Embezzlers of the Caribbean

Bernard J. Ebbers, the founder and former chief executive of WorldCom who was found guilty of fraud by a New York jury in March, agreed today to surrender nearly all of his approximately $40 million personal fortune to investors who lost billions of dollars when the telecommunications company spiraled into bankruptcy almost three years ago.—The New York Times, June 30, 2006

Inside a cavernous top floor office, THADDEUS MORGAN CARNEGIE ROCKEFELLER sits behind a giant mahogany desk. He is talking on the phone.

ROCKEFELLER
Why, this company is unstoppable. Our stock is up 150 percent. Our employees are getting rich themselves by buying company stock. We’ve purchased a new company a month for the past three years. Nothing could sink us right now.

Vice President ROD TURK enters, looking concerned. He waits for Rockefeller to get off the phone.

ROCKEFELLER (into phone)
My good sir, We have created a company that cannot go bankrupt. I am as sure of that as I am sure that my name is Thaddeus Morgan Carnegie Rockefeller.

He sees Turk.

Well, I need to end this interview now. One of my vice presidents is here to meet with me—probably to deliver more good news about our soaring profits. (chuckles) Bye bye.

Rockefeller hangs up the phone.

Those Wall Street Journal guys just love us, eh, Mr. Turk?

TURK
Yes, well, they did love us, Mr. Rockefeller.

ROCKEFELLER
What are you talking about?

TURK
Sir, I’ve been analyzing our present course, and we are in serious danger.

ROCKEFELLER
Danger?

Turk lays some papers out. He points as he talks.

TURK
Yes. It started last year, here in this sea of unprofitable dot-coms that we purchased.

ROCKEFELLER
Yes, well, they seemed profitable at the time. I thought that sock-puppet dog had a great head for business.

TURK
We then hit Whirlpool with an unsuccessful bid to buy the company.

ROCKEFELLER
Yes, that was unfortunate. But this company was built to survive the rough waters of capitalism.

Turk raises his hand, his index finger extended dramatically, and then forcefully points down at the paper.

TURK
But here, here is what ripped us up. Our purchase of SBD Gas, Ltd. They had a huge amount of debt submerged in their books.

ROCKEFELLER
I thought that deal smelled funny, but the accountants assured me they didn't smell anything.

TURK
It ripped a hole in our earnings structure, sir. Our profits are gushing right out.

ROCKEFELLER
I can’t believe this. Is there nothing we can do?

Turk shakes his head no.

Well, I guess that leaves us with just one choice. Tell the executive officers that they need to start bailing out now. Tell them to sell all their stock. The press will know about this in a few hours, and by then we’ll be sunk.

TURK
What about the employees downstairs?

ROCKEFELLER
We can’t give everyone a lifeboat, Mr. Turk. Tell them nothing—I don’t want to start a panic.

TURK
But...but just leave them there?

They begin singing a slow, mournful Broadway tune.

ROCKEFELLER
There’s not much we can do
our corporate shell has been gored,
but we can save ourselves
if we throw our stock overboard.

TURK
Isn’t it wrong to say nothing?
Shouldn’t we shoot some flares?
While we float on our options
they’ll sink with their shares.

ROCKEFELLER
I feel as bad as anyone
for this disaster we’ve created,
but we’ll never make it to shore
if our profits aren’t inflated.
So batten down the hatches,
it’s time to run silent.
We must slip away now
before the tide turns violent.

TURK
If there’s no other course
then I won’t make a sound.
For our ship to come in
this one has to go down.

CHORUS (a bouncy march).

ROCKEFELLER and TURK
(singing together)
They’re going down with the ship,
there’s been a burst in their bubbles.
We’ll make out like pirates
while they drown in our troubles

Three members of the CREW burst in the room. They point at Rockefeller and TURK.

CREW
Stop right there!

ROCKEFELLER
Ee gads!

TURK
It’s the crew! But how?

A menacing tune begins to play

CREW (singing)
You thought you’d get away
when we weren’t looking.
But we followed our noses
and smelled the books a’cooking.
Now we can see all you rats
getting ready to take a swim.
You’re going to save yourselves
while we twist in the wind

TURK
We have sprung a leak
but we’re hardly a wreck.

ROCKEFELLER
We thought you’d hold on better
if your hands weren’t on deck.

CREW
If the ship is in danger
then we'll help you bail.
We want you to land safely
in a nice, dry jail.

Because...

CHORUS

CREW
You’re going down with the ship
You’ve burst all our bubbles
you’re a bunch of pirates
and you’ll drown for your troubles

The Crew move menacingly toward Rockefeller and Turk. As they do, the INSPECTOR enters. He has a naval-like hat on and puts himself between the two parties.

INSPECTOR
Wait!

ROCKEFELLER, TURK, and CREW
It’s the Inspector!

A slow, regal-sounding tune plays

INSPECTOR (singing)
I came as soon as I heard
your financial S.O.S.
I went to examine your logs
and became quite distressed.
(pointing to Rockefeller)
He said that you were on course,
but he wrote that all was lost.
(pointing to Turk)
He said to hoist the main sail
when he knew you’d all get tossed.

ROCKEFELLER
I won’t tolerate this mutiny!
I earned my bounty fairly!

TURK
I was only obeying orders
and I carried them out—barely

CREW
We’re the ones in charge now
and we’re tying you to the mast.
You’ll get yours in the port,
like we got ours in the aft.

INSPECTOR
I’m sorry, but you’re all lost.
You’ll be going under soon.
There’s no ship fast enough
to outrun this monsoon.

So...

ALL (singing)
We’re going down with the ship.
There’s been a burst in our bubbles.
We’ll make out like pirates
who are drowned for their troubles.

The music fades.

ROCKEFELLER
Well, this is it. I am sorry. I led us right into the teeth of the storm. Now I guess we’ll just have to wait for the cold waters to overtake us.

CREW MEMBER 1
It’s okay, my captain. We’re the ones that pushed you to go faster. We all wanted the quick, easy passage to wealth.

CREW MEMBER 2
We’ll stand by your side sir.

The Crew, Rockefeller, Turk and the Inspector stand silently for a moment.

TURK (singing)
Near, far, wherever you are—

CREW MEMBER 3
That’s it, get the plank!

Top Ten Tuesdays: Most coveted intangibles for the NBA draft

The NBA Draft is tonight, and general managers from around the league will be looking for the next superstars for their teams. What qualities do they seek?

10) More college championships than illegitimate kids
9) Plans to use signing bonus to buy some vowels
8) Lack of buttons on suit foreshadows seamless transition to the NBA
7) Only corn rows he has are on family farm in Iowa
6) Flashed a lot of leadership qualities while in the prison yard
5) Poor, rural Eastern European background means team can pay player in goats
4) Demonstrates politeness by spraying uniform with Febreze after toking up
3) Takes charges like a veteran when they are read against him in court
2) Showed tolerance for other cultures by letting Jewish kid take tests for him
1) Almost ready to start puberty

The Aristocrats, Circle Jerk style

Over at the always entertaining Earthgoat Journal, my good friend Grendel posted about the upcoming movie, The Aristocrats. As the New York Times reported (reg. required), this film may wind up being the first ever movie to get rated NC-17 (or not rated at all) solely because of language. Why? Because 150 comedians tell the same joke over and over again.

Whah? you may ask. How dirty can that joke be? The answer: pretty fucking dirty.

A little background: “The Aristocrats” is an old, old, old comedy routine. It involves the same set-up (a family comes into the office of a talent agency and tries to get representation by doing their act) and the same punch line. The real joke lies in between—a perverse, filthy improvisation by the comedian describing the family’s act in lurid Times Square detail. The dirtier, lewder, and cruder, the better. The movie of the same name will show many name-brand comedians offering their take on the joke. This film may even break the previous cinematic record for pussy humor.

Gilbert Gottfried did his version of the joke at Hugh Hefner’s Friar’s Club Roast (it’s toward the bottom, after the very dark 9/11 joke). I also found the Dead Frog Aristocrats Joke Database where you can submit your own joke. In short, there seems to be a resurgence of interest in this bit of Vaudevillian naughtiness.

After reading all this blue material, my own Aristocrats joke popped into my head while I was getting coffee at work. However, I was a little hesitant to take a stab at writing such a filthy joke. It’s not that I don’t like low-brow, dirty humor (or low-brow gory horror). It’s just I’m not much of a shock writer. But if fucking Bob Saget can tell this joke, so can I. At least I can’t be hit with rotten vegetables on my blog.

Warning: completely not work safe, hence we’re keeping it behind the red velvet curtain in the back.

Continue to The Flaming Aristocrats




The Flaming Aristocrats

A family walks into a talent agency: a mother, father, son, daughter, and their adorable Chihuahua. The father says to the talent agent, “You should represent us, we have an amazing act.”

The agent looks the family over. “Sorry, folks, I don’t represent family acts. Too cute for my tastes.”

“Sir,” the mother says, “if you just see our act, I know you’ll want to represent us.”

The agent looks at his watch. “Okay, you have five minutes.”

The family disrobe. The father reaches into a gym bag and pulls out a tea cup, a funnel, and a can of gasoline. He hands the tea cup to the daughter, shoves the funnel in his wife’s vagina, and pours the gas down the funnel. Kicking the funnel out of the way, he begins to fuck his wife. He thrusts faster and faster, his hips becoming a blur as he jackhammers away. The mother’s pussy begins to smoke, and with one final thrust, the father leaps off her.

A giant column of fire spurts from her vagina. Elevating her hips and sticking her legs in the air, her son springs onto her feet. The flames lick his scrotum, and the wrinkled skin expands, becoming smooth and red from the heat.

The father runs to his daughter, where she begins to give him head, maintaining his giant erection. He looks over at his son and sees his glowing nut sack. “Ready?” the father cries. “Now, Taquito!”

The Chihuahua lifts his leg and pees into the tea cup, filling it almost to the brim. The mother lowers her legs and catapults her son toward the daughter. With surgical precision, he lands his flaming nuts into the cup, instantly heating the dog’s piss. The father pulls his cock from his daughter’s mouth. “And now for the cream de la creme!” he shouts as he ejaculates in the cup.

The daughter snatches the cup and, with her pinky extended, pours the concoction into her mouth. She rolls onto her back and her brother grabs her ankles and thrusts into her. Taquito leaps onto the son’s face, and the son holds the dog in place by felatiating Taquito. The father lets Tequito grab onto his balls while he also grabs his daughter’s nipples. They form a giant vertical daisy chain, and the begin rolling toward the mother, who still has orange flame shooting out of her. As they roll across the room, the brother fucks his sister and sucks his dog as fast as he can. The human wheel gains speed and hops, leaping through the vaginal flame. In mid-air, they fly apart. The sister tumbles face-first into her mother’s flaming pussy. She spits the contents of the tea cup out of her mouth, dousing the flames. The son and Taquito land on either side of the mother and cool offer her smoking vagina with two giant squirts of their semen. The father lands spread eagle over the mother’s face. She places a gentle, loving kiss on the head of his penis.

“Ta da!” says the father.

“Wow!” the talent agent says. “That is an impressive act. What do you call yourselves?”

The family replies in unison, “The Aristocrats!”

Welcome to Insurgency Land!

So real, you’ll swear your enlistment’s been extended indefinitely!

Experience the thrills, the chills, the kills of Insurgency Land—the only theme park that thrusts you in the middle of an explosive fledgling democracy.

• See the Light at the End of the Endless Tunnel—the harder you run, the farther it moves!
• Distort intelligence and draw your own conclusions at the WMD Imaginatorium. Don’t forget to view the Satellite Foto Fun House Mirror.
• Can you tell friend from foe? You’ve got only seconds to shake hands or open fire on Spot the Baathist.
• Yo ho, yo ho, a contractor’s life for me! Take a wild voyage past flaming pipelines and padded invoices on Contractors of the Halliburton!
• How many volts can you take to your genitals before you break? Test your mettle on the electrifying In-Terror-Gator! Brought to you by Sears Die Hard.
• Help a democracy get off the ground—and bust a gut while doing it! Come for the democracy and stay for the laughs at the Komedy Konstitutional Konvention.
• Cool off at the end of the day in Allah’s Paradise. Now featuring 72 certified virgins! (18 and older only, please)

Plus, have your picture taken with our loveable neocon mascots—Rummy, Wolfi, Condi and more! And watch out for the suspicious, swarthy men lurking around concession stands and gift shops with conspicuous bulges under their coats. They might explode—with fabulous prizes!

Free valet parking with 1000 lbs of trunk explosives. Park closes promptly at dusk, all remaining visitors will be shot on sight.

Top Ten Tuesdays: Signs you've been at Disney World for too long

Special day late and dollar short edition!

10) You want Pluto spayed
9) You wish you were handicapped so you could go to the front of the lines
8) You envision the media circus that will surround your trial when you murder the 8-year-old SOB that keeps kicking your leg
7) You begin drooling uncontrollably at the thought of consuming fiber and vegetables
6) You get air rage on the Dumbo ride
5) You’re unable to stop thinking about a Snow White-Little Mermaid ménage à trois
4) You're convinced that you should resign from the firm and become a pirate
3) You believe Tom Sawyer Island was the inspiration for Mark Twain’s novel
2) You spend so much time at Animal Kingdom that you become feral
1) You can’t achieve orgasm without waiting in line for 45 minutes

It's a small world after all, bitches

I'm off to the Magic Kingdom with my family -- our first full family vacation in two decades. It will either be more fun than this, or you will be watching a new murder trial on CourtTV next week.

Back with more jerking on or around the 22nd.

Top Ten Tuesdays: What is wrong with us?

10) Currently one of those crazy white women
9) Downed Viagra with a Levitra chaser
8) Came for the love, stayed for the Scientology
7) 'Nam, man...'Nam
6) Tiffany's appearance on H1t Me Baby One More Time got us a little Wang Chunged.
5) Already a goofball when became hopped up on goofballs
4) Taco Bell snuck past our internal border patrol
3) One night in Bangcock and yadda yadda yadda, it won't stop burning
2) Huh, huh, you said wang.
1) Homeschooled at the Neverland Ranch

Even I could tell Iraq would be a quagmire, and I lick my own ass

by Barney the White House dog

Woof woof, comrades!

I’m not one to bite the hand that feeds me. Especially when that hand could have me drinking out of Koran-filled toilets at Gitmo. But I’ve been quiet about this Iraq business for too long. I’ve sat in too many NSC meetings, listening to Rumsfeld and Cheney humping the facts about WMD and terrorism ties. Even I could see that this was a spaying trip disguised as a morning walk.

I tried warning President Bush, back when he was discussing the invasion plans with the Brits. The numbers were all wrong—we were gravely misunderestimating how many troops we needed. I yipped and barked and hopped around the room.

“By jove,” Tony Blair said, “I believe your hound is trying to tell us something.” He’s a smart man, that Tony Blair, and his leg is on my top-five celebrity hump list.

“Colin,” said President Bush, “You’re not doing anything. Can you take Barney for a walk?”

I rolled on the ground and ran in circles, even pointing at the CIA report on the table. “Powell, get that motherfucking mutt out of here,” Cheney growled. “And get me some more Mountain Dew!”

Christ, I hate that douche bag.

Anyway, I’m going to explain why Iraq is a quagmire in terms even Don Rumsfeld can grasp, when he’s not fantasizing about Greco-Roman wrestling with Douglas Feith. (I’m saving that bit for my forthcoming Regan Books memoir, Doggie Style.)

Let’s say I’m the president of the United States of Dogdom. All of my supporters are dogs. Iraq, meanwhile, is full of cats. I don’t like cats. I don’t like the way they look or the way they smell. I don’t understand their culture, with all the grooming and scratching and sleeping. But in Iraq, the elite Persian Cats are abusing the hell out of all the other cats, torturing tomcats, female cats, even little kitties. Despite my hatred of cats, I am moved by their plight. After all, we’re all animals. (Except for those fucking hairless cats, I think they’re aliens.) I make an executive decision to get a few hundred thousand dogs together and go over there and to clean the cat box.

The first problem is that cats hate dogs almost as much as we hate them. They’re jealous of us because we’re bigger, stronger, and have that whole “man’s best friend” label. We get taken for walks. We get to gnaw on T-bones. They get left home alone during vacations and maybe get a saucer of expired skim milk. There’s a lot of jealousy and misunderstanding.

There’s also a little more too the story than me being a good doggie. You see, there are plenty of other places where cats are abusing other cats. Like those commie Siamese bastards running North Korea, or those murderous wildcats in the Sudan. But in Iraq, the cats are sitting on huge reserves of bacon. We love the bacon. We need the bacon. We get one whiff and we’re barking. OH GOD, WHERE’S THE BACON? I KNOW YOU HAVE IT, SHOW ME THE BACON! BACON BACON BACON!!!

The cats know that we are slaves to the bacon. They know that we don’t get along. When my canine allies and I show up, offering to “liberate you from those repressive Persian pussies,” they hiss and say no way, you’re here for our bacon!

Bacon? We lie. We didn’t know you had any bacon. No, no, no, we’re just here to help.

Yes you are, they say. Look at you, you’re panting and drooling for it.

Damn our involuntary reactions! Okay, okay, we confess. We are interested in your bacon. But that’s not the only reason we’re here. Now if you’ll just let us in....

But the minute I put one paw in their territory, some alley cat scrapes me across the nose. How’s that for gratitude? Before I can compose myself, I grab the offender in my jaws and shake him a bit. Being a dog, you forget your own strength sometimes. I don’t mean to hurt the cat, just teach it a lesson about using its claws. But then the fucker gets pissed that I’m gnawing on him, and he goes crazy, giving me the four-way Cat Scratch Fever. Now I’m in a rage, and I shake him like he’s in a blender. Until I notice he isn’t shaking anymore. Oops.

See, the other cats say, that’s what dogs do. They’re here to kill us and take our bacon.

“But he started it...” I protest. Before I can finish, each one of me and my mutts have four felines on us. We fight them off, as the cats are no match for us head-to-head. But cats are masters of stealth. Just when we think we have them down for the count, BOOM, they hit us in the back with a flaming hairball.

We can’t win. We bark and chomp and chase to no avail. For every cat we kill, a new litter sprouts up. It gets to the point where we don’t even want the bacon anymore, we just want to get out of there and find a nice hydrant to piss on. Eventually, we have no choice but to turn around, kick some dirt on the mess, and get back home.

So what’s my solution? How should I know? I’m just a dog. But unless you want this kind of thing to happen again, you better grab those responsible by the neck and rub their noses in it. It’s the only way they’ll learn.

Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at the Michael Jackson Trial

Who would have thought that America's greatest reporter would be a plastic, cigar-smoking dog?

Video at iFilm. (click on Watch now)

Congress Agrees to Gay Missouri Compromise

WASHINGTON, D.C. - Hoping to quell a debate that has been tearing the United States asunder, Congress agreed to a compromise on the divisive issue of gay marriage.

The new law outlaws gay marriage in any state that “looks, feels, acts, or smells like the state of Missouri.”

“This is a great compromise for our nation,” said Representative Jim Leach (R.-Iowa). “Bipartisan action has once again relieved Congress from making a tough decision.”

The compromise comes at a time when even the discussion of the issue can spark violence on the House floor. Earlier this week, Congressman Barney Frank, the openly gay Massachusetts Democrat, chided anti-gay marriage opponents, singling out House Majority Leader Tom DeLay. “Tom DeLay and his supporters cannot see that they are indeed committing sodomy themselves,” Frank said. “They are being serviced by the man-whore of gay discrimination.”

DeLay leapt across the chamber and pummeled Frank with the silver tip of his cane, leaving the Massachusetts representative stunned and bleeding. According to eyewitness, Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert took immediate action, breaking up the scrum and giving DeLay “a serious timeout.”

After Missouri representative Roy Blunt attempted to remove “smells” from the bill’s language, the House agreed that Missouri does indeed smell and passed the bill 319-105.

In the Senate, there were some questions about the bill’s application. “How can one, uh, tell, if a state is acting like Missouri?” asked Senator Ted Kennedy (D-MA).

Senator Sam Brownback of Kansas elaborated for the other senators. “If your governor has his limo on blocks, your state might be like Missouri. If your state’s two most cosmopolitan cities try to keep as far away from the middle of the state as possible, your state might be like Missouri. If your voters pronounce the word, ‘Miz-zur-ah,’ then your state might be like Missouri.”

“At least we are not a bunch of dirt-eating Jayhawks,” cried Senator Kit Bond, a sixth-generation Missourian, right before striking Brownback with his own cane. Majority Leader Bill Frist had to separate the two men. “Gentlemen, show some dignity,” he admonished them. “We’re on the same man-on-man-love-hating side!”

Without further incident, the Senate passed the bill 98-1, with Senator Tom Coburn of (R.-Oklahoma) abstaining due to “debate over-stimulation.”

In addition to the Missouri litmus test, the statute allows gay marriage in any state bordered by a body of water that touches a more enlightened country.

Bring on the stunt dicks

The thumb of The Man is holding back my Wednesday creative-juice money shot, but I found a couple things on these here Internets that gave me some throaty chuckles:

• The Adventures of Battle-Action Bush and the Keyboard Kommandos (via The Poorman)—Much better than Episode 1 of another horrifying movie series.
  
• McSweeny's recently reminded me of Ike Turner's Guide to Restoring America's Honor, which is one of the best things I've ever seen on the Web that didn't involve hot girl-on-girl action.
  
• From Wonkette, the missionary-position-house-of-wax horrors of John Ashcroft's House.

The original snark will rise again, either later tonight or tomorrow.

Top Ten Tuesdays: What long-held secrets are we revealing to the media?

Special Nigel Tufnel edition!

11) The Colonel’s 11 secret herbs and spices*
10) Kevin Spacey is Keyser Soze
9) Most nuns go commando
8) Tom Cruise wanted to transfer the frozen head of L. Ron Hubbard onto Nicole Kidman
7) Iron Chef suffering from life-threatening oxidation
6) Area 51 was just a really, really exclusive night club
5) Tupac faked his shooting death, only to be eaten later by ravenous Elvis Presley
4) Airplane contrails give the elderly that old-people smell
3) On 9/11, the children were actually reading My Pet Goat
to the President
2) The original Deep Throat: Rock Hudson
1) Soybean milk is people, it’s people!

*Special thanks to TLB.

Gene Shalit's parasitic twin reviews Revenge of the Sith

Hi, I’m Harry, Gene Shalit’s parasitic twin. It may come as a surprise to you that Gene has a small human growing out of his back. Over the years, Gene has taken great pains to keep my existence a secret—that’s why he always tapes his segments for the Today show, so they can digitally edit me out. After all, who would take a freaky looking movie critic seriously?

Gene actually became a film critic because of me. When you’re growing up with a parasitic twin sticking out of you, other kids can be cruel about it. Our mother didn’t help matters by dressing us in the same outfits. So we escaped to the dark safety of the movie theater, where I could detach from him for a couple hours without a lot of screaming and fainting. Cinema also gave us something to share beyond plasma and DNA.

The downside is, I’ve also had to listen to four decades of shit like, “I’ll say it ogre and ogre again, I love Shrek 2!” and “Madagascar is zooperlative!” As conjoined twin, you have to learn to be patient in order to stay sane, but even I have my limits.

“If you’re going to be a whore, you should really wear a dress,” I told him.

“I haven’t met a parasite as funny as you since Frank Stallone,” he shot back.

“Seriously, Gene,” I said, “how can you look at yourself in the mirror?”

“A lot easier than you can, Harry.”

I try not to ride him too hard. Gene’s a good guy and takes pretty good care of me. He actually grew his hair out for me—it stores vital nutrients I could only otherwise get by digesting his internal organs. It’s like my own black, frizzy wheat field. But the matching Village People mustache was his own idea.

Anyway, we went and saw Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith. Gene, to his credit, didn’t give it a good review. He said it lasted too long, had nothing exciting and new, and the dialogue was flat. “The plot’s propulsion is slogged by scenes of sappy cooing.”

I hadn’t seen him this worked up since Ishtar. “That’s it,” I cheered. “Now kick Lucas in the balls!”

But Gene is, well, Gene. He can’t leave well enough alone without giving Lucasfilm, Ltd., its contractual Force Handjob. He eased up and summarized the series with: “Taking Star Wars as one mighty saga, George Lucas has irrevocably rerouted the course of filmmaking with his masterwork of motion picture imagination.”

“Let me ask you a question,” I said when the cameras stopped. “Does Lucas pat you on your head or pull your hair while you’re servicing him?”

“If you think movie reviewing is simpler than an Adam Sandler plot, why don’t you try it, hotshot?”

So, here I am.

Revenge of the Sith is most notable for not sucking as much ass as the previous two movies. Personally, I pretend that Episodes I and II were just bad nightmares I had after Gene OD’d on buttered popcorn. But then the first hour of Sith hit me with discount Jedis and ESL-student dialog. I was waiting for an Ebonics-speaking alien to show up so I could shit myself with rage like I did during Phantom Menace (Gene says I still owe him a shirt).

The real problem plaguing Episodes I through III is the “romance” between Anakin Skywalker and Padme. The whole series depends on their relationship. It propels Anakin to the Dark Side, sets the stage for Darth Vader, and results in Luke and Leia. Yet Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman play these two “characters” with the conviction of a pre-sex porn scene. I’ve felt more heat from Gene’s pancreas.

We had to use the can at this point, but when we got back our seats, Anakin had turned to the Dark Side. Now the movie got back to basics—lots of killing, not much yakin’. For the first time since 1983, a Star Wars movie made me believe that Lucas is a human and not a wide-necked, gray-bearded Skin Job.

But my brother’s summation of the series being “one mighty saga” is like saying that Gene and I have a lot in common, without mentioning that I’m sticking out of him. Instead, the Star Wars series is two brothers: one a sometimes goofy but nonetheless groundbreaking, entertaining, and successful movie critic, the other a shriveled caricature of the former, a grotesque abomination that most people would like to keep out of sight.

I’m Harry Shalit, and that’s all from the Parasitic Twin’s Critic’s Corner.

How does Charles Barkley not have a talk show?

My crack team of comedy writing elves got too stoned to finish something original, so I'm cannibalizing, er, linking to something else:

Charles Barkley Quotes has a huge archive of Bartlby-quality bon mots from the funniest, largest, blackest man on television. My personal favorite:

You know the world is off tilt when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest basketball player is Chinese and Germany doesn't want to go to war.

He also epitomizes my second philosophy of life (after, "Have a good time, all the time"):

I think working is overrated, so I have no intention right now, or at any time in the near future, to get a real job.

Via ESPN's Bill Simmons