The Butler Did It and The Soupy is Served.

Two men are the topic of what may well be October's only posting here. I apologize for my postings here being so infrequent, but I've been busy over at The Huffington Post, which pretty much eats up all my flogging energy, and Little Dougie has been (and still is) occupied writing a musical with a songwriter friend of his, and has little creative energy left over for here. So sorry, but what you see may be all you get, barring a rush of time, energy, and vodka.

So my topic tonight is about two guys, hyperhunk Gerard Butler, and divine funnyman Milton Supman, better known as Soupy Sales.

I'm a strong believer in playing to your strengths. Gerard Butler's strengths are showing the pecs, and ... ah ... script selection? No; that's definitely not it. He can sing a bit, as he proved when played the title role in the movie of Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera. No, he didn't play Lord Lloyd Webber. He played the other hideously repulsive title character, The Phantom.

Except that, as played by Gerard, The Phantom was a dreamboat whose mask was just a fashion accessory. Even unmasked, he was far hotter than Raoul. He had a tiny disfigurement, like a fashion model with a zit. "Don't look at me! I'm hideous!" No one would mistake him for the great Lon Chaney. And there's nothing like two hours of Andrew Lloyd Webber's "music," to make one long for the blessed silence of Lon's wonderful movie.

Gerard's biggest (only) hit movie so far is 300, which presented the story of the 300 Spartans defending Sparta against Persia as softcore gay porn. It was a rigorously historically inaccurate presentation. Any trace of historical accuracy in any corner of the film was terminated with extreme prejudice. For heaven's sake, the movie presented the Spartans going into battle against swords and spears, not only not wearing armour, but with completely exposed, exquisite bare torsos. As battle gear goes, it's a deathwish; as movie costuming, it's $300,000,000 at the box office. The picture required Gerard to show his tits from beginning to end, and to shout stuff like "We are Sparta!" and "Tonight we dine in HELL!" Well honey, "Tonight we dine in Denny's!" The movie is so stupid and silly that I haven't watched the DVD I bought of it more than 7 or 8 times. Well, 9. Well 15. Okay, I have it on again right now. My fingers have to do something while Little Dougie types this up for me.

Gerard has also done a string of romantic comedies, that have grossed a combined $67.98. He has proved in his comedies that he is great at - showing the pecs and shouting "We are Sparta!"

So what possessed him to host Saturday Night Live last week? I know I make comedy appear effortless, but I'm drunk. Here's what I was expecting.

If only he had actually been that amusing, or at least, had been dressed like that.

They did do a 300 parody sketch, which of course was about how all 300 Spartans were gay. What else could it be about? But they had all the Spartans wearing breastplates. Since when is an SNL sketch more authentic than a big hit movie? In any event, they were parodying the movie, and the defining characteristic of the movie, and the biggest factor in selling its tickets, were all the exposed abs and mantits.


Understand, I'm not complaining about the guys hiding their pecs (except for Gerard). The current crop of SNL men are not guys I've ever sat around mentally undressing. In fact, should Bill Hader or Keenan Thompson or that Moynahan person appear shirtless, I'd be mentally dressing them. But they were parodying a movie where the men were all shirtless all the time. Where's the authenticity? Where's the commitment to doing the parody they'd written?

Remember the "Penis Song" nudist colony sketch when Matthew Broderick hosted SNL a bit over 20 years ago? You had that cast, including Dana Carvey and Kevin Nealon, not to mention adorable guest host Broderick, all stark staring naked, wearing only conveniently placed bits of scenery, some pixilation, and a guitar, in a sketch that used the word penis over 30 times. Funny how vividly I remember that sketch. Oh right. I still have it on tape. But those men committed to their sketch. This current group, required only to show the manboobs, all copped out. So this picture is not from that sketch.

Honestly, how, and for that matter, why have Gerard Butler on the show, and also include James Franco and The Rock, and not have any of them shirtless? The closest they came were some glimpses of The Rock's oversize physique through the ripped shirt in his Obama-as-The Hulk sketch. Do they think we watch these men for their talent? Well, maybe Franco. He's a pretty damned good actor, as he showed in Milk. (And that's not all he showed in Milk. I mean, the man had to kiss Sean Penn and make it look like it was pleasurable. He should have gotten the Oscar!)


Well enough about Gerard. If he wants more coverage here, he needs to show up in my boudoir for some uncoverage, and pleasure my brains out. Until then, he will remain what he has been for sometime now, the guy you use when you can't afford Huge Jackman.


Now to discuss someone who was funny, very funny, if perhaps not someone I particularly wanted to see shirtless. Milton Supman, better known to baby boomers everywhere as "Soupy Sales."

That's Soupy, pretty much flying through the air on his classic 1960s kid show for adults that was hip, stupid, smart, corny, sophisticated, ridiculous, and unaccountably funny.


When Walt Disney's The Mickey Mouse Club went off the air at the end of the 1950s (probably because Annette's "development" had reached the point where her name on the front of her tunic looked like it said "ANNETTE," and made a generation of young straight boys long for 3-D TV.), in Los Angeles, where Little Dougie was growing up with zero interest in Annette's tunic (Tim Considine was another matter though), the famous kid's show was replaced by a performer imported from Detroit where he had done a nationally syndicated kid's show called Lunch With Soupy Sales, and if that lunch included a pie, you could bet Soupy would end up wearing it on his face before long. His new show on KABC-TV Los Angeles, The Soupy Sales Show, was basically the exact same show. Here's Jimmy Dodd, the star of The Mickey Mouse Club, pretty much handing over the timeslot reigns to Soupy.



Little Dougie, just 11 years old, became Soupy's slave. If Little Dougie's mother were to catch fire, and needed him to save her life, she'd have been well advised not to do so while Soupy was on, because Dougie was busy watching the Soupster, and laughing until he could not breathe.

In the 1961 Malaga Cove School sixth grade talent show, Little Dougie auditioned for the humorless principal, and even more humor-challenged vice principal, basically doing Soupy's act, with a friend playing Soupy's sidekick, White Fang. The school administrators sat there stone-faced, not laughing at a single borrowed joke, looking grim. That is, looking grim until Dougie got a pie in the face. WHAM! To this day, Little Dougie vividly remembers seeing those two grisly would-be educators busting a gut with laughter at the oldest slapstick gag in show business. A few days later, the whole school repeated that laugh, when Dougie took his pie in the show.


Whether Dougie was (or is) funny is arguable. Whether Milton Supman was funny is not. Soupy Sales was a riot. And here's the real proof: most of the gags and jokes he told were ancient, corny and unfunny. Here's a typical Soupy "witticism": "Show me a novel that is caught in a tornado and I'll show you a book that is gone with the wind." Soupy's material wasn't funny. Soupy was funny. Soupy was riotously funny. He had charm, crack timing, a sense of utter silliness, and the illusion of completely undisciplined chaos, when he was actually fully in control of a show that was just plan hilarious. Surrounded by the silliest band of puppets ever, led by Pookie the Lion, and White Fang, the paw of a giant dog that always sounded like someone throwing up, Soupy's show was a wild, unpredictable melange of jokes, sketches, gags, and ad libs.

All the puppets were played by a former (and future) film editor named Clyde Adler. Here he is playing White Fang with Soupy.


After two years in Los Angeles, Soupy packed up his puppets and moved back east, to do the exact same show in New York City on WNEW-TV, this time with a little guy named Frank Nastasi playing the puppets. To Los Angeles boys like Little Dougie, Frank's Pookie the Lion never sounded right.

Soupy had famous adventures in New York. The most notorious of which came one New Years Day, when he told his kid viewers to sneak very quietly into the bedrooms where their parents were sleeping off their New Years Eve celebrations, and take out of their parents' wallets and purses the "little green pieces of paper with pictures of men with beards. Send them to me here at WNEW-TV, and I'll send you a post card from Puerto Rico."

Did Soupy get money in the mail? He sure did. He got almost $80,000, most of it Monopoly money. What actual cash he did receive went to Jerry's Kids. One guy in his 20s sent him a dollar bill with a note which said, "I've seen your show, and you ought to go to Puerto Rico."

And no one enjoyed telling that story more than Soupy.

However, if there is anything you can count on finding everywhere, it's humorless asses. Kids know a joke when they hear it, but a certain class of adults are always morons. The morons complained to the station, the morons running the TV station suspended Soupy for two weeks, and found their station besieged by crowds of kid picketers, throwing paint. The station begged Soupy to come back, or at least call off the paint-throwing kids. Soupy let them stew, and came back after his two weeks. Screw 'em if they can't take a joke.


Little Dougie was heartbroken when Soupy deserted Los Angeles for New York. They had Broadway, did they have to have Soupy too? In the summer of 1965, Little Dougie's family went back to New York City to see the New York World's Fair and see some real Broadway shows. Little Dougie was glad to see the fair, and excited to see actual Broadway shows, but he was thrilled to be able to see Soupy again, even if only for two weeks. Here's a photo of 15 year old Little Dougie with his family at the fair. Only a true Soupy geek-level fan would go out in public to the fair wearing that badge. I hope he didn't wear it when seeing Hello Dolly, but he couldn't swear to it today.

It took Dougie 33 years, but he finally got to meet the Soupster. In 1994, Little Dougie went to see Soupy do his live stage act in San Clemente. It was a revelation. Soupy had over 50 years in show business as a top professional comedian by then, and his act showed exactly what 50 years of comedy performing could do for you. He was masterful. It was jokes, puns, cornball gags, long-shaggy dog stories, and personal reminiscences. On paper, it would have been deadly. But Soupy was a master, I repeat, a master, of timing, pacing, and audience manipulation. The structure of the routines was breathtaking. The way he would pile gag on gag, rattling out one-liners one after the other, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, building the pace, until the sheer momentum of the routines forced you into hysterical laughter. Then he'd break it up with long shaggy-dog stories (some literally shaggy dog stories, as you had to hear about White Fang.), and then tell some middle-length stories. It was pure structural genius. He was a total pro. Any young comedian learning their craft could have learned a world of craft from Soupy Sales.


And Soupy loved his fans. He was someone who didn't mind middle-aged people coming up and telling him they'd loved him when they were children. He took it as a badge of honor.


That night Little Dougie saw him work, after his show, Soupy spent over an hour with his fans, signing every bit of memorabilia they brought, some of it quite old. (Little Dougie had brought Soupy record albums he'd had since 1961.) Soupy had a Polaroid camera with him, and on his own dime (no one was charged anything, unlike at modern has-been conventions, I mean autograph shows, where people who played tiny parts in old movies sign pictures at $20 a pop) saw to it that everyone who wanted one, got a picture taken with him, that he could sign for them right then, like this picture from that night with Little Dougie, looking like a rather large Dougie.



Soupy's old TV show was revived for one season, as a national network show in color in 1979. Clyde Adler returned to play the puppets. (In the opening credit film sequence of each episode, a building Little Dougie lived in from 1986 to '89 could be clearly seen in one shot.) The show came to an abrupt end though when Clyde Adler suffered a heart attack on the set. Although Clyde survived, his performing days were over, and he returned to editing film in Detroit, and died in the early 1990s.

Soupy must have been on every game show that ever used celebrities. He was very smart, and played games well. A close friend of Little Dougie got him for a partner on The $25,000 Pyramid, and Soupy took her all the way up the pyramid and won her the money.

He guested on dozens and dozens of TV shows, from Burke's Law to The Carol Burnett Show, to The Beverly Hillbillies to Wings, with many, many others. Movies weren't really is forte, but he made a few, co-starring with Tab Hunter in a silly fantasy called Birds Do It, as well as Critic's Choice and Two Little Bears. More recently, he appeared with several of my friends, playing himself playing Moses, in And God Spoke, a faux-Chris Guest-type mockumentary, a movie that would be worth seeing even if only to see Lou Ferrigno beat the crap out of Andy Dick (That's entertaiment.), but which is very funny beginning to end. Soupy, carrying the Ten Commandments and a six-pack of Coca-Cola down from the Vasquez Rocks makes for Comedy Heaven. And God Spoke, and some of Soupy's old TV shows are available on DVD.


Here are pictures of two famous actors playing Moses in the movies, one is a hopeless buffoon, and the other is Soupy Sales.

Not long after Little Dougie saw Soupy work live, he took a fall, and broke something, and his days of performing live were over. Dougie saw him just in time, but he continued to love his fans, and to delight all who had the good fortune to encounter him. He wrote two books, an autobiography, Soupy Sez: My Life and Zany Times

And Stop Me If You've Heard It: Soupy Sales' Greatest Jokes, a collection of gags, a majority of which would only work if Soupy were telling them.

When Soupy died last week, at the age of 83, the world became a little less funny. It wasn't just that Marie Callandar now stopped making shaving cream pies (Soupy's pies - he was hit with over 50,000 of them over the years - were made with shaving cream because it didn't spoil or turn rancid under hot studio lights); it was that White Fang and Black Tooth and Pookie and Hippie all died with him. Soupy had been in failing health for some years, and his death was doubtless a mercy to him, but it is greiving a whole generation of former-kids who never lost their love for the zany guy with the face full of pie. Soupy's death made me sob. I think White Fang himself said it best when he said: "Oh rih o rah!"


I know it's Halloween week. For some Halloween postings may I suggest clicking on these links to some of my past Halloween tales.

Mister Halloween is always worth reading. It's Little Dougie's account of his relationship with Larry "Seymour" Vincent, the Greatest TV Horror Host That Ever Was.


A Halloween Memory is a chapter from my award-challenged autobiography, My Lush Life, recounting my spooky marriage to Count Vlad Tepes of Transylvania. You may think that, because you've seen a movie with Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee or Frank Langella (Richard Nixon isn't the only scary monster Frank's ever played) or even Gary Oldman, that you know the true tale of this nocturnal nobleman on the liquid diet, but I was married to the man!

For that matter, Little Dougie's book, The Q Guide to Classic Monster Movies, is a perfect Halloween read. You can order a copy on that link, just don't be too dispapointed that it's not about me.

And over at The Huff Po, I'm still recapping Survivor: Samoa each week. My most recent posting there was No Fruit Cup. Thanks to Halloween (my busy season), my next Huff Po column will not appear until Sunday. In fact, if you you happen to be at Disneyland on Friday, keep an eye peeled for me. I'll be there, but incognito. If you recognize me, don't be afraid to ask for an autograph.The worst thing that can happen to you is my demanding Security have you arrested. I love my fans.

Cheers darlings.

Atkins Die It!

In my last flogging, I dealt with a recent death I found personally heart-breaking: my darling Henry Gibson. Well this week Death has struck again, only this time he's done some good, and taken a tremendously evil creature to a long-deserved demise. Susan Atkins, aka Sadie Mae Glutz, has died. There's no way that's anything but good news. She died slowly of cancer. Hopefully it was excruciatingly painful. With any luck, she died in agony and despair.

Now why am I, normally the kindest, most compassionate, most utterly-selfless person on earth, doing a Fred Astaire tap dance special on the grave of Susan Atkins? Look at this picture.

That is gorgeous Sharon Tate Polanski. In 1969, she was a budding movie star. She'd made a splash in the slick trashy soap opera movie Valley of the Dolls with Patty Duke and Susan Hayward. While making The Fearless Vampire Killers, aka Dance of the Vampires, she and genius director Roman Polanski fell in love and got married. Roman went on to have his own sexual and legal troubles, but if it hadn't been for Susan Atkins, those aberrations in his life would probably never have happened.



One night, some 40 years ago last month, on August 9, 1969, pregnant with her and Roman's first child, she pleaded for her baby's life to Susan Atkins. And what did poor little "I had an unhappy childhood" Susan Atkins reply to Sharon?

"I have no pity for you, bitch!" And then she stabbed Sharon 16 times, many of the knife wounds stabbing into the fetus as well. Then Susan wrote "Pig" in Sharon's blood on the front door of the Polanski house. She also took time from her busy night to stab Voytek Frykowski to death as well. Busy knives are happy knives.

What terrible thing had Sharon and Voytek done to Susan to provoke such a terrible act from her?

Nothing at all. They'd never met before. She'd never heard of them, and they'd never heard of her. In fact, Susan and her companions in murder, Charles "Tex" Watson, Patricia Krenwinkle, and Linda Kasabian, thought other people lived there, but since they'd gone to all the trouble to drop in uninvited, why not also kill Steven Parent, Jay Sebring, and Abagail Folger? And the next night, along with Leslie Van Houten, they killed Leno & Rosemary LaBianca, two total strangers of whom they knew nothing at all. It was something to do. Apparently there was nothing good on television, although the newscasts had been pretty lurid that day, and the next day, even more so.

So fuck this evil bitch. She's died of a horrible cancer. Good. Thank you, Cancer. Munchkins: commence singing!

She was acting under the orders of Charles Manson. Charlie's hideous death is a pleasure that still awaits us. But Charlie's orders in no way expiate Susan even a quark-sized iota. Fuck her. Fuck him.

Let's be clear, though hardly guiltless, Linda Kasabian didn't kill anyone, and her testimony was crucial to sending Susan to prison until her parole into hell yesterday.

Sharon wasn't even Susan's first murder. She'd earlier killed a musician named Gary Hinman, as a favor for Charlie. She was thoughtful that way. Always willing to slaughter someone for a friend.

Here she is with Krenwinkle and Van Houton, three little maids from hell indeed, and now Susan has gone home again.

In prison. Susan embraced Christianity, often the last resort of the truly insane, evil, or frightened. They usually then try to claim they are now good people, having become Christians; never mind that Christians have committed many of the worst mass crimes in history. Adolf Hitler was a Christian, after all, as any Jew can tell you.


But the good thing about Susan's alleged conversion is that she'd then believe in Hell, and could be good and terrified of spending eternity roasting on a spit. I almost wish I could believe in it too. Oblivion is letting her off too easily. On the other hand, Poor Hell. Susan Atkins will lower the tone of the place.

She got married twice while in prison. Her first husband, Donald Laisure, had been previously married 35 times! Good lord, he makes me look like an old maid! He dumped her when wife number 37 sashayed into his life. Till lunch we do part.

Then she married her lawyer. I knew defense lawyers could be scuzzballs, but can you possibly sink any lower than marrying Susan Atkins?

She applied for parole again and again, but was always stymied by one simple question: Are Sharon Tate and her baby still dead? They are? Well then, Susan, fuck you. Her last time up for parole she asked for "compassionate release," since she was dying of cancer.

Compassionate release? Perhaps the parole board remembered her answer when Sharon Tate pleaded with her for mercy and compassion, because freely translated, the parole board's answer was "We have no pity for you, bitch."

And we can only look forward to the deaths of her accomplices as pleasures yet to come. It's kind of nice that they've had long lives, because I don't believe the dead suffer.

When I find out where the evil cow is buried I'll let you know, and we can hold a grand ball. We need a lot of people dancing on this evil creature's grave.


On a lighter note, I am flogging away at The Huffington Post, recapping Survivor: Samoa. Catch the latest one: Law & Order: Samoan Psycho Unit. Enjoy.

Cheers darlings.

Regarding Henry.

At my age (112, but who's counting?), I've survived the deaths of so many, many people that I don't react as much as I should anymore. But this week we had a passing that I actually shed tears over. My dear, sweet Henry Gibson.


Everyone knew his great talent, and have seen his over 100 movie and TV appearances. Is it possible he's still best known for Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In 40 years later, after such films as Nashville, The Blues Brothers, Kiss Me Stupid, The Long Goodbye, Innerspace, The 'Burbs, Magnolia, Gremlins 2: The New Batch, and The Incredible Shrinking Woman? The man worked for such directors as Robert Altman, Joe Dante, John Landis, and Billy Wilder. (He was also directed by Jerry Lewis, having made his screen debut in the original The Nutty Professor, but it didn't seem to hurt his career.)


But along with his great talent, there was the man himself. As it happens, I had the joy of knowing Henry a bit, back in his Laugh-In days. Little Dougie was a mere stagestruck 18 year old when he met Henry on the Laugh-In set at NBC in Burbank. Henry took a shine to the stagestruck teenager, and allowed him to sit about his dressing room, just chatting about any and everything.


Henry was the sweetest, kindest man who ever lived. That warm, loving persona he put out on TV, reading his poems was the real man. And every time he read a poem labelled "By Henry Gibson," it was by Henry Gibson. Henry only performed his own poems on the show.


So I think the best way to remember Henry is to share a couple of his charming verses. These poems are indeed "by Henry Gibson."


The Cobra
The cobra always wears a smile
As he creeps across the ground
He grins like he's up in the clouds
I think that he turns on.


The Bullfrog
The bullfrog is my pal true blue.
He don't smoke or drink or chew.
His only hang-up is he sniffs glue.
If I was a bullfrog I would too.


Marshall McLuhan
Marshall McLuhan,
What are yuh doin'?


The Thumbnail
Did you ever stop to figure
Why the thumbnail is so hard?
Well it hasn't any choice
With all that skin to guard.
It may look fat and pudgy
But it's heart is good and true.
It's prettier than a toenail
And easier to chew.


Admit it, you didn't just smile; you laughed.


The world has become a less-funny place lately, and I'm not just referring to Jay Leno's excruciating new TV show, although it's hard to be less funny than that thing. (An over-50% drop in the ratings between the first show and the fourth. Ouch.) The loss of Henry Gibson is a personal one to me, but the loss of Larry Gelbart, whom I never met, makes the world less funny as well. Rather than go on and on about this genius's brilliant resume, allow me instead to refer you to a remembrance of him by someone who knew him, our mutual friend, little Kent Levine, who posted a beautiful and moving memory of their years of friendship over on his blog.


But the closest you can come to spending some actual time with Larry listening to his stories is to read his wonderful 1998 memoir Laughing Matters: On Writing M*A*S*H, Tootsie, Oh God!, and a Few Other Funny Things. Find a copy online, order it, and read it. In a desperate pinch, you can even read it at a public library, although their books are crawling with germs. You can't borrow my copy, as I am rereading it.


My gig recapping Big Brother 11 over at The Huffington Post ended this week, with my account of the finale, Big Brother 11: Dumb Luck. A surprise highlight of the gig was having dinner the night before the finale with BB houseguest Casey and his lovely wife, just the two of them, me, and Little Dougie, who insisted on crashing the party uninvited. Typical!



However, I have immediately begun recapping Survivor: Samoa, with my first posting, Survivor Samoa: Samoa, Samerrier.

Wait a minute! What is Kanye West doing in there? That egomaniac is even interrupting flogs now! Take that bottle of Hennessey's away from him and give it to me. Honestly Kanye, behavior like yours could give alcoholism a bad name. Do you want that on your conscience as well?


Here's the cast now. And come Monday, check out my Emmy Awards Show review on the HuffPo as well.

Meanwhile, in Henry's honor, I'm getting plastered on Gibsons. Cheers darlings.

Plastered in Paris

Okay, I have to add to last week's posting about idiots on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, because tonight they had on another moron contestant, opposite Big Brother's eviction episode, which I discussed over on the HuffPo in my column Hell Hath No Fury. Check it out

Liz Schuller, an elementary school music teacher (Parents, get your kids out of her classes!), was asked this question for $16,000:


Fittingly, "The Jules Verne" is the name of a restaurant located on the second floor of what world landmark?
A. The Leaning Tower of Pisa.
B. The Effiel Tower
C. The Taj Mahal.
D. The Kremlin.

...and she had to "Ask The Expert," in this case, luckily enough for her, Mo Rocca, the bright, funny, former Daily Show correspondent whom I adore, who, not being an idiot, knew the obvious answer.

As it happens, I've eaten at "The Jules Verne." Above is a picture of Little Dougie and I in Paris, with "The Jules Verne" in the background. Even if I hadn't eaten there, and even if the "Verne is French; only the Effiel Tower is in France" logic was too much for my tiny brain to work out on its own, as it apparently was for poor, hopelessly stupid Liz's, I think I could still take this walk through the choices.

Do you really think there are many tourists clamoring to eat in The Kremlin? "Hello. Welcome to our restaurant named for that French swine of a fantasist, Jules Verne. My name is Khrushchev Gorbachev Breshnev, you can call me KGB, and I'll be your waiter tonight. No need to give me your order, as I heard what you wanted for dinner when I bugged your hotel room. And in any event, all we have is boiled cabbage and vodka. Now get down on the floor, for you are under arrest, you American spies, for sneaking into The Kremlin!"

Then there's the Taj Mahal. It's a tomb! Yes, who doesn't enjoy dining among the dead? "Hello. My name is Mahatma. I'll be your waiter tonight. We serve only Indian food here, made from actual Indians. Please try to ignore the stench. However, it's Hunger Strike Night, so you're getting nothing." At least the place has - ah - ambiance.

And as for The Leaning Tower of Pisa, how could you serve meals on the second floor of The Leaning Tower of Pisa? The food would keep sliding off the plate.

They should call the Millionaire revival Five Weeks with a Buffoon.

Cheers darlings.

Who Wants to Be an Idiot?

Hello darlings.

That collection of hunks and freaks above is the cast, or "houseguests" as they call them, of the current edition of CBS's reality freak show Big Brother, which is the reason I haven't posted anything here in nearly a month. I've been recapping it for The Huffington Post, as I may have mentioned. It pretty much uses up my flogging energy. How much flogging can a woman my age be expected to take?

They are a prize group of freaks, but not all of them. Dr. Michele is an intelligent and reasonable person. Jordan is dumber than the vacuum of space, but she's fairly sweet, as opposed to the petty, vengeful Lydia, the vicious, useless Natalie, and the raving, insane megabitch Chima. More on that monster shortly.

On the male side there was pretty surfer, actor, & doofus Braden, who turned out to be a bigot with a nasty mouth, incredibly hot Russell, who is a major competitor, but who is also given to explosions of rage, but only on strong provocation, like being asked the time in the wrong tone of voice, or being looked at "funny." There was Casey the 5th grade teacher. No hunk (In fact he avoided appearing shirtless, which is usually a requirement for the men on this show.), but an intelligent man one could probably enjoy the company of. After he was evicted from the house, as detailed in my column No Joy in Mudville, he even left a comment in that column's comments list, in which he indicated enjoying the humor. I could read between the lines. He wants to party with this old movie star. Well who can blame him?

The major eye candy in the show consists of Russell and Jeff. Russell calls himself "The Love Muscle," It's an odd nickname for him, since he is best known for starting tremendous screaming matches, and when asked about his girlfriends, said he "ran out" of girls. Is the "Panama Canal" in his basement full?

Jeff is gorgeous, amiable, and excessively proud of not reading books. He's just not too bright. Jeff's grasp of the English language is not unlike Dr. No's grasp on the metal strut he slides down to boil to death in the atomic reactor at the end of the movie Dr. No.

Anyway, Russell & Jeff have formed the Bromance Alliance, and have been quite successful so far. I think it's true love, and that Jordan, with whom Jeff is faking a Showmance, is really just his beard. Jeff & Russell are the true showmance.

Not that they never flirted with returning muscled narcissistic Adonis and boob Jessie. (Yes, I know that men usually spell it "Jesse," but Jessie insists on spelling it the girly way. He's obsessed with "I".) Anyway, as you can see here, as we prepared to make a Russell, Me, and Jessie sandwich (talk about ham and cheese!), Russell is definitely a top.

Lydia is the Tattooed Nutjob, who liked to creep into Jessie's bedroom and stare at him while he slept, imagining his dreams. She said she hoped he was dreaming of baby unicorns. My theory is that he dreams of something else. Which do you think is right?

But in recapping the treacherous adventures of these clowns, I've taken to giving some of them them nicknames that express their true natures. The first was "Ronnie," a 30 year old "Professional Video Gamer" obsessed by Star Wars, who called himself "Emperor Palpatine" at one point, and who repeatedly stated that he was the Smartest Person in the House, never mind that Dr. Michele has a PhD. He was a loathsome little self-impressed dork and weasel, and so I renamed him, and enjoyed tremendously
chronicling his his downfall in my column The Empire Strikes Out.

This last week the house was shook up by a mystery power granted secretly to one of them, whom they called "The Wizard." The Wizard turned out to be lovely, dopey Jeff, whom I dubbed Gandoofus, The Lord of Dimness, when I told the story this week in The Wizard of Wacko Place.

There's always a token gay man, and never more than one. Usually they cast ones who are witty and fun, but this time out they cast a boring, bitchy, treacherous attitude queen named Kevin, who's a coward as well as a bore. I've found his true identity in my recent column as well.

But until about 24 hours before writing this the most horrible person in the house was a 32 year old journalist, self-involved diva, and hyperbitch named Chima. She's insane. She's spoiled. She's vengeful. She's vicious. She's repulsive. She thinks she's funny when she isn't, and she's a hypocrite. But apart from that, she may like kittens. But I'm not so certain of that that I would ever leave my kitty in her care.

But as of 24 hours ago, she is gone. Her plans last week were utterly foiled and she was nominated for eviction, and the spoiled, self-entitled diva staged a day long tantrum, ignoring the producers orders, inciting her Manson-cult-like followers, Lydia and Natalie, to commit acts of petty vandalism. Chima herself spent much of the day sitting on the washing machine, so no one else could wash their clothes, refusing to wear the microphone they are required to wear at all times, and finally, when ordered again by the producers to put it on, threw this $5000 piece of equipment into the hot tub. She was summoned into the Diary Room, and the houseguests never saw her again. She was fired, and not even allowed back into the house to pack up her things. That's entertainment!

Sweet little Jordan's stupidity is amazing. She's in her 20s, and she can't tell time from a clock, doesn't know where Iowa is, can't do simple math, and has a - let's say limited vocabulary. I had had more than enough of idiots. I needed to see intelligent people again.


So I tuned into this past week's revival of of Regis Philbin's quiz show Who Wants to be a Millionaire. You have to take a test to get on. It rewards knowing stuff. And you have to answer difficult questions to win the big money.


So imagine my shock at some of the monumental ignorance I saw on display. Listen to these:

For instance, Angela Watt, a "mother of twins," was asked this question for $1000:


The Earth’s equator passes through all but which of these oceans?
A. Pacific.
B. Indian.
C. Atlantic.
D. Arctic.


And she had to use a lifeline! I guess she just hates those cold arctic nights on the equator. Then she was asked for $2000:


Which of these U.S. coins is the thickest?
A. Penny
B. Nickel.
C. Dime.
D. Quarter.


She answered "A quarter." I guess she never bothers with change.


One of America’s best and brightest, highly decorated (and highly decorative) army Lieutenant-Colonel Jacob Shaha was on. Now you wanted to love this guy. He was gorgeous. He had a small, but growing family. He’s served honorably in Iraq, and will shortly be going to Afghanistan. But then he was asked this question for $8000:


"Fittingly, which of these popular 20th Century authors is buried in Tarzana, California? [Non-italics mine.]:
A. Edgar Rice Burroughs.
B. Ray Bradbury.
C. Dashiell Hammett.
D. Arthur C. Clarke.


Honestly. The answer is right there in the question. You could boil it down to "Who wrote the Tarzan books?" What kind of ignoramus doesn’t know the answer to that question? (Hint: He's by far the worst writer of this quartet.)


Now first off, Ray Bradbury isn’t buried anywhere! At least I hope not, because darling Ray is still alive! How rude to include him. I hope he wasn’t watching. I can just hear his famous, soft voice saying to his wife, "I hope it’s not me."


Lieutenant-Colonel Shaha needed not one, not two, but three lifelines. "Expert" Candy Crowley (Who? I have no idea who she is, and Regis didn’t tell us more than her name) had "no idea," but her guess was Dashiell Hammet. Ah yes, before writing his excellent, highly literate, hardboiled detective novel classics like The Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man, Hammett first knocked out the ridiculous Tarzan novels, which, if you’ve ever read one of them, are not exactly well-written, and feature horrifically bad dialogue, not to mention the inherent racism, and the ludicrous scientific ignorance. Burroughs never set foot in Africa in his whole life, and it shows in his books. I’m surprised Dashiell didn’t rise from his grave to slap her face. Dashiell's lover, the great Lillian Hellman, wouldn’t have spat on the author of the Tarzan books, even if Edgar had begged her too.


Jacob’s phone-a-friend, his dad "Steven," guessed it was Arthur C. Clarke, who is buried in Sri Lanka, on the opposite side of the earth from Tarzana, as far from it as you can get. The only way he could have been more wrong would be if he’d said "The Moon." Clark was also much too good a writer to have turned out the ludicrous Tarzan novels, let alone have sullied his brilliant science fiction legacy with with Burroughs's extremely silly, badly written books about Mars and his At The Earth's Core. I've read Tarzan of the Apes. This is not a well-written book.


Jacob answered D. No wonder we haven’t found Osama Bin Laden yet.


But the most embarrassing contestant moment came when Anthony Sloan, a "Stay-at-home Dad," i.e. unemployed, was asked for $50,000:


In the 2009 blockbuster Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, which of these characters is an evil Decepticon and not an heroic Autobot?
A. Mudflap.
B. Bumblebee.
C. Starscream.
D. Sidewipe.


And he not only got it right, but he had the answer right off the top of his head. The only people who should know the answer to that question are people whose ages are still in the single digits, and a lot of justifiably bored and hostile film critics.


You want to see intelligent people on TV? Switch over to BBC America, and watch Torchwood and Doctor Who. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with several more weeks of Big Brother. At least I won’t have any more of Chima and Emperor Palpatwit to endure. You don’t need to watch it yourself. Just read my recaps.


Cheers darlings.