(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.

(See, this is what happens when you laugh at the “daffy” guy, and don’t get him some help. Fris Freleng was a monster.)

Let’s just get it over with now, and publicly disembowel all the artists. Send their intestines to their ineffectual mothers and throw their spleens at the owners of all those affected liberal loft apartments you see hot, tanktopped artists inhabiting in ’90s chick flicks.

She works with glass and fire. You can suck RIGHT on that Demi Moore.

Why? Because the subjectivity of deciding on a case-to-case basis what works are art, and which are offensive this week, is tedious as hell and eats up the courts’ time that could be better used sentencing sodomites to labor camps. Kill all the artists. I think Shakespeare said that.

This is probably an example of what he was talking about: Mizozo reports (as has every other infuriatingly stupid cut-and-paste blog taking up virtual oxygen and vagina space on the internet) that a giant poster in Poland featuring a naked Minnie Mouse framed by a Swastika, and promoting an art show, is being investigated for promoting fascism. It’s a crime in Poland that could land the gallery owners and artist in jail, to spend the next few years as a girlfriend to a cellmate named Goldberg. Here’s the offending piece:

Hey! There's no bow there! That's Mickey! Hey, kids, come look at your "hero" now.

Look, a picture doesn’t become a work of art until I see some inner labia, but that’s just my opinion. Some are opposed to it for other reasons; the “author” of the blog points out how it’s next to synagogue that Nazis captured, flooded, and used as a swimming pool (burn!). So those people should never have to even think about Nazis again (good luck, guy, it’s all they friggin’ talk about). “For me it is quite shocking, and even more so for people who remember World War II, and especially for people who suffered during it,” said local councilor Norbert Napieraj. Good thing there aren’t too many of those left, am I right? Wash that sand from your vajay, councilor, those people are like ninety. Even if their necks could empower them to look up, their eyesight can’t extend much farther than a foot or so.

The gallery owner has already said, “Uh, no, fuckmooks, it’s just a picture.” I’m paraphrasing, but the point is all of us in English-town have at least two cents to blindly and violently chuck at this issue. Some of the comments are simply ignorantly indignant, like Lisa G who thinks it’s, “Inensitive and tasteless,” and the author itself, who considers it, “Not at all artistic!” Well, yeah, I mean, move that arm. I didn’t come all the way to Poland for side-boob! And, Lisa, I have it on good authority that poster doesn’t taste like anything but paper, glue, and pigeon shit, so you’re mostly right. In no way should you even try to find a translation of the text or anything

I know countless artists that aren’t state funded that are big fans of fascism, and promote it wherever they can. After all, there’s no such thing as a lack of inspiration when Goebbels has an assignment for you. And there is definitely nothing artistic about calling out Walt Disney for being openly antisemitic and a Nazi supporter, while his estate is one of the richest on the planet, and the characters he invented the most recognized by children around the world. Let hypocrisy lie, or somebody might have to think for themselves. And dude, that argument is so 1980s, we’ve moved on. The worst part about this is that the artist has successfully infantilized and disparaged the organization that put a whole mess of Jews to death, while at the same time demonizing a Jew hater, and then put it right next to a synagogue! Any service-goer that gets a chuckle out of that has something seriously wrong with him. Seriously, fucked in the head, man.

But my boy, commenter Somali Ninga, can say this with way more eloquence than I:

ZIONIST OWN DISNEY EVER SINCE IT WAS MADE!!! ROCKERFELLERS AND DISNEY WERE FRIENDS!! THE ROCKERFELLERS AND ROTHSCHILDS PRETEND TO BE JEWS BUT THEY WORSHIP THE DEVIL AND ARE PAVING THE WAY FOR THE ANTI-CHRIST/DAJJAL’S ARRIVAL!! DO YOU WONDER WHY THE ROCKERFELLERS AND ROTHSCHILD FAMILY AND PRESCOTT BUSH(GEORGE W. BUSH’S GRANDFATHER) FUNDED THE HITLER AND N.A.Z.I. EVENTHOUGH THEY CLAIM TO BE JEWS??? WAKE THE FU©K UP!!! IBM WHO KEPT FILES OF THE JEWS KILLED IN THE HOLOCAUST ALSO FUNDED N.A.Z.I. GERMANY AND IS NOW OWN BY ZIONIST PRETENDING TO BE JEWS!! THE ELITE HAVE HIJACKED THE JEWISH AND CHRISTIAN RELIGION AND THEY PLAN TO HIJACK ISLAM!!

Preach it, you crazy bastard! Apropos of next to nothing, caps lock turned to a blistering, deafening 11, and enough unfounded conspiracy theories to fill a Dan Brown novel, and you still make more sense than anybody else on these boards. God bless you, jihad on whatever you hate on, my brother. Here’s a brotherly AIEAIEAIEAIE! You can take that home with you.

Anyway, I think an interesting study would be the history of condemnation; like how it went from a controlling device for priests and Tipper Gore to a full-on Western Civilization pastime to rival institutional racism and the building of cults of personality. Every discussion I’ve seen on this controversy has been in English, and nobody has bothered to translate the text before passing judgment, not one. Granted, I can’t read Polish either, and can’t find anyone who can. Even so, did anyone bother to investigate who the artist is? What his intentions were? How Naked Nazi Mickey fits into his larger catalog? The guy’s name is Max Papeschi. From his own site, apparently translated under mortal duress from some Romance language I don’t have to learn because I’m American and teabagging mush mouths is in my blood:

His pop Politically-Incorrect cites the American Life and reveals in a realistic ironical way all the horror of this life style. From the nazi-Micky Mouse to the Ronald McDonald Butcher the cult icons loose their reassuring effect and change into a collective nightmare.

See? He was just calling Mickey a Nazi, in a gallery right next to Ronald the War Criminal. The funny thing is everybody is so worried about the Jews in the vicinity, they didn’t realize he was trying to piss off Americans. Mission accomplished, I guess. Indirectly, and without the punishing blow that would have landed if we weren’t, as a collective, so irretrievably fucktarded and up our own asses with political correctness. Our talking heads and talk radio pundits can assign Nazi ideals to a different target every week, but we can’t tell when we, as a people, are in the cross-hairs? Anybody else feel like the ring leader in a circus on special needs day, and every single 12 year old mongoloid is a showboating drama enthusiast with a stage mother that wants them to jump in and join the show, and it’s all you can do to keep the little dummies from getting trampled by elephants, and any minute you know your capacity to give a shit is going to snap under the enormity of the stupefying dipshittery of it all? Seriously, who wants to hold this microphone?

(Braaaaaaiiiiinnns. Braaaaaad’s Braaaaaiiiinnnns.)

Rumors are swirling that Bradley Cooper popped the big question to girlfriend Renee Zellwegger, delivering a glimmer of hope to burn victims everywh – -

Wait, before we get started: The World Cup started today with a real pants pisser of a draw befitting the complete Schiavo the sport has come to represent to anyone that can handle more rules than a game of Popomatic Trouble in their spectator events. Seriously, Americans invented the concept of overtime before we even came up with electricity. Catch up.

That’s not what I want to talk about today, I’m just required to throw one PSA a week on this mofo, so just a warning: You never notice just how many fucking numb tongued foreigners live in your town until the World Cup comes around. Seriously, it’s like they come out of the woodwork like cockroaches when Wakim Phoenix leaves a thirty pound hunk of pork fat on the table. Very suddenly, you are going to find your local bars are packed to the brim with European trash in brightly colored, uncomfortable looking shirts, spouting weird shit like, “Let’s have a lager to celebrate that wicked bend,” or whatever. Shifty-eyed South Americans will spend way too long looking at you, telepathically assuring you that if you turn your back for even one second, they will fucking bite your left ass cheek off. Just remember, Slovenia is a country, not a slur on your mother; The Netherlands and Denmark seriously do need two separate teams for some reason; Just because they wear collars on their jerseys, it doesn’t mean they’re working less hard than people in real American sports (it’s a symptom, not the disease); They don’t know how to read, so whipping out your Webster’s and pointing out that “hooligan” is a negative term won’t phase them, or convince them to change it to “tampon”; New Zealand’s team is not comprised entirely of Hobbits. Killing any of these people is still a crime punishable by a stern lecturing and the removal of your Playstation 3 from your bedroom for one full week, so be careful. And no, really, they couldn’t wait for the fucking NBA finals to be over, even if it means you have to share a bar stool with Sven and his tiny penis. That is all.

(Ugh, when will the nerds invent a short-term cryogenic freezing system that will get us to football season in a sweet, baseball- and soccer-free coma?)

“The More You Know…”

So yeah, anyway, Renee Zellweger was in the vicinity of some white dresses this one time, which totally means Bradley Cooper wants to buy the cow in the most scrupulous sense that phrase can be taken in. Which is just plain silly, because who keeps white dresses under an old stone bridge? Also, not for nothin’, but after you’ve been owned and used up by a Country Western star like Kenny Chesney, the appropriate wedding dress color is Pabst blue with accents in puce, the most shameful of all the secondary colors.

Anyway, the Post is sure as shit Brad II is going to make the kind of mistake for which you spend the rest of your life apologizing to your traumatized dick, coaxing it lovingly out of soft, frightened paralysis. Their bridal announcement combines the humdingin’ evidence, consisting of a rich actress that likes to shop, with this damning follow up that put my doubts to rest once and for all:

Second, she and Cooper had lunch with her parents yesterday at the Tribeca Grand. Could it be he asked her father for her hand in marriage?

The author of this article must have had a pretty shit childhood that the only reason she can imagine for having dinner with her parents is to perform a courtship ritual so archaic it fell off the edge of Wikipedia. Your mountain of evidence is impressive, understandably nameless bollocks-slinger, but allow me to play devil’s advocate with your face.

First of all, Bradley Cooper asks no man for permission to do anything. He was half the reason the most successful comedy film of the decade will not hit TNT for a full three weeks longer than most movies do when they need some place to die, and the star of the A-Team reboot that will make tons of money because America can’t help but repress the memory of traumas like Inspector Gadget, Miami Vice, Bewitched, and Land of The Lost. Thanks to him, the greased up wavy quaffeur, that blessedly went the way of Luke Skywalker, now creates a sea of immovable blond locks wherever douchey twenty-somethings congregate. Bradley Cooper is less of an asker than a civilized pillager.

Secondly: As a man who knows his way around a fetish or two, I can see very clearly something that the Post’s finest gossip columnist – not at all under any pressure to print something, anything, validity be damned excepting that of the very oxygen she breathes  – can not. The guy was married to the uncomfortably violable Jennifer Esposito for four months before bailing because the Bradley Coopers of the world don’t need to get married to get their dick wet a couple thousand times a day. This relationship with the Beast What Can’t Be Killed is fetishism at its best, a dalliance into the world of condoned bestiality. Seriously, this guy would have done just as well, or his wife, for that matter. In between long, unabashedly narcissistic glances of his sweaty, naked form in the mirror, he looks down at the melty, painfully squinting face and mismatched pancake boobs of the Daughter of the Black Lagoon he’s tupping*, and swells lustily with how filthy and degrading the situations he gets himself into are. Also, ugly chicks do anal, so that’s probably keeping him eating chips on her couch longer than is required to prove you’re not so shallow you won’t deign to kiss lips that look like two halves of the bottom of a blistered foot for the sake of a “good personality.”

It's like some maniac threw Nicole Kidman in a pit with 50 starved and rabid raccoons, and then used battery acid instead of Bactine to treat the wounds.

But guys like that, with some kinks to work out of their system, don’t marry the receptacles of their sticky peccadilloes. Like his equally hunky namesake that came before him, Brad knows he needs but raise his hands like Moses and part the Pink Sea wherever he goes. When he gets bored because nobody with more clout than Scumbag Style will bat an eye at this effrontery to the gods masquerading as a relationship, he’ll leave her and go on a humping spree to put John Mayer to shame twenty times over. Then, when he’s ready, he’ll marry a cute, vanilla, non-threatening girl, like a celebrity cellist or a ventriloquist, whatever passes for entertainment in the 2020s. And Renee Zellweger, the public morbid fascination depleted, will slither back into the sarcophagus from whence she came, never to be seen again until some kid hits an unlucky roll in Jumanji.

*Yeah, that’s an Abbot & Costello reference and a Shakespeare reference in the same sentence. You come here for quality, we deliver.

(It has to be that big. Where would all the pictures go? I bet Dr. Seuss never had to deal with this shit.)

Try to make a note in your head, because this is the day that people will remember as being the one that American Literacy got tired of it’s own melodramatic Shakespeare death, realized nobody was paying attention, and died. And then, with dignity, shat itself; but since it hadn’t been fed in recent memory, all that came out was a decade’s worth of Dan Brown’s jism… what was I talking about? Oh, yes, the last gasps of the only reason our first grade teachers bother to teach our brats the ABCs anymore. Tyra?

I’m so EXCITED!! I said I was going to do it, and here it is!  It’s for all the girls and guys who want a lot more FANTASY in their lives…  and some fierceness and magic, romance and mystery, crazy and wild adventures, and yeah, some danger too.  It’s my novel called Modelland (pronounced “Model Land”) that takes you to a fantastical place you’ve never seen, or heard about, or read about before… Where dreams come true and life can change in the blink of a smoky eye.  [random yellow words, all T-money]

Thank you for the clarification, Tyra,* I was going to pronounce it “horseshit.” The M is silent when your ass gets licked so deep your brain thinks it can write a book. As much as you find my lack of faith unfair, I find your inability to write a paragraph (for the promo for your debut novel, no less) in which one sentence has ever even heard of grammar exciting as hell. Like in that “I hope I die in the instant the earth explodes” kind of way. It’s like they threw Literacy in a gladiator pit with four indestructible mutant half-lion half-Cthulhu beasts, and I have half court seats, and two Orion slave girls to help me enjoy the carnage orally. After all, nothing turns tragedy on its head like popping some corn and reveling in the Caligula wet dream set before you. Titling your novel with all the subtlety of a board game for ages 3+ was an inspired touch, by the way. Let’s do this!

The story happens in a make-believe place called Modelland – every girl in the world wants to go there because it’s where “Intoxibellas” are trained.  Intoxibellas are drop-dead beautiful, kick-butt fierce and, yeah, maybe they have some powers too.  (But I’m confirming NOTHING! Ha. You gotta wait for the book.)  The story follows a teen girl and her friends who find themselves magically transported to Modelland, even though they’re really not supposed to be there. (Okay, now, that’s ALL I’m saying!)

No! Keep going! I’m already typing with ONE HAND, here. I really love how fierce they are, it really connects to the part of me that says “fierce” ever. I hope you say “fierce” like three hundred times over the course of the book. God, it’s like a two year old trying to repay all the bedtime story favors to her dad, who has recently been in a horrific accident, and is now trying desperately to choke on his own breathing tube. The addition of “Intoxibellas” is great too: it’s like some combination of a 1930s Sci-fi film serial and a Harry Potter baddy from when Rowling went off her depression meds and didn’t give a shit anymore. There’s also a bit of social conscience in there: Tyra informs her fans that Modelland is a make-believe place so they don’t try to go find it, eventually dying because they forgot to eat the whole time.

Modelland has always been a part of my mind and my heart.  As you might know, I step into a bookstore and I shake (really!) because I love books so much.

Are you sure the reason you’re shaking is not because, every time you walk into a book store, your brain has to violently rev the part that knows how to read, like a rusty thirty year-old Studebaker without an alternator? Man, when this steaming pile of seriously legitimate literature hits the shelves, I am smoking three joints and diving in head first. I might just get one of those clippy reading lamps and some non-prescription reading glasses, so I can look smart while I optically devour this masterpiece.This is what it was all for, Bill Shakespeare.

Nah, fuck it. I’ll just wait for the movie.

PS. Let me give you that link again, because you really want to read this thing in its entirety. And because maybe the free press will keep the lovely and talented Ms. Banks from suing the white off of me.

*Wait, when did word come down you were allowed to drop your last name? Just because you’re black doesn’t mean you’re Oprah.

(The Blind Side, written, directed by and starring things you’d normally have to go to the zoo to see. And I mean Bullock, not the black people, so shut up black people.)

If you put a bunch of monkeys in a room with a typewriter, they’ll throw poo at it because even they know nobody uses that shit anymore. But the BBC seems to be hoping for some free Shakespeare – - nay, counting on it – - and gearing those same monkeys up to take over on the next step, so all of Western civilization can attribute artistic merit to something else while not doing any of the work, or even pay anyone for it. As the story goes:

Around 11 of the [Chimps] at Edinburgh Zoo spent the last 18 months filming each other as they carry around a special ‘chimpcam’ device. The results will be aired on The Chimpcam Project, which airs tomorrow night on BBC2.The footage is part of a BBC documentary about the work of behavioural scientist Betsy Herrelko, from the University of Stirling.

Documentary, my ass. Even outside of the disappointment when you learn that “chimpcam” isn’t nearly as deliciously filthy as it sounds, does any of this remind you of the landslide on bullshit mountain “The Real World” caused some millenia ago? A show made by monkeys for the cost of bananas, about monkeys who will work for said bananas and the chance to show just how little evolution has actually gotten around to making the race as a whole fit for survival outside of crowded night clubs and elaborately comfortable condos nature enclosures? Shit, Snooki barely made it out of that club with her whole face on, and the world salivated for more comically real blood (and that from someone who looks more like an ape herself than a fake reality tv celebrity). Hey Betsy, how do you feel about your life’s work being reduced to a project that amounts to nothing more than a “Jersey Shore” that’s cheaper to make?

The chimps were introduced to video technology in a new high tech enclosure and a new chimp-proof camera [with a large viewfinder so they could see what they were filming] was put in with them… ‘We were dealing with an average group of chimps, but they worked with us very well and gave it their best. I’m pretty sure they understood the filming… They never got bored of filming unless the monitor died.’

Didn’t take them long to understand that they were filming, eh? Can’t wait to see what happens when they realize what passes for television these days and they start having affairs to get attention and getting into fights over who gets to play with the tail-less kitten. And god forbid they are ever exposed to porn and realize that their daily habits closely mirror several niche fetishes. They’ll start throwing poo for money instead of for fun, which will totally ruin the once magical experience for us because then it will seem kind of rote and unimaginative. A penchant all primates share is selling out at the earliest opportunity*. Not to mention that it is only a matter of time before they give the little beasts webcams; you used to have to go to the zoo to see a chimp jerk off into its food before eating it, and now it will be on pay sites. In no time we’ll be inviting the chimps on Larry King and local weather reports, and the only differentiation between a chimp and The Situation in our MTV-dulled minds will be the capacity for intelligent verbal communication how long they spent on their blowouts.

The situation isn’t all bleak, however, unless you’re a film student. There are several upcoming projects that might benefit from the eye of a less evolved mammal. Miley Cyrus is now philosophically qualified to write, direct, and star in Girls Just Want To Have Fun, now in pre-production, so the little girls who like Amanda Bynes but hate originality should be happy about that. Or how about Brother’s Keeper starring John Cena, who will probably be able to sign one of his relatives, or the (count ‘em) four new releases set to feature simian ex-stripper Channing Tatum. It is just too damned bad this study wasn’t done before Insane Clown Posse wrapped on Big Money Rustlas, a comedy western featuring the horrifyingly white, foul mouthed rappers in clown makeup (fantastic trailer after the jump).  Monkeys with licenses to film would be excellent for any of those projects, and far far cheaper than, say, a DP with a masters and 12 years experience under his belt. This is the same thing that happened to voice acting after Robin Williams contributed his talents to Alladin and film studios realized they could make more money billing huge celebrities in commercials and animated films, and told practiced, experienced voice actors like Billy West and Frank Welker (whose films, just by the way, “have grossed more money than those of any other actor in history”) to go fuck themselves. I’m only recommending we stick to the plan, here.

In the end, I say we give chimps control over still more aspects of media. They have to be at least as qualified to accept illegal payola as the DJs on our Top 40 and “Alternative” stations, and they definitely couldn’t have made a worse move than the wigs over at Twentieth Television who signed exclusive syndication rights of greatest show ever “It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia” over to Comedy Central so it can be run into the ground like so much black dude in American History X, and ruined for any future viewings like “Scrubs” and “Futurama” were. The fun doesn’t end with chimps either:

Four hours of footage was filmed and now Mr Capener [producer] said he is looking a further projects like this with different animals.

Oh, shit, if they do horses, nobody tell Liv Tyler.

*Seriously, Green Day, there is only so much your fans will take before they fall into a Dead Kennedys reversion and clinically forget 1988-now ever happened; we are not Jonathan Larson, Billy.
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