Posts Tagged ‘Music’

3 Things Will Smith Should’ve Done Before Making “Men in Black III”

Posted: May 23, 2012 in Pop Culture
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The latest installation in the Men in Black franchise is coming out this Friday.  I’m sure you know this, since we’ve all been force-fed a gag-inducing portion of advertisements and gimmicks to let us know that this — along with Burger King, the NBA Playoffs, Sprite, iHop, and some kind of car — is something we can’t afford to miss.

I was a fan of the first MIB movie.  I was also in elementary school. 

I’m not saying that the first part of that 2-sentence statement was contingent on the second half.  But I do feel that it has at least something to do with why I was such a fan.  When the first movie came out, Will Smith was at the height of his powers.  He was an action movie/buddy-comedy goldmine and a rapper who was the epitome of non-swearing, unthreatening fun that made suburban mothers okay with popping Big Willy Style into their Nissan Minivans.  (*Author’s note: the last 14 words of that sentence are not dirty.  I swear it.  Damn you, double entendres.  Damn you.)

My brother and I loved the first movie.  At the time it had a multitude of things going for it that made me obsessed with the film.  Aliens, high-tech special effects, and a wise-cracking young hotshot butting heads with his grizzled and grumpy older partner.  It had all the elements of a movie that a young male would find impressive.

We’ve now come full circle.  As is often the case, my nostalgia has given way to a feeling of dread.  What used to be awesome to the 1997 version of myself has turned into me shouting at the TV during the 14th preview for MIB III during the NBA Playoffs, “Oh, right, because Will Smith screaming with terror while riding in a space-aged vehicle is so f-ing original!?!?”

I’m a Will Smith fan.  I like him as an actor, if I have come to realize that his rapping is no longer for me, but I feel like there are other things on Will Smith’s career priority list that he’s neglecting to go after the obvious cash-grab that is an entirely unnecessary third chapter to the Men in Black franchise. 

In fact, here’s the things I think Will Smith should have done instead of making Men in Black III.

#1.  (*Author’s note: this one is glaringly obvious)  Make Bad Boys 3

I can’t explain my outrage when I heard that Will Smith was doing a “part 3″ movie that wasn’t prefaced with Bad Boys.  I was shocked, then appalled.  Then re-shocked.  Then I involuntarily started quoting Detective Mike Lowery.

The facts are these: Bad Boys and Bad Boys 2 are two of the finest action/comedy movies ever made.  They are the only movies in which Martin Lawrence can tap into his neurotic, spastic humor without making me want to pour battery acid into my eyes like it was Visine.  These movies are like the pre-Monta Ellis trade Golden State Warriors.  They’re so damn fun to watch that you don’t care if they’re more style than substance and more exploding Ferraris than powerhouse acting performances (*Author’s note: in this analogy, the exploding Ferraris would be Steph Curry’s ankles).

At this point, I’ve even got a plotline hammered out.  Detective Mike Lowery (Will Smith) is marrying into Detective Marcus Burnett’s family.  Marcus, along with a host of crotchety uncles, cousins etc. (*Author’s note: preferably someone like Charlie Murphy) is all-too happy to haze and/or initiate Lowery into their clan.  All of this is playing out on the backdrop of both detectives being investigated by a crooked internal affairs agent with ties to the Jewish Mafia in South Beach.  The Chief (Joe Pantoliano) is in the midst of a messy divorce and has his hands firmly tied behind his back.

The rest of the plot goes a little something like this: Car chase, car chase, automatic weapon fight, machine gun, club scene, wedding gun fight, kidnapping, LeBron James cameo, explosion, rap music, Martin Lawrence too shocked for words, car chase, credits.

You get the point.  The beauty of the Bad Boys franchise is that it allows Michael Bay to do what he loves, namely blow shit up and spend millions on special effects, without it feeling disgustingly CGI-ed or too Shia LaBeouf-y.  The chemistry between Lawrence and Smith is so funny that even the most chaotic scream-sessions seem enjoyable.

#2. Come Out With a Rap Song Featuring Sisqo That Samples the Entire Music Track From a Previously Created Song

The music industry needs this.  We need this.  I’m not sure where Sisqo has gone.  Probably somewhere that would be alternately terrifying and hilarious to us if we knew.  Is his hair still an un-polished silver that looks like it’s a weird coat of primer-paint?  Has anyone showed him their thong-th-thong-thong-thong?  Besides men, I mean.  I think we need to know.  A Will Smith/Sisqo collaboration would offer us the perfect vessel to answer these pressing questions.

All they have to do is hi-jack another ’80s tune with an upbeat tempo, re-write a few of the words like an un-funny parody and they’re suddenly off and running.  It would take some of us back to our childhoods and Smith back to the top of the charts.  (*Author’s note: Alright, the second half of that is probably inaccurate) 

I know that his kids are currently attempting to get their Emilio Estevez game right, taking over Hollywood in the footsteps of their parents, but if Will wants to re-establish dominance now is the time.  Bieber’s “rapping” about fondue and Buzz Lightyear on his latest track.  The music game would be Smith’s for the taking.

At this point, I’d even be fine with him re-making his own remake.  Sound confusing?  Don’t tell that to the people who are already re-doing Spiderman about 20 minutes after the first franchise seemed dead.  (*Author’s note: I’m leaning towards a re-envisioning of “Will 2k” but maybe changed up to something like an upbeat party jam about how dope it will be for the world to end called, ”Will 2k12: Mayan Apocalypse.”)

#3.  A Fresh Prince of Bel-Air Reunion Show

I’m not asking for the series to come back.  I’m just asking for an over the hill, obese Carlton (Alphonso Ribeiro) and a using-Just-For-Men-Gel Will to have to come home because Uncle Phillip Banks has become embroiled in a corruption case.  Will will have to get Carlton to abort his beginning-level Ponzi Scheme and Carlton will have to try to keep Will out of one last stint in rehab.  Sounds like a boatload of fun, right?

In summation, Will Smith has other, much more pressing needs to take care of before he should’ve made this movie.  Shame on you, Big Willy.  Shame.

FIN

Burnpoetry Presents: A Bunch of Bad Tim Tebow & Taylor Swift Jokes

Posted: March 1, 2012 in Pop Culture
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(*Author’s note: when I woke up this morning I heard Good Morning America discussing Tim Tebow’s love life.  This time, it would seem, he’s been linked to Taylor Swift.)

- Taylor Swift is totally going to get Tebowned.  Wait. . .no she won’t.  Damn it, that was the best joke that I had, too.  All downhill from here. . .

- Through the first three courses of the meal Tebow wasn’t very charming but when that fourth course came out. . .he mounted a dramatic comeback and had her giggling moronically.

- Prince of Persia: incomplete.  Racially Unidentifiable Werewolf Boy: incomplete.  One of the New-Age-Hanson-Brothers: incomplete.  Her Body wasn’t a wonderland: incomplete.  At least the two lovebirds have the same completion percentage.

(*Author’s note: for those not dumb enough to somehow have a base knowledge of Taylor Swift’s dating life that’s– Jake Gyllenhaal, Taylor Lautner, Joe Jonas [*Secondary author's note: I had to Google some of these], and John Mayer, respectively.)

- The couple dined late into the night, frolicking in the play maze at McDonald’s after their dinner.  Wait, Taylor Swift is how old?!?!

- The couple dined late into the night, but not too late since Taylor Swift’s Dad had told Timothy to “Have his daughter home by 10.”  Wait, Taylor swift is how old!?!?!

- The couple dined late into the night, but not too late since Taylor Swift wanted to get up early to watch her requisite 14 hours of cartoons on Saturday mornings.  Wait, Taylor Swift is how old?!?!?!

(*Author’s note: I apologize.  But I can’t get over the fact that Taylor Swift is something like 22 years old and all of her songs are aimed at the Have-a-Hunger-Games-poster-on-their-wall-and-pass-notes-in-the-back-of-Intro-To-Algebra demographic.)
 
- After riding horses in the countryside, past laundry drying in the blowing winds of the plains and rolling hills spinning with country-esque beauty, listening to the cicadas chirp in time to a banjo’s twang, and enjoying a really, really rustic time, the two shared a bucket of fried chicken and grits under the stars.  Oh, wait, that’s just the image that Taylor Swift’s 900-person PR firm came up with.  They were eating in LA in a super f-ing expensive restaurant.
 
 - Here’s a brief artists’ rendering of what the conversation at their dinner table looked like.
 
Tim-
 
Taylor-
 
Tim-
 
Taylor- 
 
Tim- 
 
Taylor- 
 
Tim- 
 
Taylor-
 
And then right as they were about to come together for a perfect, romantic, night-ending kiss. . .someone interrupted:
 
 
FIN

April Fools Day: A Short Story

Posted: April 1, 2011 in Burnfiction
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The room was a wasp’s nest.  All throughout the main conference room at the Trump Hotel in Las Vegas, media members from the world over, foreign dignitaries, and strippers heading home from the late shift were gathered for what promised to be an intriguing press conference.

All were welcome in this palace of excess.

Rumors were humming through the air leaving more speculation in their wake.  Why had Donald Trump called the media to attend a press conference?  What did he mean that it would “be a day that changes the course of human history?”

Before the crowded room was quite a sight.  A stage had been constructed and assembled and on the stage sat 5 chairs.  In front of those 5 chairs was a podium equipped with microphones.  Behind the stage, there was a crimson curtain that held all the possibilities that a Vegas-addled mind could imagine.

Whispers have a way of splitting, like growing bacteria, and soon enough the entire room was infected.  Just as this simmering of activity seemed ready to seethe over into a shouting melee worthy of the New York Stock exchange floor, Trump himself stepped from behind the curtain and onto the stage.

He walked up to the podium, which held roughly 87 microphones, ran his bejeweled fingers through his famed Trump ‘do and smiled a porcelain, veneered, smile.

“Welcome everyone.  I’m glad you could join us today, on the this the first day of April.  As spring begins to thaw out our great nation and release us from the icy mandibles of winter, although here in Vegas the sun’s always shining baby,” he winked at the audience full of people and two of the strippers we will call soon-to-be-ex-wife numbers 8 and 9 winked back.

“I know what you’re thinking, people, but this doesn’t have to do with my impending Presidency, nor is this a chance for me to public flaunt my wallet — although, for those of you wondering, I just compared checking accounts with God and have him soundly beaten.  I have called this press conference today, with media outlets attending from CNN to Al Jazeera, to let the truth be known.”

The Donald leaned back, letting the wildly diverse crowd murmur.  “I have a few friends to join me.  A band of Merry Pranksters, they’ve all been putting you on.  Here they are.”

From behind the curtain emerged four shapes.  As they stepped forward to the light, Trump called each by name.

“Charlie Sheen, everyone.”

Charlie Sheen stumbled to the front of the stage, wearing heavily tinted sunglasses, gave a head nod to been-there-done-that strippers 6 and 7 and took a seat.

“Moammar Ghadafi!”

Colonel Ghadafi stepped onstage, resplendent in his military outfit, and blew a few kisses to the stunned crowd.

“Everyone welcome Justin Bieber.”

Bieber danced onto the stage, popping and locking.  Towards the back of the room a tweenage girl screamed so hard her braces turned to liquid metal.  She swallowed, purely by reflex, and thusly cost her parents another twelve grand in orthodontist fees. 

(*Author’s note: later on in her life, the girl would note that this price was “like totally worth it.”

“And finally,” The Donald gestured widely like a ringmaster in the center circle.  “The Economy.”

A man dressed in a tuxedo, wearing a monocle, stepped forward and bowed deeply.  The puzzled crowd was now deathly silent.  Katie Couric looked over at Brian Williams and shrugged looking for all the world like she expected Ashton Kutcher to come leaping out from behind the stage and reveal that all were being featured on his new movie, “Punk’d 3-D.”

“Alright,” said The Donald, reclaiming the attention of his audience.  “Charlie would like to lead us off.”

As The Donald moved to take his seat he first pulled out a piece of chalk and drew a long line on the stage.

As Sheen stood up, he grabbed a cigarette and lit up with a flashy platinum lighter.  He wobbled up to the stage and leaned heavily on it.

The crowd caught their breath, inhaling as one massive, collective lung.  They were preparing for Charlie Sheen’s rant. 

Dr. Drew, star of Vh-1′s celebrity-exploitation machine “Sober House,” was seated in the back row delicately wiping away the caviar from his mouth with a wad of $100 dollar bills and mentally planning his next cash bath from a Sheen-featured special.

Suddenly, with a swift and lithe movement Charlie Sheen stood up straight.  He took off his sunglasses to reveal two distinctly un-bloodshot eyes.  Then, to the shock of all in attendance, he put heel to toe and perfectly walked the chalk line drawn out by The Donald.

As Sheen finished his walk, he turned and sauntered back to the podium.  Leaning into the wall of microphones, Sheen said in perfect, unslurred letters, “Z-y-x-w-v-u-t-s-r-q-p-o-n-m-l-k-j-i-h-g-f-e-d-c-b-a.”

Without another letter or another word, Sheen did something else completely remarkable.  He stood on one leg, pulled from his pocket a handheld breathalyzer and touched his nose with his other hand.  The cameras zoomed in on the breathalyzer, which promptly landed at 0.00.

Sheen danced wildly around on stage, spiked the breathalyzer like he was performing an endzone celebration and leaned into the podium once more.  “I slept eight hours last night.  In fact, I do every night.  This whole, junkie-slash-crazy man thing?  Not only am I not a ‘Vatican Assassin’ like I told everyone, I got that phrase from a really crappy Charles Bronson movie from the 70′s.”

He tried to take a drag on his lit cigarette and choked, hacking.  “I don’t even actually smoke.  And I’ve been celibate for 5 years.  Joaquin Phoenix and I had the same PR agent, and he had this brilliant idea for both of us to fake– well you guys know the story.  And that, ladies and gentleman, is acting.  April F-in Fools.”

Sheen returned to his seat as media members grabbed hysterically at their phones. 

Dr. Drew tottered to his gator-skin-loafered feet took three steps towards the back of the room and his head blew up.  Mario Lopez, on location for “Entertainment Tonight” wept openly at all the ad revenue that had just been flushed down the toilet, only consoling himself by taking off his shirt.  Such was the commotion in the room that no one noticed.

As Sheen settled back to his seat Ghadafi returned to the microphone.  The crowd, whipped into a ravenous fervor by such a startling revelation, suddenly found itself hushed; on the edge of silence waiting for a push.

“Let’s give it up for Chuck Sheen,” Ghadafi said chuckling to himself in perfect english.  He slow clapped for a few seconds until he realized that his were the only hands making noise.  “Tough crowd, Chuck.  Real tough in here tonight.”

He delicately tapped on of the microphones and it squealed with high-pitched feedback.  “Wooo-eee.  Got a hot mic here, Donnie,” he gestured at The Donald, who smiled back magnanimously.

“Well, to start, my name’s not actually Moammar Ghadafi.  It’s Ted Davenport.  And I don’t live in the underground tunnels of Libya, I’m from Dubuque, Iowa.  I just have a really weird skin complexion from being dehydrated all the time.  Believe it or not, I actually learned how to speak Arabic, or whatever that language is, from an online course.”

The dictator formerly known as Ghadafi grinned, suddenly.  “Anyway, um. . . April Fools!  Man, you guys should’ve seen the look on your–”

A covert CIA sniper, hidden some 200 yards away near a gigantic billboard of Sigfried and Roy, finished Ted Davenport’s last word for him.

As Davenport-Ghadafi’s body was pulled from the stage, Katie Couric stiff armed Brian Williams in an effort to beat him to the camera crew waiting in the lobby to break the news.

However, as they were mid-way to the lobby to begin a frantic live report, they were drawn back to the dais by the angelic wailing of a boy considered by 88% of 13-year-old girls to be their muse.

“Katie. . .Katie. . .Katie. . .nooo!”  Came the high pitch siren’s call.  Couric froze in her tracks and turned, as though hypnotized. 

“Must. . .throw bra. . .at Bieber.”  She mumbled, as she stumbled like an extra from “Dawn of the Dead” towards her seat once more.

The crowd, lured in by the melodic pinings of the teen-beat sensation, turned their eyes once more to the dais.

“Hi, everyone,” Bieber croaked out in his real voice, sounding more like a pack-a-day smoker than a millionaire sensation.  “I wanted to come to this press conference to let everyone know a deep, dark secret that I’ve decided to let you all in on.”

The room was a vacuum.  Airless.  Soundless.

“I know you thought I’m a young, fresh-faced boy of 17 years, but I’m actually 39 years old.  I have a rare pituitary disease that has kept my body looking this age ever since I was 16.  I’m pretty much Andy Milonakis with better choreography.  Goodbye, under age women.  Hello, cougars.  April Fools, everyone.”  As he finished his statement he reached into the air and caught Katie Couric’s bra.

Many in the audience were now passed out.  Whether from the news of Bieber’s pituitary issues, Ghadafi’s Dubuque residency, Sheen’s true sobriety, or due to the quarter drinks provided in the casino after 3 P.M. it was unclear.  Silence reigned as The Economy stepped to the podium.

“I actually don’t have any startling plot twist.  We’re all still screwed.  I’m just here because I owe The Donald some money.  These other guys really fooled you all good, though.  Peace.”

And with this, The Donald returned to the microphone.

“On this a day of big revelations, I’d just like to say that April Fool’s day is not to be tampered with.  These men all had made fools of us all and chose to reveal their trickery on a day of pranks.  Let this be a lesson to you all.  Now, I’d just like to say to all of you: you’re fired.” 

Grinning he took off his hair and stepped down off the dais to go find another ex-wife.

(*Author’s note: Happy April Fool’s Day from Burnpoetry.)

FIN

New Year’s Eve Drinking Game

Posted: December 31, 2010 in Pop Culture
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Since I haven’t yet begun the 13 step process of coping with the soap-drop-in-San-Quentin style bowl game beatdown the Huskies laid on a lackadaisical, un-inspired, crappily coached Husker team, I decided to give myself a few days to wrap my already inefficient mind around the game.

That being said, I decided that I’d take a good long look at the wonderful, boozeiful (*Author’s Note: I invented that word purely for this occasion.  You’re welcome alcoholics looking for a new way to describe themselves.), holiday that is: New Year’s Eve.

So, ladies and gentleman of Burnpoetry, without further ado is the 2010 NYE Drinking game:

Take One Drink

-  When you realize that Dick Clark’s still alive.
-  When you realize that Dick Clark is only technically still alive.  Or that he’s an android.
-  When you realize that not only is Carson Daly still alive, is somehow milking his “TRL” fame into cash, and that you can’t get a job despite being infinitely cooler than Carson Daly.
-  When the first person at wherever you’re ringing in the New Year puts on one of those dopey, pointy hats that make them look like a $.10 version of the Pope.
-  Whenever someone claims that 2010 either “sucked, anyway” or “was a hell of a year.”
-  Whenever someone shoots the cork off their champagne like an eye-seeking missile and shouts, “whoooooo!!!!!” like Rick Flair.
-  If anyone claims that they want to watch ESPN’s “Year of the Quarterback” special.
-  When someone gets punched for mentioning that 2011 is “The Year of the Quarterback” a phrase which literally makes no sense.  What, ESPN, the last 30 years haven’t been all about quarterbacks?  And here I thought 2011 would surely be deemed “The year of the Kicker” and feature a riveting documentary on Sebastian Janikowki’s 2 minute workout routine.

Take Two Drinks

-  When Nicky Minaj struts onto stage dressed like her stylist stole clothing/wigs from both Lil Kim and Lady Gaga, did some acid and then threw together an outfit.
-  When either some desperate dude or skeezy female casually mentions to you that they “Don’t have a New Year’s Kiss” and then awkwardly pauses, waiting for you to slather on some chapstick and leap at the opportunity.
-  When someone pops one of those little champagne bottles with confetti inside.
-  When someone gets overly excited and shouts out, “T-minus ____(insert hours 5-1)!!”
-  When you log onto Facebook and see a minimum of 13 status updates detailing peoples’ New Year’s resolutions.
-  When you get a mass text from someone you haven’t spoken to since 2008 wishing you “Hppy Nw Yrs. :) !!”

Take Three Drinks

-  When anyone calls tomorrow “National Hangover Day.”
-  I anyone makes an overly big deal about 1/1/11.  Someone will.  I just know it.
-  Whenever anyone appears so tanked that they might not make it to Midnight in New York, let alone Nebraska or the midwest.
-  Whenever some lush has had their fill and claims, “This is gonna be the best. . .year. . .ever!”
-  If someone makes a sentimental toast (Usually me.  I admit it, I’m a lame-ass).

Chug it. . .Chug it!

-  Whenever someone pronounces their upcoming resolutions a little too loudly and you can tell they’re just doing it for show. (Ex: “I’m really gonna hit the weights this year.  You know. . .START GETTING MY SWOLE ON EVERYDAY.“)
-  Everyone fires into “Auld Lange Syne” and butchers the lyrics and no one cares, because it’s not really the words that are important.
-  If anyone actually knows the words.
-  A group of girls step into the room where you’re at looking dressed like they’re on their way to Prom.
-  If someone makes a dirty joke about the “Ball dropping” in Times Square.  (Ex: These balls dropping in Times Square took longer than Justin Bieber’s.”)
-  If someone mentions that Snooki was originally slated to be dropped in the ball in New York City and she got demoted to being dropped in a ball in New Jersey.
-  When two people get a little too excited about their New Years kiss and end up drunkenly mauling each other; slamming faces together like two crash test dummies upon impact and making out so hard that it reminds you of a dementor sucking out Harry Potter’s soul.

FIN

12 Days of Christmas

Posted: December 24, 2010 in Pop Culture, Sports
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In the spirit of the Holidays, and since I can’t sing worth a damn, here’s the words to my personal favorite Christmas Carol.  Sing along, aloud or in your head.  It’s really pretty catchy.  Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good Burn.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
The Youtube link to Miley smokin’ Weed.

One the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
2 Wikis-Leaking.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
3 rich D-bags playing for the Heat.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
Four Lokos chugging.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
5 Clicks on Bing.  Seriously.  Who uses Bing?

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
6 More months of Favre coverage.

On the seventh day of Chrstimas, my true love gave to me:
7th Lohan Felony.

On the eigth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
8 Chilean miners.  Wait, how many of them were there?

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
9 T-Magic textings.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
10 teams in the Big 12.  Suck it, Danny Beebe.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
11 Spiderman on Broadway near-death-experiences.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
12 Idiotic Burnpoetry postings.

FIN

Black Eyed P(l)eas(e shut the hell up)

Posted: December 20, 2010 in Pop Culture
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There’s a problem in this country.  I’m not talking about the bloated, carcass of an economy or the growing political rift between rich white guys and. . .well, rich white guys.  No, no, no.  I’m not “phunking with you heart.”  This is serious.  As serious as a woman who calls herself “the Duchess” urinating all over herself while gyrating about onstage.

With un-clever names like Fergie, Taboo, apl.de.ap, and will.i.am there is no doubt that this group s.uck.s.  With more punctuation in their group than lyrical ability, the Black Eyed Peas have gone from a socially conscious, mildly respected hip-hop group to an international sensation.

And I hate them.

And they’re now going to do their damnedest to sully one of the best events our great country has to offer.  That’s right.  The Black Eyed Peas are going to be bringing their vegetable-loving asses to the Super Bowl halftime show.

They’ll be bringing their “Pac-Man” soundtrack-on-steroids-sounding music, pumping audio-feces out into a crowd of 80,000.  They’ll be spitting their hot lyrics, which sound like something that they dug out of Dr. Seuss’ “rejection” pile.  Oh, and don’t forget that they’ll be bringing their 88 different wardrobe changes that make them look more like The Village People than a legitimate rap group.

Now, I’m not saying that the Super Bowl Halftime show is some sacred, holier-than-thou kind of event.  They have to find groups that appeal to a mass audience.  And let’s be perfectly clear: they’re the Ryan Howard of entertainment; they strike out about as much as they hit home runs.

In recent memory the shows have been good-not-great, and to be honest I don’t remember them all.  I don’t watch the game for the spectacle — I watch for the football — but I’m also not one of those purists who can’t have a little fun with all the hype and glamor that is the Superbowl. 

You may be saying to yourself at this point, “But wait, the Black Eyed Peas wouldn’t be the worst halftime show ever.  Would they?”

While I still wake up with cold chills running through my veins and uncontrollable spasms brought on by being forced to endure the closeups of Mick Jagger, shaking his old, heroin-scarred arms wildly in the night air, dancing around in a child-medium-sized tee and showing more mid-riff than a girl on “Maury: My Tween Is Out Of Control” I firmly believe that the Black Eyed Peas’ show might be worse than that.

will.i.am, while a talented producer, needs to head back to the booth.  Or the library to grab a thesaurus.  Immediately.  Apl.de.ap, who most people don’t even remember as being in the group, is much better at getting new-age afro-hawks that look like bootleg versions of Mr. T’s barber’s handiwork than holding an audience of millions in his hands.  Fergie, the star with the aforementioned bladder control issues, is a terrific singer but lacks the rapping skills to legitimately claim to be an MC.

Which leaves me with Taboo.  Yeah, there actually is one more member of the group.  He’s the one that blends into the background like a human version of the “Predator.”  This group member is only fascinating because of two things: 1.  He’s R.U. (racially unidentifiable) and 2.  Oh, wait. . .that was it.  He usually comes out and dances around, whipping his long mane of hair around like Willow Smith, hits a few backup vocals and goes chameleon, fading out into the set.

I know that the Black Eyed Peas are a big deal to a lot of people.  What I’m saying is, they shouldn’t be.  Their hooks are simple, paint-by-number affairs, that any honky in a karaoke bar could rap along to with equal skill, they get overplayed so much that I find myself longing for some Katy Perry.  Almost.

I’m ready for the Black Eyed Peas to get put back underground; buried like their name sake in 6 feet of dirt.  Looks like the only way the halftime show at the Superbowl will be tolerable is if we all get super-drunk.  Someone pass me a 4Loko.

FIN

Where You at, Vh-1?

Posted: September 24, 2010 in Pop Culture
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With certain channels we expect certain programming.  With the SyFy channel we expect to see any number of terrible movies with budgets lower than most home videos and a network that can’t even spell their own genre correctly.  With ESPN we clearly expect sports.  Vh-1, which has become synonymous in my mind with a fall lineup of awesomely bad television is slipping this season.  They just can’t seem to find anything low rent enough, trashy enough or Brett Michaels enough for me.

Sure there’s “Real and Chance, Legend Hunters,” a show in which the two idiotic brothers originally of “I Love New York” fame run around the country doing crap that scares them.  I tuned in for a few worthless minutes the other day and found my interest waning almost immediately.  So I though, “why not come up with a few solutions to Vh-1′s programming doldrums?”

Here, submitted for your approval, are a few show ideas for my favorite trash T.V. network:

“Is ‘The Juice’ Worth The Squeeze: O.J. Takes a Stab at Love”

This can’t miss reality show would pit 12 women and 4 fellow inmates against one another to try to win O.J. Simpson’s love.  Why O.J.?  Because he’s a murderer, a multi-conviction felon, and my favorite punchline in the world.  The women would be allowed an hour a week to try to woo O.J. through the phone and through visits to him behind bars.  His fellow inmates would have yard time and municipal shower time to attempt to lure O.J. into a prison love.

Contestants on the show would be whittled down and the show would end with O.J. getting a conjugal visit to try to close the deal.  However just to spice things up in the weekly challenges, all the women would be required to wear shank-proof vests 24/7 and O.J. would be given a shorter length of rope for his soap each week.

Miley Meltdown: The Countdown to Skankhood

Miley Cyrus first burst onto the scene as an irrepressible and, much to my disgust, an unavoidable figure in the pop culture world.  Her father is Billy Ray Cyrus, yes the guy with the mullet, tight jeans and worst song of all time “Achy Breaky Heart” and her multiple clothing lines and mini-empire now pervade my every day life all-too-much.

As she’s grown into the weird tweenage years she decided to follow in the footsteps of other artists that grew up before our very eyes.  In other words: she’s going crazy.  While her song’s have somehow become popular with idiotic girls the nation over, they have become more racy, sexual and Britney-esque. 

This show would be a reality show with a ticking clock in the corner for when Miley has a full on mental breakdown, shaves her head, and ends up dating Jack Nicholson.  The show would culminate, I can only hope, with her father receiving shock treatment from a demented nurse and Miley going mute.

Tiger Woods: Marriage Counselor

This zany show would feature one Eldrick Woods, non-M.D., as he seeks to repair the lives of couples that are fighting.  His advice will begin with his trademark phrase spoken to the woman in the relationship: “Trust me. . .he could be worse,” and then he would follow it up with his other trademark phrase: “By the way. . .didn’t we sleep together?”

Tiger would seek to bring his wooden, abrasive personality into a situation that is already rife with tension and the results would be both hilarious and awful.  Kind of like if “Intervention” was hosted by Chris Rock.

Speaking of “Intervention”. . . . . . . .

BenTervention: Ben Roethlisberger’s Guide to Dating

Ben Roethlisberger, the almost-rapist and kinda-sexual assaultist would be put into a house with a group of clueless nerds looking to find love.  He would inform them in the first pilot episode that you don’t, in fact, need to look for love.  You need to force it to come to you with lots of liquor and body guards that are intimidating.

This show would culminate with any of the house-mates that aren’t in prison being crowned the winner and being allowed to do beer bongs with the Steelers’ QB.

Fat People Exercising. . .Oh, and Midgets Too

This wild new reality show would feature something that apparently the public at large never tires of: fat people trying to not be fat, and midgets doing. . .whatever the hell they want except being smaller than us while doing it.  It would be completely random shots of obese people running on treadmills and midgets lifting weights.

Does this show sound terrible?  Yes.  Is Bravo/Discovery/Any other network probably already producing something just like it?  Yes.  Midgets and fat people are like meth for studio executives at major networks and Vh-1 is certainly no different.

So that should do it.  Now you’ve got a few ideas, Vh-1, and I expect some royalty checks to start rolling in when you produce one, or all of these cultural gems.

FIN

Peed Downtown (Niles Paul Remix)

Posted: August 10, 2010 in Burnaudio
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Anne has lent her vocal talents to Niles’ part in this dramatic interpretation.  I have lent my dulcet tones and Barry White-like vocals to the part of Bo Pelini.  Sit back, try not to claw your ears out when I sing my part, and enjoy.

I have been having difficulty embedding the song so, for now, click the link and it will take you to the heart of musical fusion as we know it.

http://ia360707.us.archive.org/10/items/PeedDowntownnilesPaulRemix/PeedDowntown.wav

* Author’s Note: I also produced this song, in part, and will now only be going by the name “C-Diddy”.  Thank you and goodnight.

Ke$ha: Lee Harvey Oswald to the Rap Game

Posted: June 29, 2010 in Pop Culture
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Hip-Hop Isn’t Dead, But Ke$ha Is Doing Her Best Lee Harvey Oswald Impression

Turn on the radio in Lincoln, NE.  Flip through a few stations and you’ll hear a smattering of country, classic rock and talk radio.  Let your dial slip around for a few more seconds.  You’ll hear it soon enough.  That sound, that ear-drilling, electro-vomit oozing out of your speakers and polluting your morning commute like oil into the gulf.  That’s Ke$ha.  Yes, she spells her name like that.  And no, you can’t escape her presence.

People argue back and forth about the current state of affairs in the rap game these days and the cliché that “hip-hop is dead” gets bandied about a lot.  Personally I think that hip-hop and rap are alive and well.  In fact, I think that many of the main-stream rappers are at their peak, with Jay-Z still cranking out hits despite his “retirement” 5 years ago, Eminem getting back to his pissed off roots, and Lil Wayne only being slowed in his production by time behind bars, the commercial group of rappers are right on track with where they would want to be.  Hip-Hoppers like Common, The Jimmy Fallon band. . .err, The Roots, and Mos Def are all still putting out quality work.

With all of the above paragraph as evidence that the good times are rolling in the rap biz, let me interject on the revelry.  Put a little blonde, and poorly-developed-lyricist, rain on everyone’s parade.  Ke$ha might be having the biggest year of all the “rappers” out there.  And not big in the sense that she’s doing something classic like “2001″, or something that defies statistical analysis with it’s pure badassness like “The Marshall Mathers LP.”  No, Ke$ha’s got her own little revolution going on right now.  And.  It’s.  Horrible.  Here’s why Ke$ha is ruining music.

Her stage name looks like it was taken from a tweenage sext message.  The name with a dollar sign in it looks like something that Vanilla Ice would’ve had carved into the back of his flat-top.  Somehow no one has seen fit to properly harangue her about spelling all of her song titles so poorly that her English Teacher probably tried to down an entire bottle of sleeping pills.  I’d rather have Nelly teach my child how to read and write than Ke$ha.  I’m not usually one of those a-holes that brings rap down for its use of slang terminology and improper grammar, but her song, “Tik Tok,” which was #1 for so long that I lost all faith in humanity, is the second worst example of an artist using the “T9″ function on their phone to name a song.  The first?  “Ska8er Boi” by Avril Lavigne, a fore-running example of idiocy that Ke$ha clearly took to heart.

Her music is atrocious.  It sounds like she took the soundtrack to “Sonic The Hedgehog 3,” used her overpaid salary to add a little bass to it, and spewed it out onto a soundboard.  Ke$ha auto-tunes everything.  I’d say her voice is bad, but I can’t really tell because when she sings it sounds like that weird blue lady from “The 5th Element.”  She would auto-tune testimony in a murder trial if anyone would take her serious enough for that.  For all I know, she has a guy come in who’s had a larenjectomy to sing her hooks for her.  Still somehow her every-down-beat-has-a-prepackaged-Garageband-application-bass-hit music kicks up; it somehow calls to ditzy girls (and dudes looking to lay ditzy girls).  These morons, fresh from an L.M.F.A.O. concert run out to the dance floor where they twerk it to kill time until their favorite Miley Cyrus jam comes on next.

Ke$ha is the Shel Silverstein of the rap game.  Everything about her lyrics is terrible.  They remind me of the poems that my classmates read aloud in 8th grade English.  Each rhyme is simple, directly on the beat and, like everything else about her, sounds like she’s reading it from the outtakes of “Malibu’s Most Wanted.”  In “Tik Tok” Ke$ha drones on about how many dudes she’s going to have promiscuous, dirty sex with and utters the lines “We kick ‘em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger.”  I’m not sure if she’s seen Mick lately, but he looks more like an anorexic hobo than a sex-god rocker.  He’s clearly right in Ke$ha’s wheel house, though, since she undoubtedly googled “Rhymes with swagger” in a state of panic.

She tries very hard to be weird.  Only, Lady Gaga has taken weird, put it in a choke hold and made it her bitch.  Prince had his phallic torch passed to Gaga long ago and to try to catch up to “Lady” in this category is like trying to catch up to Tyson Gay after giving him a head start.  So when Ke$ha struts onstage wearing stupid outfits that Bjork would think were a bit much and dances spastically around during her laser light show you have to wonder: is she trying to cover up her staggering lack of actual talent?

As Ke$ha continues to crank out her “raps” while thumbing through Dr. Seuss books to get fresh material, and as she continues to try feebly to outweird the craziest singer since “The artist formerly known as,” just remember that Hip-Hop isn’t dead, but Ke$ha is trying to John Wilkes Booth the whole thing.

FIN