Mel Gibson Is An American Hero

I know a victim when I see one. And what’s more, I know a defiant and heroic individual when I see one. Ladies and Gentlemen, I see before me today the face of a man who refused to cower not only to common sense and state law but personal physical limitations as well. Instead this man challenged not only his own fears and doubts, but also the simple mindedness of one local militaristic police regime and the preconceptions of the entire known world. Mel Gibson was drunk. And not just a little drunk, Mel Gibson was (to use a clinical term) Bombed-outta-his-fuckin-skull. And yet, even in this state, where most humans are unable to traverse stairs or operate light switches and doorknobs, Mr. Gibson somehow found his keys and locked his gaze upon his Lexus resolving in that moment to tame his spinning head, engorged bladder and dissonant stomach. And so he drove. And he drove fast. Of course, our world does not bear the weight of such heroes lightly and sometimes the magnitude of these individuals can actually bend or even break the very plane of existence upon which these demigods tread. And by plane of existence, I mean California State Driving Regulations. And so the forces of our world converged upon the screaming golden entity known as Mel Gibson and beckoned him to pause in his course and to meet them and parlay. The Gibson, in a moment of beautiful compassion and humility, slowed his travel through the stars and came to rest beside a dusty highway road. An unrestrained and obviously worn lawman approached, and The Gibson hailed him. We are told that at this point The Gibson pardoned himself and petitioned the lawman for leniency – a fair request. Yet it was a request that was denied. Reports claim that the defiant movie-god made threatening declarations of his power and even uttered scathing remarks regarding the decedents of Abraham. Now I, just as you must surely be doing, doubted heartily the validity of such a report. But I’m afraid that I’ve come to believe it. However, understand that even a creature as powerful and majestic as Mel Gibson can be tainted by outside forces- poisoned if you will. And this poisoning is the very demonic influence that grasped Mel in its black clawed hands and bent him and his actions forcing him to create this strife and chaos. And yet, what draught, what earthly chemical could possibly venomize such a powerful being?? What possible combination of ingredients could pollute the glowing splendor of a force such as Mel Gibson??? Malt Liquor. There is no mistaking its handy work. Those familiar with this liquid’s properties and monstrous qualities can immediately spot those afflicted by this devil’s brew. This Spittle of Satan, this Beer of Beelzebub, this Liquor of Lucifer is EXACTLY what would cause such a graceful and harmonious icon to defile himself in such filthy and lecherous manner. But one must understand the subtleties of this evil concoction in order to spy the truth hidden so deftly behind the walls of lies and anger. You see, Malt Liquor warps the speech of the diseased causing their words to become twisted and infected with hate. What might have been intended as a friendly greeting can be suddenly transformed into a spitting vile curse thrown from the mouth of the possessed. Compliments become disparagements; encouragements become slurs and kind commentary become vicious threats. And so it was that The Gibson’s world was darkened and contaminated. Now given my unique understanding of the heinous and despicable effects of Malt Liquor I have taken it upon myself to provide the word with a true depiction of the events that befell Mel Gibson on that dire grim night. What follows is a translation in which you will see The Gibson’s intended remarks and verbiage, followed immediately by the wicked and depraved bastardization of those words: Please be warned the following is not intended for an audience of children, or women pregnant with children or people even considering the idea of having children. In actually anyone who reads this should seek immediate vaccination afterwards. ________________________________________________________________________ THE TRUE MEL GIBSON ARREST DIALOGUE: Mel Gibson has been flagged off the road by Deputy James Mee, who approaches the car and is addressed by Mr. Gibson. Mel: Good Evening Officer, what can I do for you sir? Malt Liquored Mel: OHHH HERE WE GO, AYY DETECTIVE DICKFACE! Deputy James Mee: Um, sir can I see your license and reg- Mel: Registration? Of course Sir, one moment please! Malt Liquored Mel: AH, BLOW ME. Deputy James Mee: Sir, can you please step out of the vehicle? Mel: If you insist Officer, anything to help out a hardworking policeman. Malt Liquored Mel: I GOT A BETTER IDEA- YOU TURN AROUND AND GO BACK TO YOUR BOYFRIEND’S HOUSE AND PUT THAT NIGHTSTICK SOMEWHERE WHERE IT’S WANTED SERPICO. Deputy James Mee: Excuse me?! Get out right now. Mel: Of course! Absolutely! Malt Liquored Mel: HMM, NAHH. HOWS ABOUT YA GIMME A WARNIN ANNA SEND ME ON MY WAY BEFORE I CASTA PLAGUE ON YOUR HOUSEHOLD. I CAN DO THAT- I KNOW JESUS, ASSHOLE. Deputy James Mee: (Into radio) 4-16, I’m gonna need back up. Gibson’s ripped, again. Mel: Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good. Is there anything at all that I could do to aid you? Malt Liquored Mel: AHHH COME ON BUDDY! WHADDYA SOME KINDA JEW?! Deputy James Mee: (to partner) Stand back- Mel needs his medicine, mace-time baby. Mel: No, No! Not necessary! Malt Liquored Mel:TAKE YOUR BEST SHHHOT!! START ANOTHER WAR- YOU BASTARDS CAUSE ALL OF THE WARS!! TELL YOU WHAT- WHY DON’T YOU FU- Deputy James Mee: (Sprays Mel Gibson in the face with a pint of mace) Mel: AHHHHHHH F**** Malt Liquored Mel: AHHHHHH F**** Deputy James Mee: Alright, let’s load him up. Mel: Oh dear. Is it too late to work this out over a cup of chi-tea? Malt Liquored Mel: YOU’RE GONNA PAY MOTHER F*ER- I OWN MALIBU- I OWN YOU! I’M GOING TO F* YOU! I’M GONNA F* YOU LIKE I F*ED YOUR WIFE!! GIBSON RULES THIS CITY!!! GIBSON RULES YOU ALL! BOW TO ME, BOW TO YOUR LORD!!!MOTHER F*ER LORD F*ING GIBSON!!! ________________________________________________________________________ As you can see the effects of Malt Liquor are horrendous. A man, no- a God like Mr. Mel Gibson would never, ever commit these atrocious acts without being thoroughly consumed by this dark and ancient force. Yes, even a saint once they’ve sipped of the Malt will turn to the darkness, forsaking his nature and losing his humanity until there is nothing left of the man and in his place you will find a demon. And so was the fate of our hero. I beseech you reader, look beyond the lies and the rage to see the truth. See the poor abused hero, see the tragic besmirching and degrading of a champion. I beg you reader, see the prismic radiance through the veil of shadows and gloom. Friends, family and loyalists I ask you to open your eyes as wide as you are able and see The Gibson. May God have mercy upon us all.

Music That's Not Nearly As Good As You. Week 5

Honestly, I’m surprised by the lack of bands that really fire me up. Of course I have worked very hard to distance myself from pop culture and accordingly remove myself from the grips of horrible goddamn music. Not to say the underground doesn’t have plenty of garbage, but even some of the worst underground artists have some inherent merit- because some part of their product is keeping them out of the mainstream. Often that one thing is what makes them interesting and unique. And I can rarely be upset with anything interesting and unique. Having said that, there are plenty of bands climbing their way out of anonymity and despite being denizens of the underground- they’re still completely void of anything worth-while or interesting. And then of course there are groups who are simply over-hyped and need someone to drag their asses back out of the clouds and through preverbal shit. So call me the great shit-dragger. Let’s do this thing. Avatar – Comets on Fire For those of you who compulsively shit your pants with every Mars Volta release; go ask grandpa to borrow his ‘special pants,’ cause this album’s a squirter. For the rest of us, who know damn well that there are eight-hour-long Santana live albums brimming with enough stoner-Latin-jam-session 70s-rock to fill that void that none of us feel from time to time- well for the rest of us, Comets on Fire is simply more re-hashing of passé genres. This is more of the same garbage that’s been storming the music media since the Strokes first hit the scene, and ruined my life. Thanks guys. No one knows else knows quite how to say “fuck you” to creativity and innovation like bands like Avatar. A Vintage Burden – Charalambides For anyone who’s ever wondered to themselves, why the divorce rate on this planet is so damn high, take a moment and listen to A Vintage Burden. Ya see Charalambides latest album is the perfect paradigm for marriage: you’ve got the man: quietly tinkering behind the scenes trying to create something vaguely pleasant or at the least, barely audible, all while being upstaged and thoroughly drowned-out in a deluge of his wife’s warbling and wandering pathetic claim at vocalization. Yeah, Charalambides truly are a married-musician-couple. And this album actually is a wonder. It’s a wonder this man has yet to kill his crooning, undulating, attention-whoring spouse. God knows I wouldn’t have made it through the wedding ceremony without throttling her with the veil. I bet the loud mouth wanted to sing her vows. Slayer – Christ Illusion Normally overt and utterly unrestrained, heavy-handed pro or anti-religious album content and especially album titles- light a big neon “this blows” sign for me. Well, if you’re thinking Slayer’s latest is an oddly brilliant and stunning exception to that rule… guess what? … You’re high. Really. High. Even making allowances for Metal’s obvious tendency towards redundancy and unabashed repetition, I’m still woefully under whelmed and frankly, bored by this release. Being one of the forefathers of Death Metal, Slayer has both a beautiful boon and vicious curse to grapple with. On one hand, Slayer has thoroughly mastered one sound and they need never stray far from that sound to appease legions, upon legions of drunken, black-t-shirt enrobed fans. On the other hand, shouldn’t we expect a genre’s fraternal source to eventually birth something progressive and fresh? Shouldn’t we look to these masterminds to push the sound they’ve spawned onto great heights of glorious shredding and relentless beating? Well, if so, Christ Illusion is not that future bending, genre warping product. And furthermore if it appeases old fans I’d still be Leary of their sincerity. Sure the die-hards may claim to love it, but will it truly see heavy rotation a year from now? Actually, it probably will. As far as I can tell this album sounds close enough to Slayer’s other work to keep most old-school metal hounds happily trashing and nodding. For my buck it doesn’t hold a candle to any of today’s metal-best. Shit, I’d even listen to any one of those ten thousand post-metal slow-sludge bands, before I listen to something as obvious and weak as Christ Illusion.

My friends are idiots.

I hate being right. As an overzealous cynic and a chronic pessimist there is nothing less fun than being right all of the time. Well call me Cassandra and consider my parade pissed upon; I’ve done it again. As one of the four people on the face of the planet who dared naysay The Lord of the Rings Trilogy I was exceptionally skeptical when I heard Peter Jackson was remaking a movie that no one wanted to see remade. And when I saw trailers and clips of the movie I recognized the handy work of a fresh young Hollywood ultra-mega-whore. Bruckheimer, Bay – meet Pete Jackson, the evil trifecta of Hell’s demon princes has been completed. It’s not just that Jackson is either unable, or uninterested in decent editing, (he extends his incompetence to both sound editing and visual editing- notice characters talking with their backs to the camera while their heads bob and nod out-of-synch with voice-overs that change pitch and volume as the sound editor goes from one take to the next.) And it’s not just that Pete blindly intertwines opposing footage, neighboring scenes shot with completely different types of cameras causing a garish clash of contrasting color and lighting, and it’s not just that he makes no attempt to smooth the CGI slaughtered shots in with the few live-action shots he uses. No, it’s not even dialogue that's so stiff and flat it’d make George Lucas embarrassed to press. And it’s not the shamelessly formulaic and almost comedically cliché scenes conjoined with nauseating doses of melodramatic strong-armed character-development, complete with sad violins for the moments when we are supposed to feel something other than boredom (or stunned outrage)- it's none of these things that have me so bothered. What infuriates me so much about Peter Jackson’s multimillion dollar remake; is that I actually listened to my dumbass friends and rented this monstrous cluster-fuck of a blockbuster. It’s bad enough America’s taste in film seems perennially mired between the nation’s balls and ass crack- but apparently even now my chosen friends have betrayed me and gone to the dark side. And when I say dark side, I mean of course, the taint. However,the good news is that Transformers doesn’t look nearly as bad as it did before. Oh fucking hell, at this point Little Man looks likes like it could sweep the Oscars. American film is dead.