Old Vaginas Gone International

At the urging of Film Drunk, there's no mincing the beauty of Lindy West's review of the second (and hopefully final) installment of Sex And The City (I shudder at typing that). For most of us, this review will be infinitely more enjoyable than watching even a trailer for that film.

We've been thinking it for two long years. All of us. Gnawing our cheeks at night, clutching at sweaty sheets, our faces hollow and gray, our once-bright eyes dimmed by the pain of too many questions. Sometimes we cry out, en masse, to a faceless god and a cold, indifferent universe that holds its secrets close. What... rasps the death rattle of our collective sanity. What is the lubrication level of Samantha Jones's 52-year-old vagina? Has the change of life dulled its sparkle? Do its aged and withered depths finally chafe from the endless pounding, pounding, pounding—cruel phallic penance demanded by the emotionally barren sexual compulsive from which it hangs? If I do not receive an update on the deep, gray caverns of Jones, I shall surely die!

Please don't die. The answer is... fine. Samantha's vagina is doing fine. She rubs yams on it, okay? She takes 48 vagina vitamins a day. It accepts unlimited male penises with the greatest of ease. Now let us never speak of it again.

Sex and the City 2 makes Phyllis Schlafly look like Andrea Dworkin. Or that super-masculine version of Cynthia Nixon that Cynthia Nixon dates. Or, like, Ralph Nader (wait, bad example—Schlafly totally does look like Ralph Nader in a granny wig). SATC2 takes everything that I hold dear as a woman and as a human—working hard, contributing to society, not being an entitled cunt like it's my job—and rapes it to death with a stiletto that costs more than my car. It is 146 minutes long, which means that I entered the theater in the bloom of youth and emerged with a family of field mice living in my long, white mustache. This is an entirely inappropriate length for what is essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls. But I digress. Let us start with the "plot."

Carrie Bradshaw: At the end of the first SATC movie (2008)—after eleventy decades of chasing his emotionally abusive jowls through the streets of Manhattan—Carrie finally marries Mr. Big, the man of her shallow, self-obsessed dreams. It has now been two years since their nuptials. Carrie already hates it. She hates that he sits on the couch. She hates that he eats noodles out of a take-out box. She hates that he wants to spend quality time with her in their incredibly expensive and gaudy apartment. She hates that he bought her an enormous television. When Big suggests that they spend a couple of days a week in separate apartments (they own TWO apartments, because life is hard!), Carrie screeches, "Is this because I'm a bitch wife who nags you?" Congratulations. You have answered your own question.

Miranda Redhairlawyerface: Miranda is a lawyer who has red hair. She also has a child. As a working woman, Miranda is forced to miss every single one of her child's incessant science fairs (as though children know anything of science!). Also, her lawyer boss is a cartoon dick. Miranda quits her job, and everyone is much happier. This is because women should not work. It is terrible for the children.

Charlotte Goldsteinjewyjewsomethingsomethingblatt: Life for Charlotte is unbelievably difficult. As a wealthy stay-at-home mom with two children and a live-in, full-time nanny, she sometimes has to bake cupcakes! Also, one time her little child got finger paint on a piece of vintage cloth. Therefore, Charlotte cannot stop crying. "How do the women without help do it?" Charlotte (crying) asks Miranda. "I have no fucking idea," Miranda replies. Then they toast their disgusting glasses of pink syrup. To "them." To the "women without help." "If I wasn't rich, I'd definitely just kill myself right away with a knife!" says everyone in this movie without having to actually say it. Clink!

Samantha Jones: I told you we are never to speak of this.

In order to escape their various imaginary problems, our intrepid foursome traipses off to dark, exotic Abu Dhabi ("I've always been fascinated by the Middle East—desert moons, Scheherazade, magic carpets!"). When they arrive, Carrie, because she is a professional writer, announces, "Oh, Toto—I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!" Each woman is immediately assigned an extra from Disney's Aladdin to spoon-feed her warm cinnamon milk in their $22,000-per-night hotel suite. Things seem to be going great. But very quickly, the SATC brain trust notices that it's not all swarthy man-slaves and flying carpets in Abu Dhabi! In fact, Abu Dhabi is crawling with Muslim women—and not one of them is dressed like a super-liberated diamond-encrusted fucking clown!!! Oppression! OPPRESSION!!!

This will not stand. Samantha, being the prostitute sexual revolutionary that she is, rages against the machine by publicly grabbing the engorged penis of a man she dubs "Lawrence of My-Labia." When the locals complain (having repeatedly asked Samantha to cover her nipples and mons pubis in the way of local custom), Samantha removes most of her clothes in the middle of the spice bazaar, throws condoms in the faces of the angry and bewildered crowd, and screams, "I AM A WOMAN! I HAVE SEX!" Thus, traditional Middle Eastern sexual mores are upended and sexism is stoned to death in the town square.

At sexism's funeral (which takes place in a mysterious, incense-shrouded chamber of international sisterhood), the women of Abu Dhabi remove their black robes and veils to reveal—this is not a joke—the same hideous, disposable, criminally expensive shreds of cloth and feathers that hang from Carrie et al.'s emaciated goblin shoulders. Muslim women: Under those craaaaaaay-zy robes, they're just as vapid and obsessed with physical beauty and meaningless material concerns as us! Feminism! Fuck yeah!

If this is what modern womanhood means, then just fucking veil me and sew up all my holes. Good night.

PR5 Weekend

Clearly, besides having to go to work tomorrow or spending Sunday struggling with a new chapter, the big event this weekend is the free show at Pasadena Rehearsal Studios for their five year anniversary. That you get not only a bunch of bands playing at no cost is a sweet deal, and with MAGNA headlining, you've hit the bonus. Let's get this out of the way and get to the show!

Best of the week: There's something about Ellen.

Not one but two baffling stories bringing America's top lesbian talk show host cum comedian (and I think the only one for that matter) to the forefront. First, the pander.

American Idol, a show I don't care at all about (because I have taste) but has captured NASCARmerica's heart, continues to do whatever it takes to keep the lowest common denominator suckling at it's crappy teet. And that is by bringing Ellen DeGeneres on as a judge. yes, you read that correctly.

This comes after the audition rounds where musicians Shania Twain, Victoria Beckham, Mary J. Blige, Joe Jonas and Kristin Chenoweth all fill the unnecessary 4th seat at the judges table. With Kara DioGuardi returning filling the third spot, is it really necessary to have a fourth judge that wasn't part of the program for the first seven seasons? I guess Simon has to have at least one incompetent idiot with no reasonable opinion being offered weekly to hack on. I thought the focus of the show was on the wannabes, not the inherent battles between a saucy, effete Brit and a sassy, masculine American? How long is it going to be before it's becomes a huge controversy what's said between the two?

“She is truly one of America’s funniest people and a fantastic performer who understands what it’s like to stand up in front of audiences and entertain them every day,” said Fox exec Mike Darnell. “We feel that her vast entertainment experience – combined with her quick wit and passion for music – will add a fresh new energy to the show.”

Which is what a music competition show needs more of, fresh energy and entertainment experience, not practical songwriting or performance experience. Mike Darnell, you're a fucking idiot. Paula Abdul my have been a drugged up has-been, but at least she had an inkling about music. Ellen's "greatest contribution" to music is dancing to it on her show...and there's our second part, the part where payback is a bitch.

Arista Music, Atlantic Recording Corp., Capitol Records, Motown Record Company, Sony Music Entertainment, Virgin Records America and Warner Bros. Records are suing "The Ellen DeGeneres Show," claiming producers violated their copyrights by playing more than 1,000 songs without permission. Maybe she's on Idol to learn how nationally televised shows have to get clearance for airing songs.

Many of the tunes were played during the "dance over" segment of the show, when DeGeneres dances from the stage to the interview area, often through the audience. According to the suit, when representatives of the recording companies asked defendants why they hadn't obtained licenses to use the songs, defendants said they didn't "roll that way." Are they saying that it's a gay thing, or that they're completely naive to the entertainment industry and how it works?

"As sophisticated consumers of music, Defendants knew full well that, regardless of the way they rolled, under the Copyright Act, and under state law for the pre-1972 recordings, they needed a license to use the sound recordings lawfully," the suit states. A spokesman for the show's Telepictures Productions, wrote that the company has been working with the record labels for months to resolve the issue and remains willing to resolve it on "amicable and reasonable terms." That means they will quietly settle once they see what type of legal and financial raping the record majors plan to bring if they resist.

The suit claims the daytime talk show has used copyrighted music without permission since its inception, including "recordings by virtually every major current artist of popular music." It claims the show routinely used some of the most popular songs of the day, which the record labels don't license for daytime television at any price. Other songs cited in the lawsuit include Michael Jackson's "Thriller"; The Beach Boys' "Good Vibrations" and Will Smith's "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It." The suit calls the segment and the music played by the show's own disc jockey "signature elements of the show." The only signature coming up is going to be on a check to the record companies. There's no way they are going to win this suit, and Ellen will also fail as a host. It's a two-for-one schadenfreude!

Best links:

• Police free 9 From Fake Big Brother House - fake program, real imprisonment. That totally busts my plan. I wonder, how attractive these nine Turkish women were...

• Hugh Hefner Files For Divorce In LA - after 11 years of separation from your wife where you banged girls in sets of three and seven, maybe you should do the honorable thing and dissolve your marriage.

• Masters Of The Universe Movie Is Canceled... - I'm shocked that Hollywood was able to refrain from making every single toy into a movie. It's no longer about ruining childhoods, it's just about pointless, shitty films coming out.

Worst of the week: South Carolina, fuck you!

Politico rightly asked what the hell is going on with their state government. You've got a cheating, lying governor in Mark Sanford, who despite disappearing from office for almost a week, refuses to step down, even at the request of his state legislature. The state's junior senator Jim DeMint touched off a firestorm of criticism by urging conservatives to "break " the new president by defeating health reform legislation - just because that's the contrarian, Republican thing to do. And now, congressman Joe Wilson has capped off the insanity with his outburst of "you lie" during the president's national address.

It's been covered by all the more eloquent observers - Chez, Keith Olberman, The Huffington Post, Bill Maher..., so I can't add much to the discourse other than support in questioning how in 2009 we have animals in charge in South Carolina. I'm talking untamed beasts. And not just because of their narrow-view of life from the right. It is a slew of behavior being emphasized by their political position that would already be childish and reprehensible. Joe Wilson is the camel-back breaking straw. It's like the thoughtless comments of Sarah Palin, but without the tits and naughty librarian fantasy.

Sure, in light of Vice President John C. Calhoun, who helped pave the way for the Civil War, to the late Sen. Strom Thurmond who was an ardent segregationist (except when banging the colored help), they are not as controversial, but such a turn in misbehavior and rhetoric is what is troubling. South Carolina, while filled with trucker caps, shitty American beer, and tobacco plantations looks even more the inbred, backwoods red state with these morons representing them. Perhaps their proximity to Florida is making them get shittier.

All of a sudden, South Carolina looks more like Lord Of The Flies with their leadership than the House Of Lords. While we can praise the Iraqi who took shoe aim at W, had that happened here they'd have been attacked. And if one year ago it was he and not Obama giving a presidential address getting shouted at by the opposition, it would have been pure chaos. Sadly, the Democrats are too ball-less to take him into the Senate gallery and beat him with rubber hoses the way he'd have been in the opposite situation.

Maybe they're just showing their true colors. 8th ranked among states with teen pregnancies. 3rd in unemployment with 11.5%. 2nd in total crime per capita. 43rd in income per capita. A nearly 60% drop off from high school graduates to bachelor degree grads. This is starting to make sense...

Runner up: Old Vagina 2 - Return To Skank Mountain

Look, you simpletons get Ellen on American Idol, do we really need to make another movie about the whores of New York? From what I can see from on-set pictures, this film is going to have more CGI and computer retouching than Avatar, Transformers, and the Lord Of The Rings trilogy in order to make this haggard trolls look even remotely close to feminine. I wouldn't fuck these two with a wooden dick.

Telegraphed Punch

Not that there was really any doubt after the first one made $400 million dollars, but the Sex And The City sequel is now set to go forward, with all four actresses and the director signing deals with the studio. We all saw it coming and now the best we can do is brace for impact.

There’s no green light and no start date yet for the sequel, but expect things to move quickly, and don’t be surprised if there’s a 2010 offering on the Warners/New Line slate. Besides the $400 million worldwide and more than $150 million in the U.S., as well as singlehandedly causing a spike in the Kleenex Corporations profits in 2008. Aw, sick! You mean to tell me there’s dudes out there whackin' it to these old broads? That’s just nasty.

Hold on, someones trying to tell me something…oh, I see, because of the crying…yeah, that makes way more sense. No word on the plot, but I expect a great steeplechase scene and something about living under a bridge and eating children.

Shitty City

That movie about four pre-menopausal alcoholics who'll fuck anything with a Y-chromosome comes out today, and I am thrilled at the backlash and mockery over it. You don't have to go too far on the interweb to catch a taste, so I'm not going to spend time digging all that up for you. Instead, I just have to question the virtue of our old vaginas.

Fortunately, I did not have to watch the six seasons of screw-gars spreading their legs for all comers, but somebody who did calculated all the partners they bedded in that time. Samantha led the pack with 41 johns (and one woman for good measure), while the rest of the horses trailed far behind but together. Carrie hooked up with 18 as well as Charlotte, and Miranda was just shy of tying with 17. By the way, hate yourself if you're a man and you know who which character is. So for 94 shows, they banged 94 guys. Nice work, skanks.

According to condom manufacturer Durex, the nation average of partners a woman has is nine, but women in Manhattan more than double that count with 20. These four totally skew with their figures. What I've always maintained is that the show tries to legitimise the action of a couple of whores under the guise of looking for love and happiness. And as women get older and more desperate to not be a spinster, they make more mistakes and unwise choices - like channeling their inner slut. Clearly these troglodytes have intimacy issues and trouble maintaining relationships, and boy, can they pick them!

There's no question women are going to flock to a movie that dangles fashion and sexual gratification before them, but let's pray they can tell the difference between entertainment and reality. Because four natty fictitious sluts is plenty.

no shit it's ugly

Beastpaw

Now I know why The Beast wears all those horrible fashions in Sex In The City - it's a distraction tactic.

Horsin' Around

Chez's "evil twin" Garth picks up some of the slack, conveniently timed for the birthday of The Beast:

Look, enough already, okay?

Most men think Sarah Jessica Parker is fucking ugly -- the sooner we admit this, the sooner our long national nightmare will be over.

The readers of Maxim said as much, and although most of them are blithering idiots, debating them on it -- claiming that they're wrong either for voicing this kind of opinion or for having it in the first place -- is just goddamned ridiculous. They're entitled to think whatever the hell they want and to shout it from the rooftops. This is America, after all.

Once again though, if you can't see that the average heterosexual man isn't the least bit turned on by Parker's Witchy-Poo mug, you're either blind or in denial. Seriously, go up to any guy on the street and ask him what he thinks of Parker -- there's a 90% chance he's first gonna roll his eyes because his wife, girlfriend, or booty-call just loves fucking Sex and the City and spends every Saturday night out with her borderline-retarded friends debating which character from the show she is -- then he's gonna choke back a little vomit at the thought of anyone having to look at Parker's face during sex. (So that was rude, what do you want -- I'm evil.)

But here's the thing to keep in mind: It shouldn't surprise anyone -- least of all Parker herself -- that she doesn't do it for most guys.

The character that made her famous -- the very show she was chosen to star in -- wasn't written by guys.

Sex and the City is basically the kind of fantasy that only a conference table full of women and gay men (and that metrosexual douchebag Greg Behrendt) could've dreamed up. They're the only ones who could honestly believe that straight men living in New York City would fall all over themselves to be with a woman who looks and acts like Parker's character, Carrie Bradshaw. Only a woman or a gay man would legitimately think straight men give a shit how many pairs of repulsive Jimmy Choo shoes or how many dresses that look like pink, couture garbage bags a woman has in her closet. It's like a person who's been blind since birth trying to paint a sunset, then mass market it.

Parker's entire image is the neo-feminine ideal of what a man should be attracted to. Her character was never really meant to appeal to men, which is completely cool until Parker starts bitching up a storm about how she doesn't, in fact, appeal to men (and no, Ferris Bueller doesn't count -- obviously). The women who created Parker's character and the show she inhabits -- including Parker herself -- now react with comically righteous indignation because life doesn't imitate "art" and real straight men don't give a rat's ass about Sarah Jessica Parker the way poorly-written straight characters on Sex and the City do about Carrie fucking Bradshaw.

So, no folks -- Parker's not very attractive and, as anyone not delusional would've been able to see coming, by complaining about her "poor treatment" at the hands of Maxim, she opened herself up to a shitload of fresh ridicule from all directions.

Including this one.

To close, and along those lines, I think I'll borrow a phrase from an idol of mine -- a certain oil man by the name of Plainview:

"If you have a horse face, and I have a blog -- and my blog reaches across the world, and starts to mock your horse face...

I. MOCK. YOUR. HORSE FACE.

NAYEEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!

I MOCK IT UP!"

Oh yeah, and by the way -- if you honestly think that a dislike of Sarah Jessica Parker and a willingness to get into these kinds of things automatically makes someone anti-women or anti-feminism, you're probably a fucking idiot.

(As usual, the opinions of Garth do not necessarily reflect those of Chez, who may not find Sarah Jessica Parker very attractive, but who does, in fact, like milkshakes.)

The Beast

If you don't stop off at Tyler and Deus Ex first thing in the morning before cozying up with me, well, it's flattering but misguided. I share Chez's disgust of The Beast, and while I try to avoid her and Ugly Suvari, the recent condemnation of her good looks stirred up the pot. Here, brilliantly, he explains the whole thing...and yes, poor Gabe Jarrett (Mitch from Real Genius), who left showbiz in embarrassment, instead of doubling for her.

They're Just Not That Into You

Let's just get this out of the way so that you can make all appropriate fun and we can move on: I love Smokey & The Bandit.

Say what you will, the 1977 Burt Reynolds vehicle (no pun intended) is a classic; it provided my friends and me with three decades worth of quotable lines and taught us to approach life with the understanding that there's no problem that can't be solved with a Trans-am, a CB radio, a big-ass truck full of warm Coors and Paul Williams in a leisure suit. Take my word for it -- the next time you're facing a seemingly insurmountable crisis, just think to yourself WWBD?: What Would Bandit Do?

Problem solved.

While the original Smokey was probably the most mindlessly entertaining movie of all time, its sequel -- the cleverly titled Smokey & The Bandit 2 -- had not a redeeming quality to be found anywhere (unless you take into account the fact that it birthed Hollywood's gag-reel-over-the-credits trend, as the bloopers are generally the funniest part of any big-budget comedy these days). That said, I liked the movie, for reasons I'll probably never quite understand; I imagine it's the same inexplicable thought process which causes me to insist that the Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way is the best pop song ever.

Although Smokey 2 was, I admit, almost entirely forgettable, it contained one particular scene that somehow managed to stick with me throughout the years, simply because -- believe it or not -- it actually said a hell of a lot about not just the culture of celebrity, but about celebrities themselves. And while I have no doubt that any profound theme or underlying esoterica to be found in the film was wholly unintentional on the part of the producers -- this was the same movie, after all, that played a pregnant elephant and Jackie Gleason doing a flaming gay stereotype for laughs -- that doesn't mean it wasn't there.

Hear me out: As the movie begins, the Bandit is a burned out shell of his former self. He's heartbroken over the loss of his one true love, played by Sally Field, but he's also bitter and angry because he understands that it was his own arrogance and narcissism that drove her away. The audience comes to find out that at some point after the events depicted in the first film -- and, one would have to assume, because of those events -- the Bandit became a nationwide sensation. If this entire premise isn't a textbook example of post-modern meta-fiction, I have no idea what is, given that it's impossible to imagine a bootlegger, one whose most notable achievement involved outsmarting a dimwitted Texas trooper, becoming a household name -- unless he happened to be a character played by Burt Reynolds in a hugely successful movie. Then again, I could be wrong about the ability of a Georgia beer-runner to become famous, in which case Smokey 2 isn't so much "meta" as it is the most subtle and prescient indictment of the media's growing ability to create insta-stars (because you just know that it would be the local news coverage of the Bandit and Snowman's highway antics, and the resulting traffic nightmare, which catapults them into the spotlight) since Network. As the film unfolds further, the Bandit attempts to regain not only the love and affection of his adorable inamorata, but his former notoriety. Unfortunately, these two goals are mutually exclusive, as the Bandit finds out, namely because the cocky swagger that's required to reclaim his "World's Most Famous Bootlegger" crown will drive his girl away, while the humility sure to earn him undying love will likely make him a nobody. It's the ultimate Faustian conundrum.

The whole thing comes to a head in what I think is the pivotal moment in this particular story arc -- the scene to which I'm referring.

At one point, the Bandit is forced to stop for gas -- Trans-am enthusiasts are familiar with this necessity -- and that's where he gets into a row with a clerk whom he believes is guilty of an unforgivable transgression: While the guy does, in fact, know just whose presence he's being graced by -- he's aware of the Bandit's status as a celebrity -- he doesn't give a shit. He thinks the Bandit's an arrogant asshole. This snub causes the Bandit to throw a juvenile tantrum, grabbing the clerk by the throat and shouting in his face: "Women love me! Little kids love me! Now you're gonna love me or I'm gonna kick your ass!"

That one line says everything you need to know about how those who've been in the spotlight too long -- who've gotten used to the warm and comforting glow of perpetual adulation -- can come to feel about themselves and their place in the cultural strata.

It's called believing your own hype.

Why do I bring this up?

Because Sarah Jessica Parker is furious that Maxim men's magazine dubbed her "The World's Unsexiest Woman."

In a recent interview in Grazia magazine, Parker reveals that she and her husband, conspicuously effeminate actor Matthew Broderick, were hurt and offended by the insult -- which Parker calls "brutal" -- and had a difficult time putting the whole ordeal behind them.

Feel free to take a moment to grab a tissue if you need one -- I'll wait.

Parker throws down the gauntlet in the interview, simultaneously defending her "sexiness" and attacking Maxim's core audience of 20-something, stripe-shirted potential date-rapists by saying:

“Do I have big fake boobs, Botox and big lips? No. Do I fit some ideals and standards of some men writing in a men’s magazine? Maybe not."

While Parker makes a valid argument, albeit in a referential way, about the unfortunate female ideal in our society -- to say that she's both missing the point and in no legitimate position to be making a point (not this one, anyway) is an understatement.

It's no secret that I find Sarah Jessica Parker startlingly unattractive; I state as much in my personal bio, which stands as the first thing most readers see when they visit this site. I say this not because I'm some troglodyte who's personally offended that she doesn't meet the Americanized standard of perfection that I believe all women -- certainly celebrities -- should aspire to. I don't care that she doesn't have silicone breasts or surgically enhanced lips. I don't stand on the virtual playground throwing rocks at the "ugly girl" because, when compared to a predetermined set of others, she doesn't stack up (once again, no pun intended). Parker's beauty, or lack thereof, isn't a relative thing. I just don't think she's the least bit attractive -- far from it.

What's worth noting, though, is who I'm really taking a shot at in my bio. Here's a hint: It's not Sarah Jessica Parker. For reasons I wish I didn't understand, the slavish, celeb-obsessed media have anointed Parker -- a somewhat homely, unspectacular actress -- the patron saint of high-fashion and feminism-through-sexual-empowerment. In a staggeringly audacious parlor trick, Hollywood and the media have managed to convince an impressionable public that Parker actually is the character she played on television: Sex & The City's hideously dressed bed-hopper, Carrie Bradshaw. This isn't the first time that docile consumers have plugged into the Matrix and either forgotten or chosen to ignore the line between fantasy and reality; Sex & The City in particular has turned such oversight into a cottage industry. (Case in point: Kim Cattrall surreally penning several sexual self-help books, the apparent implication being: "My character fucks a lot on TV, ergo, I'm qualified to help you with your sex life." If you follow this idiotic line of reasoning, we should be sending Stallone over to clean house in Iraq and you'll want to give Hugh Laurie a call the next time you're puking up blood.) Which begs the question: Would I be singling-out Sarah Jessica Parker for a mild amount of mockery if she were just your average actress or quasi-celeb -- and not pushed 24/7 as a style-maker and one-woman cultural zeitgeist?

No, of course not.

And neither would Maxim.

Maxim's shot at Parker, like mine, wasn't aimed at her; it was aimed at her image. The magazine doesn't truly believe that Sarah Jessica Parker is the unsexiest woman in the world. (There's no goddamn way she's less attractive than Amy Winehouse.) It's implying that she's the unsexiest woman we've all been conditioned to believe is sexy. There's no doubt that Parker doesn't fit the Maxim mold -- and that by hitting her hard, the magazine also insults Sex & The City's legion of vapid, clownish female acolytes (the women your average Maxim reader will claim to detest but who, ironically, represent the easiest targets at the bar on Friday night). But that's all sort of the point, and it's one that Parker is apparently too self-absorbed or insecure to take into account. She's not Maxim magazine's type.

So, why the hell should she let it bother her that a magazine not aimed at her -- in fact, aimed at a demographic she considers rather Neanderthal -- has labeled her "unsexy?"

Why is it necessary to be all things to all people?

For the record, Grazia magazine -- the one in which Parker's interview appears -- is a fashion glossy based out of London. This week's issue invites readers to enter a contest, the grand prize of which is an invitation to an exclusive Emilio Pucci fashion show. For the extraordinarily obtuse, allow me to rephrase: An interview with Sarah Jessica Parker appears in a London fashion magazine. If you haven't been to the grocery store lately, you've also missed Parker's airbrushed face peering across the conveyor at you from the covers of Vogue and Cosmo. Add to that the fact that the Sex & The City movie and all the accompanying publicity will soon be dropped onto America's doorstep like dogshit in a flaming paper bag, and you realize that Maxim magazine's juvenile decree hasn't hurt Parker's career one bit. Even if you think she's monstrously repulsive, she's the most successful monstrously repulsive woman on the planet -- dragging her big bag of money from her home under a bridge right to the bank. Maxim's readers and editors shouldn't even matter. Personally, I wouldn't have known about the Maxim poll had it not been for Parker's decision to, apparently, take a stand for the rights of ugly girls. While I'm willing to concede that this entire "controversy" may itself have been concocted by a clever studio publicist, it doesn't alter the fact that Sarah Jessica Parker suddenly looks like nothing more than a petulant child who's crying because the big meanies said bad things about her.

She suddenly looks like someone who's been in the spotlight for so long -- who's become so used to the comforting glow of perpetual adulation; who's become such a believer in her own hype -- that she's shocked and confused when someone doesn't see in her what everyone else seems to. Another possibility, one far more alarming, would be that she's come to believe not only that her status is a right as opposed to a privilege, but that it's also made her unassailable.

"You're gonna come out here and love me, or I'm gonna kick your ass!"

Or there's always the chance that Maxim simply reminded her of the truth that she knows full well: That under all that makeup, after all those cover shoots and fashion shows, in spite of all that acclaim and lionization -- she's really kind of unattractive.

Slain Beast

The Goblin Beast hath fallen! 1,500 experience points!

(Somewhere, E. Gary Gygax is smiling in honor)

Act Sexy

Just in time for the Oscars, Premiere magazine is naming it's 100 Sexiest Movie Stars of all time. As expected, the results paid homage to the icons of Holywood, as Brando and Monroe were the top of the list. The highest ranked modern male and female actors to make the cut were Angelina Jolie (number 5) and Brad Pitt (number 9) - maybe they ought to hook up or something, and Denzel Washington and Hallie Berry (numbers 18 and 10) show that black is beautiful in tinseltown.

Maligned as usual, Clint Howard, Vincent Schavelli, The Goblin, and Fivehead.

Castratikron

Sarah Jessica Beastmonster is like penis kryptonite, terrible fashion, and the stuff of nightmares rolled into one. They should show these pictures to sex offender felons who are in line to get chemical castrations. If I bothered to see the Sex In The City movie (due out this year), it would be two hours of questioning my sexuality, clothing designed by blind retards, and relationship fantasy on par with a 4th grade girl's diary.

I would rather sit through Meet The Spartans, which is unwatchable.

(I told you so)

In Case You Were Wondering...

Sarah Jessica Parker is still a nasty fug monster.

Monster Of The Bride

Crypt Keeper Sarah Jessica Parker really knows how to fill out a wedding dress! It's close, but the she-beast still manages to be uglier than the hideous couture gown she's in. Couture, by the way, is French for "revoltingly bad clothing design". And really, white for the bride? As if...

I just get pissed off every time I think about this fucking movie being made. Women who see this film would be better off getting shot in the head with those spring-loaded bolt guns they terminate cattle with than have the utter fantasy world of these hags exposed to them. You know that experiment where you put a penny in a glass of soda for a week? That's what happens to your soul and conscious if you see the film -- total rot. This movie will do for repulsing men from crusty middle-aged whores what Leni Riefenstahl did for the Nazi party. I would have sex with a cheese grater and spend a day at a Scientology seminar before I would give five minutes time to this movie or any woman like the ones in it.

He's Not In The Lab, He's At A Party...With Girls

Yes, I should be working, but I'm so burnt from the deathly week at work that being in the office is not accomplishing as much as I want. So I may as well post whilst my brain reboots my focus parameters.

The saga of the trapped miners in Utah continues...I take it that miners are simple folk, or at least not excessively educated, as would be the circle of people interested in the story (we only care about what happens to celebrities in LA), which would explain this caption:

Robert Murray, founder and chairman of Cleveland-based Murray Energy Corp, is interviewed while wearing his mine outfit early Saturday morning, Aug. 11, 2007, at the entrance to the Crandall Canyon Mine northwest of Huntington, Utah. Six coal miners have been trapped inside since Monday. A second drill broke through early Saturday to a mine shaft where officials hope to find six trapped workers.

Yes, it was explained that he was interviewed while wearing his mine outfit -- just like in the picture. I can see the need to identify him as Robert Murray since most people don't know him, and I understand giving some of the backstory, but clearly he's wearing a fucking mine outfit. I can't hate on him, so here's a generous helping of fuck you to the idiot Yahoo! News editor who felt the need to state the obvious.

In the past I've hyped Flavorpill, who kicks down good local art, film, and music events, but they have other info they send out specific to other pursuits like literature and fashion. In this week's JC Report they had some blurbs on new designers and lines we'll be seeing in stores and on the street in the coming months, but nothing prepared me for this picture.

I believe this is the gayest thing I've seen all year. And maybe next year too. Fashion really is a competition to see who can look like a gay retarded clown. Whoever created that outfit should be blinded by heated spikes, and then beaten to death with clubs made of frozen piss.

In other non-sports news, Sergio Garcia was disqualified from the PGA Championship on Saturday for signing an incorrect scorecard. Apparently players exchange scorecards and keep each other's score, and at the end of the round, it is the player's responsibility to check the card for accuracy. Boo Weekley (wow, what an awesome inbred Klan member name that is) wrote a 4 instead of a 5 on one hole and Garcia missed it, so he's out. What flavor of bullshit is that? Oh, the kind that comes with not being a real sport.

And finally, Mr. Big and Carrie Bradshaw will be together again in the onscreen version of Sex In The City: The Crusty, Menopause Years. Chris Noth, currently of Law & Order fame, will reprise the role with to Sarah Orc-beast Parker, leaving early 90s hair rock outfit Mr. Big still without a viable comeback vehicle.

They opened for Rush in '91 at Irvine Meadows...ask Famous Sister, we had a good time at the show (they played her favorite Rush song "The Trees").

Shit, I gotta get back to work.

Beasty Bitch

If and when they do more Lord Of The Rings movies, they have to cast Sarah Jessica Parker as an orc lord or Gollum's niece.

I don't quite understand Matthew Brodrick - he's shared a stage with the horrible Nathan Lane and he's married to this beast. She's like a modern day female Jabberwocky. I think the last attractive picture of her was taken in the 80s for Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Save Ferris?

Two Hours Of Old Vaginas

A distribution and financing deal is nearly complete to bring Sex In The City back from the grave and to the big screen.

Dour women and gay men who lived vicariously though the successes and sexual exploits of a quartet of past prime punani can rejoice that they'll have 120 more minutes of ridiculous plots and romances than their usual dose of Grey's Anatomy.

I know I'll be avoiding that flick like the plague. And speaking of, half the characters would have a scorching case of herpes by mid-movie if there was any realism to the characters. That, and Sarah Jessica Parker would have a bit in her mouth, pulling a carriage through Central Park.