Posted in Humor, Opinion, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on May 15, 2010 by johnnybeyond


     A TV ad recently alerted me to Comedy Central’s practice of charging subscribers $2.99 to hear the “unbleeped” versions of BOONDOCKS, one of their animated sitcoms featuring perceptive and profane children (the network’s other most prominent such program is, of course, South Park).It made me think that George Carlin might be profoundly sad, were he still alive, that after all his work to defuse the shock from the obscenity, bleeping is still in existence at all.

     The ad, and the service it promotes also prompt the long overdue question; does anyone out there really find such an expense necessary anymore?

     British butlers are educated from childhood to respect and exceed traditional, nay, historical, standards of erudition, sophistication, and class; but even one of these icons of aristocratic attitudes would still easily be able to tell you that, when Samuel L. Jackson, in the FX transmission of Tarentino’s JACKIE BROWN, says the compound word “melon farmer,” his character is, in fact, not referring to agricultural practitioners, or their agricultural activity or any of the fruits thereof.

     Pat Robertson is so pious, bible-literate-AND-literal, that he has, after working really hard at it, distanced himself from even the most religious non-nutjob American Christians (His blaming of 911 on the gay community seemed to be the camel’s-back-breaker for most people), and one can’t ever imagine him using anything but the most courteous and refined, if heavily drawled, speech…in public, anyway. But do you really imagine that when the crudely animated  young Colorado resident Eric Cartman emits the bleeped squeal, “—damn it, Kyle, you Ass—-!,” Mr. Robertson isn’t cognizant that both a holy name and the one of the most private of human orifices have both been invoked with considerable disrespect?

     And whatever you’re making, I’ll confidently bet you a year’s salary that even a divine-to-semi-divine guy like Pope Benedict has a working knowledge, especially these days, that the censored print-term “cock%$&!@*” does not refer to someone who is trying to slowly consume a rooster in an oral fashion.

      So why are we still going through the motions? Why do we still pretend, as a people, that we don’t know what’s under the bleep, and why won’t we admit we’re no longer really shocked?

     When the FCC pursues obscenity charges against CBS for the Janet Jackson “Nipplegate” Super Bowl, and ABC for Cher’s potty-mouth at the Emmys… are they really trying to tell us that these networks are criminally liable for the unpredictable and unscripted behavior of spoiled and irresponsible celebrities? Is a pop star saying a questionable word any sort of surprise to any reasonable being?

    And please notice that the FCC, which only reacts to certain specified words, or exposed skin, doesn’t rile-up at all when CBS plops TWO AND A HALF MEN into the first hour of its lineup on any given night (A time period that used to be the federally mandated family hour). Does the network do this  because Les Moonvees, or one of his minions, has decided that when Charlie Sheen tells his brother that “a 22 year-old girl is like a good carpenter, no wood gets wasted,” the average 10-to-15 year-old boy (or girl!) won’t know that erections are the topic du jour? Are they telling us that because the dialogue isn’t bleeped, it isn’t dirty?

     Comedy Central also bleeps Jon Stewart and Stephan Colbert in their tandem weekday faux-newscasts, but they do it with what could be either incredible ineptitude or deliberate subversive intent; a viewer can hear Stewart’s “ou” while the “Fuck y“ is safely obscured. And Colbert’s obscured “Sh” manages to sneak into the audio-sphere, even if its companion “it” is never heard.

     When was the last time that a broadcast word GENUINELY offended and/or surprised you?

     And the most compelling proof that we are living in the first days of a post-bleep culture is the astonishing fan-and-critic reception to the revamped BATTLESTAR GALACTICA and its similarly revamped version of the f-word, “frak.” Never before in the history of science-fiction television, has a program successfully invented and used a euphemism that sounded and felt like the word it was replacing, although many have tried with cringe-inducing results (Remember the word for “shit” on the original BATTLESTAR in the seventies? It was “felderkarp,” and I believe I’ve made my point.) The actors on the 2nd BSG always delivered the word with either the casualness or sincerity or venom that the situation required, and its impossible for those who really enjoy the series to even realize while they’re watching that an obscenity hasn’t been uttered: BSG has eerily managed to make “frak” pack exactly the same punch.  

     So why, really, does anyone bother with this whole obscenity charade anymore?!!

     It will be interesting to see if Comedy Central actually makes money with their “unbleeping” venture.  

     If the “bleeping” situation suggests that we as a culture get upset about the wrong things, two commercials I’ve recently noticed confirm that suggestion as a fact.

     The first spot, which I believe is about a year old, is actually two conceptually identical spots from the American Egg Board, and they are sometimes shown in tandem. The free-runner and stuntwoman Luci Romberg introduces the concept by showing us her various skills. She then sits in an egg-shaped rotating chair and declares how eggs have helped her to achieve her various goals. Just after she spins the chair so that her face and body are obscured, a gigantic hand, obviously belonging to some sadistic, homicidal giant from another reality, grabs the chair-egg containing Ms. Romberg and cracks it open causing the yellow and white mess which seems to be the rather surprising contents of the athlete’s circulatory system to spill forth and be cooked! This unthinkably sadistic spectacle is repeated in the other spot with a teenager (!), Luke Meyers, who is described in the press as a “speed stacker” because his hands move unbelievably swiftly, and he can, duh, stacks things fast. Well, this young harbinger of a potential new evolutionary ability for mankind gets similarly scrambled, and no youth or women’s organizations are on record with complaints.

     And that’s not even the creepy one! The most horrifying concept being passed to the American Public as acceptable commercial content is in the Tarentino-esque Teleflora spot that recently aired in anticipation of Mother’s Day. In it, a mother and father open a box of flowers sent by their sons, and the flowers, demonstrating that “a box of flowers sometimes says the wrong thing,” start speaking anthropomorphically in the voices of said moronic sons. Sick of the banality, stupidity and downright insincerity of the foliage containing the spirits of her offspring, she sticks them down the garbage disposal as they scream in horror, one of them shrieking, “Oh, my stamen!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

     Do you suppose that whoever conceptualized and scripted this spot had a happy or perky childhood? Or parenthood? Is showing casual mutilation of even mere totems suggesting the personal essence of family members truly in the best interest of America’s nuclear unit?

     I remember the good old days of unintentionally offensive commercials. Occasionally, Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble would unwind backstage (!) at Bedrock by smoking Winstons. The Frito Bandito would remind all chip-consuming children that Mexicans weren’t complete without their gold-teeth, sombrero, and snappy song. If you were a child in grade school, you learned about Native Americans from films provided to your classroom by Old Gold cigarettes, which showed buckskin clad citizens of all ages and tribes merrily puffing their way across the reservation. And of course, if you were a person of color in 1960 who objected to under-representation of your racial/ethnic group in national programming and advertising, you were in for a LONG wait. But casually grinding and otherwise mutilating the liquids, bone and various viscera of America’s youth was not even yet on the menu… so to speak.

     Those who believe that we are, in fact, worried about the right things, and that obscenity in ten-year-olds trumps racial insensitivity and public visualization of barbarism will no doubt continue to attack their obvious targets… but count me among those who think that, if we are truly determined to get upset about something, we need to spread our nets wider and react to these creatively new and ingenious stimuli… rather than just become upset by rote one more infinite time over those same tired old words that George Carlin proved to be so harmless so many, many years ago.


Clint Eastwood: Ultimate Embalmer to the Stars?

Posted in Humor, Opinion with tags , on February 26, 2010 by johnnybeyond


Clint Eastwood’s credentials as a great director are unquestionable by this time… but ever since his early Eighties drama “Honkytonk Man,” a sign of his personal character has leaked out of his films that I find quite enlightening: Eastwood seems dedicated to providing aging performers with one really great role as they approach their exit from the movies and life. While I’m sure I’ve missed a few, let me give you the examples of which I am most aware.

One of the first I know of, and perhaps the most touching of all, is, as I’ve stated, in “Honkytonk Man,” and the performer in question is not best known for acting, but for singing. Marty Robbins, whose performance of “El Paso” is one of the most haunting audio documents of the 20th century, appears onscreen during the final scene of this severely neglected, if overly long, oddball drama. SPOILER ALERT: In the movie’s final scene, Eastwood’s character, a mostly failed country singer, gets to record his greatest song, only to die halfway through the recording session, and Robbins seamlessly picks up the vocals and completes the recording. If you don’t respond to this scene, and Robbins’ performance, you are a hopeless automaton. It is, quite simply, one of the most unforgettable movie conclusions I’ve ever seen, made all the more unforgettable by Robbins’ death a few weeks before the film was released. Did Eastwood know Robbins was close to the end, and that this would be the ultimate send-off? I have no way of knowing… but the performance is part of a very cool pattern.  

Now fast-forward a few years to one of my favorite Eastwood films, “Pale Rider,”

essentially a supernatural re-make of “Shane,” featuring career-best performances from Michael Moriarity, Carrie Snodgrass, Sydney Penney, Richard Kiel, Richard Dysart, and Christopher Penn.  John Russell, like Eastwood, was a star of a well-respected late Fifties western series, “Lawman,” and would only make one more screen appearance after this one. Eastwood gives him a GREAT villain role (basically a reprise of the Jack Palance character from “Shane,” aided, this time, by a posse) and a VERY memorable send-off. SPOILER ALERT: Russell plays a gun-for-hire, Stockburn, who has already killed Eastwood’s rider previously, and left a circle of bullet wounds in his chest. The look of terror on Russell’s formerly stolid face as he’s dispatched by his past victim is a classic, just the come-uppance an audience desires for all truly despicable villains. Russell died in 1988.  “Pale Rider,” a supremely under-estimated Eastwood film, stands strong, due in no small part to the unbelieving look of horror on Russell’s face. (In case you can’t tell, I LOVE this performance, AND this movie.) I would argue that “Pale Rider” is Russell’s proudest legacy.

This next swan-song is perhaps my very favorite, because I happen to revere E.G. Marshall, an actor who excelled at playing both intellectual giants and utter whack-jobs.  If you read William Goldman’s book, “Which Lie did I Tell?”, you’ll realize what a miracle it is that “Absolute Power” has any positive qualities at all, since it is a complete about-face from the book (in the novel, Eastwood’s character, Luther, dies less than halfway through the story.) Goldman describes the ordeal of writing the screenplay, sorting through too many characters and trying to find a core-story that would both serve Eastwood and somehow satisfy moviegoers who’d read the book. Having never bothered with the book, I’ll never know how well he succeeded, but I do know that the role Goldman wrote for the then-ancient pro Marshall, is one of the most heart-grabbing I’ve seen in a political thriller.  Marshall plays a political power-broker whose MUCH younger wife has an affair with his best friend, President Gene Hackman. The dignity which Marshall bestows on a character that could have descended into the darkest soap-opera clichés literally has to be seen to be believed. It was this performance which first prodded me to consider the fact that one of Eastwood’s concerns as a director was to provide great exits for aging actors.

And now, we come to “Mystic River,” and one of my all-time favorite performances in an Eastwood film. Eli Wallach, Eastwood’s co-star as “the Ugly” in “The Good, the Bad, and…” appears as the appropriately named Mr. Loonie, the owner of Loonie’s Liquors, and there is no other performance I can name that is so obviously meant to be a meaningful swan-song. Wallach was born in 1915, but in “Mystic River,” released in 2003,  he looks to be at least 137, and he is the only actor I’ve named in these paragraphs who went on to give many performances after working with Eastwood in 2003. Amazingly, he’s still alive at this writing, and has added at least 20 credits since “River.” Ah well, no pattern is perfect. I will note that “Mystic River” remains the late-period performance that Wallach will undoubtedly be remembered for. Interestingly, it’s uncredited.

Now, having set my tone for this piece, let me cite the appearance that I believe started this whole pattern: again, as with Robbins, the player isn’t an actor, but someone who meant a lot to Eastwood, who’s always mentioned two directors as his main influences as to how he runs a set: Sergio Leone, the director of the famous “Spaghetti Westerns,” and Don Siegel, the perpetually under-appreciated film-noir vet who directed Eastwood in “The Beguiled,” “Dirty Harry” and “Coogan’s Bluff” (which led to a perpetual week-to-week remake as TV’s “McCloud”). Siegel is also responsible for at least two other classic films, “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” and John Wayne’s last film, “The Shootist.” Siegel appears as a weary character named Murphy in Eastwood’s very first directorial effort, “Play Misty for Me,” and you only have to see the scene to know that it’s a special moment between two friends. Eastwood dedicated “Unforgiven” to Don Siegel, and that fact seems to underline their appearance together.

If there are some Eastwood send-offs that I’ve missed… I hope someone will correct me. I await your responses.

“Pursuit”: a nutty classic waiting for stoners to find it!

Posted in Opinion, Uncategorized with tags , on February 26, 2010 by johnnybeyond


We’ve all experienced it by now: We re-view a well-remembered film from our childhood, and are forced to realize how young and naïve we were when we viewed it… and just how much society and entertainment have changed since the original screening.

Perhaps it was because Michael Crichton had died just a month before, and I had experienced a surprisingly huge regret at his passing… or perhaps it was just that I hadn’t seen this particular film in well over 35 years and remembered it well, or thought I did. Whatever the reason, I picked up, for 3 dollars, the DVD of “Pursuit,” a VERY obscure ABC “Movie of the Week” from 1972, distributed on disc by MGM. Ever since, even as I write this article, I’ve been forced to marvel at how consistently this modest little thriller functions as a time capsule: incredibly prescient, quaintly naïve, and unintentionally funny all at the same time. If “Mystery Science Theatre” were still around, I could understand how this movie could pose a problem for their staff: it’s too technically good to totally dismiss as trash, and yet the evolution of society, entertainment, and science have turned it into the cinematic equivalent of an eight-track tape… appreciable for the melodies it contains, but laughable in its technological obsolescence.

It’s also fantastically noteworthy as a souvenir of the extraordinary and rather strange career of author Michael Crichton, the best-selling author with a medical degree who first entered the public consciousness with the almost unprecedented success of “The Andromeda Strain” in the late Sixties.” Strain” was an anomaly amongst Sixties bestsellers: it was science-fiction, but heavily grounded in the known science of the day, explained in understandable and entertaining terms, paving the way for such other medically trained novelists as Nicholas Meyer and Robin Cook. “Pursuit,” is based on a throwaway Crichton novel, “Binary,” written under the pseudonym of John Lange, just as Stephen King used to write second-tier novels under the name of Richard Bachman. In another precursor to King’s phenomenal success, Crichton became the first best-selling author, in MY memory anyway, to be allowed to direct a movie based on his own work (from a screenplay officially credited to Robert Dozier). To my knowledge, only Nicholas Meyer (The Seven-Percent Solution,” “Time after Time,” “Star Trek II,” and “The Day After”) and King himself (“Maximum Overdrive”) have been awarded similar largess due to their popularity.*  While King never earned a second chance at helming a feature, “Pursuit” was successful enough to convince MGM to let Crichton direct and write “Westworld,” an astonishingly tidy little sci-fi thriller that single-handedly revived the career of Yul Brenner, and made his black-clad gunslinger image even more iconic than in “The Magnificent Seven,” a pretty tall order when seriously considered. Crichton made one other well-regarded techno-thriller, “Runaway” with Tom Selleck and Gene Simmons, and then seemingly just staggered into box-office and creative dead ends such as “Looker,” “The 13th Warrior,” and “Physical Evidence.” And all this happened before the notable “third-act” of his career, which included his “Jurassic Park” trilogy with the accompanying cinema juggernaut franchise… and a little thing which he produced called “E.R.”.   

“Pursuit” is the single-minded story (there are NO subplots) of Steven Graves, an FBI agent shadowing James Wright, a political extremist who dismisses both Democrats and Republicans as identical, differing in name only. At a ridiculously slow pace by today’s surveillance-thriller standards, it becomes glaringly obvious to the FBI that Wright is planning to obliterate an unnamed San Diego-based political convention and the President in attendance, through the use of a binary gas, an exotic concept mostly unknown to the public at the time.

The film both suffers and benefits from its place in history. It’s the first film I remember seeing that focused on domestic terrorism. In 1972, the concept was not just exotic; it was pure science-fiction. While Wright is clearly patterned after Lyndon LaRouche, it would be at least another decade before news stories about “survivalist compounds” would convince the public that legitimate threats to America could be internal. The fact that Wright can actually escape from an FBI interrogation by walking past the questioning agents while pretending to use an ashtray and then saunter through a door with no further security posted outside is a huge groaner for a modern audience, but in 1972 it seemed sort-of plausible, because the concept of an American trying to kill masses of Americans was still unheard-of: the FBI agents in the film can actually be excused for their naivete, IF you’re viewing it as a citizen of the early Seventies.

(Because the film’s FBI agents are so hilariously slow in seeing the real nature of Wright’s plot and dealing with it, I am consistently surprised that this film hasn’t become a favorite of America’s stoners, wishing to create their own “Mystery Science Theatre” in their living room. The film even contains a “4:20” reference between two agents that makes you wonder what Crichton was doing when he wasn’t on the set, even though it pre-dates the popularization of that term by a full-decade. The whole film is just one long “bong-game” waiting for the right couch potatoes to appreciate it. The typical Jerry Goldsmith score, shiny, insistent and polished compared to the rest of the production, seems out of place, and just made for stoners to mock.)

“Pursuit” is also the first film in my considerable cinematic memory to feature a digital readout across the bottom of the screen, a full thirty years before the debut of “24.”

The device is inconsistently used (making it another “bong-game” possibility), but its mere appearance is rather startling considering the film’s age. Digital readouts were still VERY new and exotic in 1972; take it from someone whose brand-new clock radio still featured hands circling numbers.

Also considered  VERY new in 1972, the concept of plastic explosives, crucial to the plot, and binary gas, the subject of explanatory technobabble that must even explain the meaning of the word “binary” itself to the audience… exceedingly quaint in today’s digital world. The film is also the initial reference I remember to the virtual invulnerability of cockroaches to disasters.

(Oh, additionally, “Pursuit” is an artifact due to the complexion of the actors involved. By this time, after the debut of “All in the Family” on CBS, African-Americans were regularly penetrating TV in bit parts at the very least; but “Pursuit” is ENTIRELY white, and the inclusion of Jewish actor Joseph Wiseman seems the only concession to the concept that America isn’t entirely composed of WASPs. {Martin Sheen would not publicly acknowledge his birth name of Ramon Estevez for another few years, and boy, does he look pasty in this film!})

Finally, “Pursuit,” is the first film I remember seeing that posited the possibility that information can be stolen from government computers (by the Martin Sheen character), and the first time the word “on-line” was used in a computer-context in a movie. If anybody can cite an earlier example, I’ll gladly modify my statement.

The psychological discourse of “Pursuit” is also unique for the time, although nutty by modern standards.   Wright’s entire motivation for his terrorist attack seems to be a fear of “impotence,” strictly defined here as the inability to act. It’s to the movie’s benefit that then-current broadcast standards didn’t allow more explicit discussion of this corny and simplistic notion on the obvious sexual level… but again, it amazes me that the film hasn’t become a cult movie for chronic consumers of cannabis because of this aspect. Also, the concept of an FBI agent seeing a psychiatrist seemed fairly new in 1972, an attempt to further sophisticate the battle of wills between two almost-equals. The entire “poker-player against poker-player” concept is referenced ludicrously often by Grave’s superior, making such observations appear to be his only real job.

“Pursuit” has several quality problems that can be attributed to a virgin director. Twice, Crichton uses a voice-over to remind us of what a character has previously said… but the sound-level is so low and unsure that it’s almost unintelligible (It’s amazing that no supervising producer noticed this!). Also, there are some wonderfully ham-handed moments, such as a news announcer’s assessment that the President is protected against everything EXCEPT a major disaster, followed by a quick cut to the two tanks of gas. The “act breaks” where commercials were once inserted are achingly funny in their cliff-hanger nature, typified by William Windom’s line, “They have not been able to reach the President!” A climactic explosion is basically a very primitive optical effect followed by actors falling to the floor while someone shakes the camera and someone else releases an unconvincing smoke plume.

Two or three performances seem to have, rather amazingly, stood the test of time. An astonishingly young Martin Sheen appears in a brief key role, and Joseph Wiseman, forever enshrined as the craggy Jewish actor who played one-handed villains of unspecified “oriental” origin in both “Doctor No” and “Enter the Dragon,” is thoroughly enjoyable and creditable as the perpetually gloomy gas expert. Ben Gazzara, best remembered for the TV series “Run for Your Life,” and his films with John Cassavetes, is much less deadpan than usual (perhaps responding to his brilliant co-star) playing with understated humor the already clichéd role of the FBI agent who does crossword puzzles for fun and sees every assignment as an intellectual contest between two opponents. William Windom, as Gazzara’s petulant superior, has most of the worst lines in the movie, but is well remembered by fans of the original “Star Trek” series and the James Thurber homage, “My World and Welcome to It.” 

But the real joy here, and again I’m stunned that this performance hasn’t become a favorite of stoners, is E.G. Marshall as Wright. I don’t remember the source of the quote, but someone once remarked that if you slice ham thinly and skillfully enough, you can no longer tell that it’s ham: this is the work that proves the saying. This interpretation, incredibly, would work equally well in a good-movie or a bad one… and “Pursuit,” as I’ve described it, is more than a little bit of both. Whether you like “Pursuit” or deride it, Marshall is untouchable: Remarkably, he somehow seems to both underplay and overplay this role at the same time, aided by the fact that his balding, incredibly average appearance constantly surprises audiences when passion flows from his seemingly passionless facade: an extraordinary man in an ordinary body. Marshall’s pleasure in portraying Wright is palpable in every frame. The gleam in his eye when he confronts Graves person-to-person is absolutely puckish. He also manages to sell the clichéd “impotence” motivation. His performance, rather subtle visually, and entirely nuanced vocally, serves as a prescient artifact to his cult status among then-young radio listeners as the best-remembered host of the “CBS Radio Mystery Theatre,” the long, cherished, last gasp of radio drama on commercial airwaves. Just watching him, and listening to him of course, conjures a smile. Marshall, whom some younger readers might remember as a doddering surgeon during the first seasons of the Nineties series “Chicago Hope,” excelled in two types of characters: men of supreme intellect and character, as in his classic TV show “The Defenders,” and total whackjobs with a thickish veneer of civilization, as in “Pursuit.” If you’re unfamiliar with him and you want to see more of this extraordinary performer, I’ll recommend that you watch Sidney Lumet’s film of “Twelve Angry Men,” George Romero’s “Creepshow” (in a scenery-chewing “Tales from the Crypt”-like story about a millionaire battling cockroaches, which really has to be seen to be believed), and his cinematic swan song as an ancient husband (of a much younger wife) betrayed by a friend in Clint Eastwood’s “Absolute Power,” which is practically a love-letter from director-to-actor. Also, MP3 copies of his “Mystery Theatre” work are readily available. You’ll mourn his death anew with each performance you discover.  

“Pursuit” remains forever maimed by it’s own prescience, but the quaintness of it’s virginal approach to subject matter that would soon become clichéd… and the performance of E. G. Marshall make it a uniquely nostalgic and pleasurable time-waster… as well as a nice homage to Michael Crichton, whom many of us remember as the man whose unprecedented media-crossing made the later omnipresent success of Stephen King possible.

Warren Stone

Obscene and political jokes #1

Posted in Humor, Opinion on January 8, 2010 by johnnybeyond

Obama said yesterday that “the US fails to understand intelligence.”What was his first clue? For me, it was the success of Carrottop.

The FBI, CIA, and NSA are still trying to effectively sort and share information about violent threats… but it’s going VERY slowly. Yesterday they told Obama they think someone in Dallas is going to shoot JR Ewing.

Tia Tequila’s girlfriend, Casey Johnson, just died. The Autopsy will show that she just got ahold of a bad clam.

Dick Cheney’s still bitchin’ about Obama. Y’know Cheney’s never going to have an honest bone in his body until he gets sodomized by Gay Zombie Abe Lincoln.

What’s all this fuss about Underwear bombs? When I’m eating Mexican food, I must get them 4 or 5 times a week!

I’ve discovered a cure for my lifelong clinical depression: SEVERE HEAD TRAUMA! I fell down a fire escape drunk, and once the scabs formed, I was a changed man! My mood is terrific now, but the Q-tips keep coming out red…

My nervous system has bonded with my cable system. I only have to blink 187 times in a row to get to the Playboy channel. Outside of the constant retinal tearing, it’s really worth it. Of course, my eyes are bloody by that time, but if I just imagine that Jenna Jameson is a redhead, I can still get my business done!

#2:I call my dick…

Posted in Humor, Opinion, Uncategorized with tags , , on December 22, 2009 by johnnybeyond

I call my dick “the economy,” because it doesn’t get all the new jobs it needs every month, and I have yet to see that rapid growth that we ALL need so desperately.

I call my dick “Avatar,” because it’s been in production for years, it’s in 3-D, and I can’t afford for it to flop.

I also call my dick “Titanic,” because Kate Winslet needs to go down on it.

I call my dick “Kanye West,” because it’s always standing up at the wrong times.

I call my dick “Rush Limbaugh,” because… well, because they’re BOTH dicks.

I call my dick “Cheney,” because it shot me in the face once.

Obscene Christmas Carol #2: Santa’s Hidden Gland

Posted in Humor with tags , , , , on December 12, 2009 by johnnybeyond

Santa’s Hidden Gland (sung to the tune of “Winter Wonderland”)


Friday night, and the mall’s packed…

They all plop on my ballsack:

I’m not talkin’ kids,

Just Moms and their Ids:

Moms who sit on Santa’s hidden gland.

So the kids pose for photos…

While their mom grabs my scroto:

It gives me deep peace,

When she grinds her crease…

Mom who sits on Santa’s hidden gland.

Every Friday night, the mall’s a nightmare…

Families swarm into every store,

Meantime Santa’s big red pants get tight where

Victoria’s got no secrets anymore.

Later on, I’ll be jerkin’

Thinkin’ ‘bout  Mama’s merkin.

The winter winds blow…

But I produce snow

{for} Moms who sit on Santa’s hidden gland.

Obscene Christmas Carol #1… Santa Smells

Posted in Humor with tags , , , , on December 12, 2009 by johnnybeyond

Boy, he smells (sung to the tune of “Silver Bells”)


Busy mall time, fuck it all time,

That’s the mall this twelfth month…

And the kids all have real tiny bladders.

Keep a kind eye and your pants dry…

These are Santa’s big jobs…

And from every small child, you can hear…

“Boy, he smells. Santa smells.”

I’m litter, they are the kitty.

Hear their wish, while they piss…

on my lap, this Christmas day.

So the kids come, and the kids dump

Onto Santa’s red suit,

Which turns into a big yuletide diaper.

Spray some Lysol on your moist balls

While the elves hold their nose,

And from every small child you can hear…

“Boy he smells. Santa smells!”

Its Christmas time, I smell shitty.

Hear their wish, while they piss…

on my lap, this Christmas day.