mile from him – and her; enjoy your slow, painful death kids – but also, here and there he’s going to piss someone off. This time, he gave the journalistic titty-twist to notorious dirty old hobgoblin and Viacom owner Sumner Redstone (pictured below),* who Lauria’s inside source says is ‘forcing’ MTV to produce a shitty reality show. Break out the big arm twisting machine, this is going to be tough. That’s like asking the decidedly crazy homeless guy on the offramp to eat some fresh dog shit: it’s all a matter of how much booze he can get with the money you give him to forget what an infected boil he is on the taint of society.

The Daily Beast has learned that Redstone is so smitten with a scantily clad new all-girl group dubbed the Electric Barbarellas that he has paid to fly its six members out to New York to meet with record labels—and forced MTV to shoot a pilot for a reality-TV series about the group… The show and music are so bad that MTV executives  object to it [and may quit over it]. (DailyBeast)

Like Jane Fonda? She knew how to work for a contract.

“Hey sweetie, you want to join the Reptile Pie Club? What? WHAT? Goddurn hearing aid. ‘The Mile High’… Wow. I have been doing that all wrong.” So your boss is a disgustingly rich dirty old man and wants to spend his last days around some tits and ass that can’t talk back? He owns you, get over it. Don’t pretend you have scruples or anything, you aired My Super Sweet 16 without giving any thought to how many pedophiles were at home rubbing one off to what they would do spoiled brats on entitlement steroids in the back of their new Lexus.

Anyway, Redstone isn’t all gone, as evidenced by the fact that he left Lauria the best voicemail since Alec Baldwin came down with buyer’s remorse over a defective offspring. A sample? Why sure:

“I know you may be reluctant… we have to have the name of the person who gave you that story. We’re not going to kill him. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to fire him. We just want to talk to him.” (DailyBeast)

We’re not going to break his legs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to throw him in a concrete pit with junkyard dogs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to make him walk the plank and send him Davey Jones’ Locker. Wait… Anyway, if you could also fax over the names of his wife, kids, parents, and beloved pet, that would be great.

We will protect you completely. There are several sources that could give us that name. Including a certain guy that works for a law firm that works for MTV.

Who? You, know, a ‘certain guy.’ Just like Bricks Brassi and Richie the Savant are ‘certain guys’ what get ‘certain’ things done for us. Fuck it, you know what? Murdering things. If I want to go all Corleone in my advanced, diseased years over a tray of assorted fuckmeats that couldn’t maintain a Myspace page let alone a legitimate career, that’s my prerogative. Tell you what. When you own the fourth largest media conglomerate in the world, you can fill the casting couch with as much dick as you want, and your pansy ass can be as sugar & spice about it as it wants. No shit, the Electric Barbarellas suck. They’re a girl band that got their name from a Duran Duran song about naked mannequins, British masturbation, and a bald Mr. Bean. They describe themselves as “a cross between the Pussycat Dolls and Spice Girls, except raunchier.” They’re just some dumb bitches that want their American 15 minutes, and I’m going to give it to them in December, which gives them just enough time to take turns tongue bathing my shriveled, liver-spotted balls in teams of two, until the doctor says I have to go on dialysis and avoid having fun at all costs. Here’s a wad of hundreds; use it to plug up that gushing cunny before I open a sterling silver Shirley Temple factory between your legs.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do when I hear one of my Viacom slaves talked some shit about me? Give me the name of the snitch, or I’ll just plant a bomb under every car in the parking lot to make sure I get him. It’ll send Ted “Limp Dick” Turner a message, too. You want that on your head, Lauria? What are they going to do, give me the death penalty? I’m a hundred and sixty, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention I look like something primitive African tribes would burn as a demon, in a plaid suit you have to have a senior citizen ID to even buy. You might as well build me a cross and deify me on FOX News right now. And speaking of that, Rupert, my boy. You know I agree with everything you put on your fine network – not only do I own CBS, the premiere channel for crotchety old biddies that remember the McCarthy days fondly, I’m also a client – but do you have to hire such angry people? I watch FOX News before I go to bed, I get so agitated I poop myself at least three times while I sleep. We old conservatives like our news like we like our Cream of Wheat: drippy, bland, and not a little bit racist. Oh, and that Megyn Kelly. You should get her one of those water massagers they have in the Sears Roebuck catalog, because she’s a hot little spitfire but I think she’s a little… backed up. All jawin’ on about nothin’ over other sensible folks, makin’ a mess of the negro problem. [see how deep you can get into this hot mess before you throw up like you're on a roller coaster at Lean Pockets World] Medical paroxysm, that’s the ticket! We have a ‘certain guy’ for that, if you need some help.

Will relieve your women of hysteria, no questions asked.

So, reality TV is going Italian mafia gang busters now, which is going to be really ironic for The Situation, because he thinks he’s one of them, but they are going to scalp him and use his petrified blowout as an emery board for their cats.

*Ha! You can’t steal this one Stewart/Colbert! You call this man massa.

(This is going somewhere, I promise.)

This week was filled with anger, dissapointment, and more than it’s share of vomit-inducing mega-icky. For instance, KC & The Sunshine Band bassist Richard R. Finch showed us the way uh huh uh huh he likes it with hairless, squeaky-voiced boys and got arrested, whilst the global community once again accepted “nuh-uh” as a defense for the same thing from the Vatican and the Pope still roams Italy with a cool sci-fi car. The GOP fell and threw a kicking, hiccuping temper tantrum because they didn’t have their way this time, closing all business in the Senate by 2 pm, apparently running a science experiment to prove how long a country can go without a government before it starts sticking forks in outlets for attention. FOX is about to air another season of ‘Bones’ and the BBC’s ‘Robin Hood’ is still canceled. The world is full of hate and misdealings, spiraling down the drain in its own heady sick of greed, lechery, and lowest common denominator mind-numbers. So you’ll forgive me if I use this Friday to crawl inside my own head and – -

FREAK THE FUCK OUT ABOUT THE NEW MUPPETS MOVIE! You’re damned right, they’ve announced the new one; a few weeks ago in fact. Updates on the project have been trickling in, and I haven’t allowed myself to piss my pants about it, but I feel like David Carradine: it’s so close, and it feels so good, and I’ll just die if I don’t explode about it soon.

I know a lot of you are thinking, “What about the blood soaked merkin found at the crime scene of The Muppets and Black Dorothy, or the disillusioning toilet clogger that was the last Henson Christmas Special, and that ruined the holiday season for the whole world?” Dude, every time you mention either one of those, an orphan gets adopted by a white slaver. Good job, fuck head. Let me assuage your fears and tell you a story.

The year was 1999: Fred Dursts were able to walk down the street without getting spit on OR prison raped, Madeline Kahn was dead, they just stopped making Starter jackets, and the summer of “La Vida Loca” and Cher’s “Believe” was upon us, right when I was working 8 hours a day in an ice cream shop with a crew of idiot high school girls and a crappy FM radio. It seemed the world was an alright place to vacation, but I was having second thoughts about living there, when out of nowhere comes Muppets From Space. I won’t go all fanboy on you, suffice it to say: Muppets From Space is THE greatest film ever made. The Godfather? Go to hell. Gone With The Wind? I wish it were. A Night At The Opera? A night at the blow me. Space engendered the pinnacle of Muppet potential, having finished with the get-it-out-of-the-way nature of the first three films, and moved on to the true story telling potential shown brilliantly in A Muppet Family Christmas. It would have been great with just Pepe the King Prawn, Jeffrey Tambor, and Hollywood Hulk Hogan, but they let the rest of them in too, and that was sweet. They got some excellent writers, utilized their best muppets, and called in some bitchin’ guest stars, making even the useless Piggy tolerable.

Point is, with the right people at the helm, a Muppets movie can not only rock, it can rawk. And I would like to introduce you to the two men who are slated to be those heroes.

Jason Segel is fast proving himself one of cinematic comedy’s golden boys, with starring roles in I Love You Man and Forgetting Sarah Marshall. You may also remember him from Can’t Hardly Wait, but I only do because I watched it a couple of days ago, and I make no apologies, because that movie is awesome enough to pull out once every three years for the VCR. He’s producing the film, co-writing, and serving as the human star. So we’re tlaking about 90 minutes of Jason Segel and puppets. Incredible.

James Bobin is on board to direct. This is the real boner inducer. I have been waiting for somebody to take a real chance like this with the Muppets since I was a kid. Anyone remember ‘Flight Of The Conchords’? People who like funny things do, and remember that Bobin was the co-creater/writer/director/costar… basically the actually funny guy of the three that made the other two seem as hysterical as they did. ‘Flight’ was super adult, awesomely strange, New Zealandy, and hysterically disconnected. And it was on HBO. Children, prepare to feel your anuses give way to the awesomeness that the Muppets have the potential to shove down your virgin wind pipes.

Thanks for putting up with that, now back to business as usual. Your mother says hi.

This has been all over the damned place today, trending on Twitter, on Radio Exile (probably the best music blog on the ‘net), and your facebook news feed. It really is spectacular, a true return to showman form for the Muppets, the pinacle of showbusiness excellence for decades, so why no Scumbag Style as well. It’s also a decent justification for YouTube upgrading to 1080p. I dig how Pepe the King Prawn and the Swedish Chef have pivotal roles, and the ending scene is pretty funny.

What I don’t understand is the franchise’s continual reliance on Miss Piggy. Drop it, dude, she’s not funny. I’d like to see Kermit nailing Janice, the guitarist from Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem. It would probably piss Floyd Pepper off, if he’s not too drugged out to notice, but he should have expected it. I mean, she’s always talking about walking around naked and doing nude photo shoots. Not to mention she went through, like, half of the band. Get that rash checked out, Zoot. That sore ain’t from playing sax. Those hippy chicks are all just whores anyway.

Though you wouldn’t know it from today’s fervor, the Muppet ‘net phenominon is not new. Meticulously outlined by Worlds As Myth, a blog that puts way more work into this stuff than my lazy ass cares to, the Muppets have continued the tradition of education and comedy their late founder imagined for them, in the digital age.

(Out of work and with no discernable prospects after his shaming, Professor Nutt wonders what he will do with all these free drugs he has lying around…)

Anglican Mainstream reports today that the British Government has “sacked” one of its drug advisors, one Professor Nutt. Do you guys even need me for this one? “Prime Minister Gordon Brown said Professor Nutt’s views sent out mixed messages about the drug’s harm.” Seems like they got exactly what they were buying when they hired a guy that should share a name with a breakfast cereal or a colleague of Bunsen Honeydew. What did you think you were getting when you put Professor Nutt on the payroll? You’re lucky he didn’t plaster the walls with marmalade and do experiments involving LSD and jungle cats.

According to the article, Professor Nutt shares the anti-legalization feelings of concerned parents, one of whom claims,  “In 2006 my daughter was brutally murdered by a paranoid schizophrenic with a cannabis habit stretching back a decade to his early teens.” It was definitely the weed that drove this man to murder, and not that first part… about the paranoid schizophrenia. Maybe what drove him over the edge was people like you trying to take away the one thing that made him want to sit on his couch eating Doritos and watcing Futurama, and not go on a county wide killing spree. The Brits are crazy, and I can say that because they’re all the way over there and what are they going to do about it?

I’ll take that check now, General Mills. Don’t worry about the associations. If people think your cereal is like drugs, the marketing basically writes itself.