After an earlier post of ours, “So Suh Us“, someone decided to take us at our word. Our own brand of idiocy has landed us in hot water with one magazine in particular (let’s call them Potpourri) with editor S. Clown leading the charge. I would name drop them specfically here but who knows what those crazy bastards would do. It’s a shame, really, because I’m actually quite proud that such a well known publication took the time to out-douche itself by scouring the internet to threaten a blog run by a bunch of drunken lemurs. I suppose they needed something to do between figuring out just how big Kim Kardashian’s ass has grown.

You can see the article minus the flavor text of the named magazine here. While it hasn’t lost much bite, I did hate to retract an article from a website that has so much integrity to keep. If this trends, we might be the first assholes to ever be kicked off the internet.

Great, now Fox is going to sue us.

As for the cease & desist, I’m tempted to post that directly here as well, but again, I don’t know the legal ramifications of it. I could fight the good fight for free speech, with time and money getting sucked into a bottomless fry-hole, or I could hit backspace a bunch and entertain the three of you who do read for a little while longer.

What I will post is my response (minus any identifying info) to their lawyer, whom I honestly hold no ill-will towards, if you can believe it. It’s not like it’s his fault his clients are jackasses. Homey’s just trying to pay the mortgage. You know, the one in his giant home in which he houses many, many beautiful women he sleeps with and never calls again. Ok, now I hate him a little. Anyway, with no other redactions, my response:

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Mr. F [ed note #1: not his real name],

I assure you this blog is pure parody. We tend to be pretty absurdist with our humor (see “Gorilla Warfare” where I lay out plans to start an army of monkeys) and we naturally assumed that, to the very, very few people who actually read it, that we’re certainly not serious about anything.

That said, we have a blog that maxes out at about 50 people a day and so can’t afford to fight anything like this. You’ve earned more money in the time it took typing out our email address than we’ve made over the 2+ years we’ve had our site up.

We’ve removed the paragraph from the offending article laid out in the C&D. I hope this clears up the matter. If there is anything in the article left that I have not addressed, I assure you it’s out of ignorance [ed note #2: I would've gone into detail here, but I didn't want to beat a dead horse. Apparently, stupidity is blind to other stupidity]. A simple email explaining anything further we can do will suffice and we’ll be happy to oblige.

If you would like to contact me directly, I can be reached at 1-800-AWE-SOME [ed note #3: I wish].

Thanks for reading!
Will Gallego

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We’ve managed to assemble our own crack team of legal minds to keep on retainer for any and all future disputes. Should you require their assistance as well, I’m sure you can find them through the appropriate channels.

Hollywood Almost Out of Ideas

Proof is piling up to support the argument that Hollywood has nearly nothing new left to offer. A recession of a different kind has struck the movie-making business — a lack of creativity and originality that many analysts predict could lead to the downfall of the industry within the next several years.

These types of doomsday warnings have been made before, most memorably in 1989, upon the release of the sixth Police Academy film. It was a bleak time when Billy Crystal was considered an acceptable lead in romantic comedies and audiences were asked to pay to watch talking babies, shrunken kids, and most inexplicable and insulting of all, Michael Keaton play Batman.

However, Hollywood survived those shaky Swayze and Sheen-heavy years and, even facing the threat of better home technology, has fared rather well. But industry experts are predicting tough times ahead.

A Magic 8-Ball movie means Hollywood's outlook is not so good.

After adapting almost every single comic book and comic strip, they are turning to toys (G.I. Joe), video games (Prince of Persia, later this month), board games, such as Battleship (currently in the casting stage), and, in an act of complete desperation, gag items. For example, a picture about the Magic 8 Ball was recently greenlit by Paramount. Speaking on the condition of anonymity, a former studio head bashed these decisions. “These concepts barely belong in a Spencer’s gifts, let alone theatres across the country.”

With such lesser-known and barely-remembered characters as Marmaduke (coming in June) and Green Lantern (scheduled for summer of next year) being granted full-length features, some who study the movie business closely foresee all ideas being exhausted as early as 2012.

A person who up until recently covered the business of movie making for a leading publication minced no words in assessing the industry’s problem, “When garbage like The Losers makes it to the big screen, we all lose — especially audiences.” This person believes another bad omen for Hollywood is the release of MacGruber, a movie based on a recurring Saturday Night Live skit. It has been ten years since the long-running sketch comedy show has released a film. “He’s not even an original character,” said the source, who pointed out that MacGruber is a parody of the 80s TV series, MacGyver. “We’re no longer in a decade where a mullet and some explosions are enough to ensure a large take [at the box office].”

One head of development, said Hollywood’s current strategy — to adapt everything 13-year-old boys like — isn’t a successful one. “For every hit, there’s at least one huge failure. You remember Sin City, but [in my job] you can’t forget The Spirit. ” He warned that the extremely limited interests of the target audience should be a cause for concern. “They aren’t willing to watch any female heroes,” he pointed out. “We don’t need anymore Elektras or Tank Girls to learn that lesson.”

There appear to be numerous people tied to the industry who are keenly aware of the absence of fresh ideas. A well-known producer, who asked not to be named, cited the release of four movies within six years based on the popular horror video game Resident Evil as evidence of trouble ahead. A fifth installment, Afterlife, is scheduled to hit screens this fall. “Frankly, we’re running out of material to mine. Crap is finite, too.”

As if this crisis wasn’t enough, another troubling trend is the shortage of scripts from the Wayans siblings, who are often credited with speeding up the demise of Hollywood, largely due to their Scary Movie franchise, which are rooted in age-old stereotypes, tired cliches and juvenile bathroom humor. One major studio exec said he’d be willing to at least look at a script from Shawn or Kim, members of the family that just several years ago weren’t even regarded around Tinsel Town as true Wayanses. A cousin, Damien Dante, was already tapped for 2009′s Dance Flick. Without ideas from the Wayanses, there is only one known source for what the same executive labeled “profitable, black movies”: Tyler Perry. When asked about the black audience box office potential of director Spike Lee’s work, much of which has been met with critical acclaim, the executive scoffed. “Spike would earn more money scalping his Knicks tickets than making a movie.” Like Lee’s beloved basketball team, Hollywood is currently short on talent and a plausible plan to make its product worth watching again.

Greece is broke, going from the bathhouse to the poorhouse, from the Argonauts to the have-nots. Imagine Detroit as a country (but replace crack with ouzo) and you’ll have some idea of how destitute they are. They’re using Kalamata olives as currency. Maybe if they stopped financing all those big, fat weddings they wouldn’t be begging for money in a way that even Jon Gosselin would consider beneath him. Here are some gratis solutions that will ensure Greece is rolling in phyllo dough again.

Take a cue from your fictional feathered friend, the phoenix, and burn it down and start over. That’s right, I’m advocating igniting a Greece fire (my middle school home ec and geography teachers are shaking their heads in disgust). Since your country has plenty of priceless artifacts, be sure to take out a big insurance policy before setting the whole land ablaze.

Add new mythological figures to the list. People are tired of hearing stories about Zeus, but would love to listen to tales of Xena: Warrior Princess. And how about some diversity among the cast? The world is ready for Afro-dite, a sista who sassily speaks the truth when it comes to love (as voiced by Wanda Sykes). Offer spots among the Gods to the highest bidder — we’re convinced John Stamos will pay a pretty penny to be immortalized as the God of TV Sitcom Uncles (it could spark a bidding war if Seinfeld‘s Uncle Leo and The Fresh Prince‘s Uncle Phil care to ante up).

This is the Apollo we want to see a statue of.

Mandate that all Greek men must grow beards. As far as we can tell, it’s the secret to success for Zach Galifianakis. If the facial hair experiment goes well, then we can work on the country’s comedic timing.

Launch a Greek government news and food channel, C-Spanakopita. Recruit George Stephanopoulos to host (it’d be a step up from anchoring Good Morning America).

Hire old gangsta rappers to promote tourism (Cypress Hill has done wonders for Cyprus), with the welcoming slogan, “Visit Greece. Don’t make me bust a kappa in yo’ ass!” Commission the Beastie Boys to write a jingle, “License to Iliad.”

Make your ancient attractions more amusing and mall-like. Put a roller coaster in the Parthenon. There are so many gaps between ruins, it makes sense to fill one in with a Gap. In addition to rides and shops (think a bakery called Piethagoras), make use of modern technology. Install a moving sidewalk and give Delphi Wi-Fi, and Americas will view the Acropolis as Acropobliss.

If you want cash from the U.S., there are two ways to earn it: agree to humiliate yourselves or sell us something we can crudely deface. So, either fill the Aegean Sea with tzatziki and swim in it (filming the ordeal for a reality special, Dignity: It’s Greek to Me) or sell Mt. Olympus to Nike and enjoy having a 200-ft.-tall swoosh emblem reminding you of your culture’s fall from Aristotle to Air Jordan.

In what’s sure to be a boon to cardiologists around the country, KFC has released its heavily-breaded yet bread-less Double Down sandwich nationwide, after cholesterol-crazed citizens in test markets such as Tulsa and Providence presumably didn’t die in droves after ingesting it (although defibrillator use was way up). What kind of idiot/patriot would I be if didn’t sample the simplistic splendor that only a pair of fried chicken patties, plus multiple strips of bacon and cheese can bring? My motto has always been: If two breasts are involved, I’ll try anything. With this website come certain responsibilities, like watering it regularly and cleaning out its cage every few days, but also subjecting myself to bodily harm in the name of pop culture. It’s my obligation to find out if the greatest military hero ever associated with poultry, Colonel Sanders (sorry, General Tso), has an ace up his grease-soaked sleeve with the Double Down or if it’s a flop. Ok, enough with the poker terms, it’s time to eat and blog.

We were double-dared to eat the Double Down (not by Marc Summers)

Start — My first impression: It’s surprisingly small and slimy (where have I heard that line before?) Looking at it, my aorta instinctively hardens, as does my sphincter.

2 minutes in — Dammit, a partially-melted piece of Pepper Jack cheese has already fallen onto the keyboard. Now it’s all sticky. This always happens when I masticate in front of the computer. I guess I’ll taste, then type.

7 minutes in — I finished it without the gag reflex kicking in. Overall, not bad. KFC might be onto something. Hopefully, it’ll bring an end to Jamie Oliver’s asinine “food revolution” (you’d think the Brits would’ve learned not to fuck with our food and drink by now). I’m surprised Paula Deen didn’t patent this creation a few years back (maybe she was still experimenting with ways to make it more fattening, adding Spam and sour cream, perhaps). I’m beginning to believe a bun is without purpose or function, like Gerard Butler or FEMA.

12 minutes in — My stomach is mildly uncomfortable and my head is full of doubt, like Lil Wayne when he records a song without Auto-Tune. I should mention that KFC offers a grilled version (probably to keep the FDA from accusing it of murder by food), but ordering that is even more pointless than watching a Chris Rock special on basic cable.

16 minutes in — I’m starting to believe this was a bad decision that will linger, along the lines of sitting through a full episode of Glee or running a race for charity.

23 minutes in — The indigestion is so severe, I just whipped up a Maalox milkshake, adding Tums like they were ice.

31 minutes in — Oof. It’s like a punch to the gut — from the inside. And the puncher is Muhammad Ali, which is ironic, since as a Muslim, he wouldn’t touch this pork-padded phenomenon. If this were a boxing match, I’d be Double Down for the count.

39 minutes in — The only other way I could feel this nauseous is if I were forced to view the Sex and the City sequel on an IMAX screen. I might be getting better acquainted with my toilet soon.

45 minutes in — Bacon, you were like a brother to me… How could you break our once-indestructible and delectable bond of trust? I never knew betrayal would be so salty. I know eventually I’ll forgive you because fat is thicker than blood.

53 minutes in — Checking WebMD to make sure arteries grow back. Relieved to discover they do (Wikipedia confirms).

1 hour in — If I don’t make it, can someone pay my wife $50? She was right. I died eating fast food (she would’ve collected $100 if it had been Taco Bell). I had my money on a paper shredder mishap (couldn’t resist the long odds). Since the culprit was KFC, I expect Will to make a “kicking the bucket” joke at my funeral and do the funky chicken as a final send-off, though I’m certain he’d perform the dance regardless of the circumstances of my death.

The Gulf Coast is now officially Mother Nature’s whipping boy. First Katrina hits, drowning a city that hasn’t been dry since prohibition and now a massive spill floods several thousand square miles of the region. Right now, there is one asshole in New Orleans with a monkey’s paw who asked to get blown like he’s never been blown before followed by being oiled up head to toe. You’ll know him as the guy with the foot tall Elton John in his pocket after asking for a 12 inch…well, you get the idea.

Of course, I could also lay blame on the real dickheads here: BP. If British Petroleum has learned anything from this clusterfuck it’s that even the drunkest, most disorderly city in the US is eventually going to wake up the next day and going to be pretty pissed about the mess from night before, that being from England ain’t going to save your ass in the US unless you were the Beatles or the Stones, and that once you fuck up, you’ve fucked up for life (or until the next episode of Gossip Girl comes on).

So, until next Tuesday at 9pm Eastern, 8pm Pacific I humbly offer some suggestions as to how this crisis can best be mitigated:

The Big Easy is now the Big Greasy

• Promote the disaster as the world’s largest supply of natural lubrication with a first come first serve (for once, no pun intended) policy. Within 20 minutes, Vegas’ prostitution ring and the Catholic church will have made off with 90% of it.
• Convince the KKK that it’s a conspiracy by the NAACP to blacken the surrounding area. Is it morally ambiguous to hire a bunch of backwards racist hicks who wouldn’t know their ass from Azerbaijan? Perhaps, but those white hoods aren’t just stylish – they’re super absorbent too!
• Contract the cast of Jersey Shore to swim around the spill for a while. This certainly won’t eliminate the waste, but at least it’ll look a whole lot less greasy in comparison
• Send a team of Hollywood movie script writers to the offshore rig for 6 weeks. Our ocean life is going to be fucked for the next decade or two, but maybe we can squeeze an Aquaman movie out of it. I’m sure the weakest link of the Super Friends could use the work in this economy.
• Hire out Goldman-Sachs’ smarmy team of overpaid managers and executives. If a team of greedy Wall Street sons of bitches can avoid jail time while reaping billions in profit, their team of hucksters can spin this huge ass mess as some kind of enviro-friendly reclamation project. At the very least their hired suck ups could siphon up a significant portion of the oil.
• As a new source of fuel, we could channel the rage of a legion of eco-freaks and PETA members who seethe about the disaster as they step over the bodies of the nation’s homeless. We could have our own metric for it, 1 hypocri-joule.
• A spill that large is going to need an outlet big enough to handle it. Relocate Heidi Montag’s team of surgeons to the area in the hopes she follows and her vacuous nature tidies up the mess. Unfortunately, then you’re just substituting one chemical hazard in the area with another.
• Cater the area as a future site of a cyborg hot springs for the eventual robot uprising. Sandy beaches, a warm oil bath, and all the puny hu-mans you can crush in your titanium claws!