Picture it: It’s a balmy day at the Heidelburg Zoo in Germany, as Klaus the groundskeeper went about his daily business. First things first, he must hydrate the wandering jews. They had been looking lifeless in the hot April heat, and Klaus couldn’t bear the thought of having to rip them out of the ground due to carelessness. So it was with the rusty watering can his Grandfather gave him — the same can that used to water the flowers of Otto Grotewohl in Braunschweig — that he tended to his duties, carefully drizzling the leaves with the tenderest of droplets while his own sweat glistened down the back of his neck.
Then, from a distance, he heard it. A whistling. Tuneless, but jarring. For him? He turned his face slightly to the right, and saw it: There, standing by gibbon sanctuary, stood Bernd Kowalsy, head zookeeper and a man whose mere presence rocked every fiber in Klaus’ being. The two had barely ever spoken, much less whistled at each other from a distance. But could this be happening? Klaus looked around; he was the only person in sight. He turned back to the jew garden and contemplated his next move.
Meanwhile, Bernd was in a terrible mood. One of the gibbons must’ve gotten into the dried cherry bin, causing it to defecate all over the entire sanctuary. It was going to take Klaus hours to get it back to Heidelburg’s notoriously rigid standards. And now, to top it off, that retarded groundskeeper — Kris? No, Klaus, Klaus — seemed to be whistling some cacophonous melody in his direction. “What is it with that man?” Bernd wondered. “He’d almost be handsome if he showered every now and again. He smells like gorilla’s perineum.” At this, Bernd gave a little laugh, and glanced back, only to catch eyes with Klaus, now frozen in fear. Both wished to look away, but neither could break gaze. As the sun baked down on their tan, sinewy arms, their brows furrowed with magnetism and confusion, Klaus inhaled the thick air and was about to say his first complete sentence in months when they both heard it again. The whistling. That damned whistling.
And that’s when they saw it:
Thus completing my first exercise in German Zoology Fanfic. Thanks for listening.
The following short but to the point comic featuring animated David Caruso currently has 2401 Diggs:
Swine Flu. It’s Viral Now.
The British tabloids were recently faced with a problem. It seems gorgeous actress and multi-millionairess wife Catherine Zeta-Jones (who is surprisingly only 39 years old) had expressed interest in portraying Britain’s Got Talent mega star and she with the single brow Susan Boyle in the big screen adaptation of her story.
Now the tabs had a dilemma on their hands: Do they throw this non-story into a short gossip round up, a throwaway laugh, as the odds of this coming true are slim to never going to happen? Or, do they devote minutes, nay, hours, photoshopping Zeta-Jones into the world’s most gremlin-faced fake-virgin, capturing every sad detail on this woman’s otherwise beautiful face.
Well played, Daily Mail. We’re not sure who she pissed off in your editorial department, but we are loving the results.
Everyone, pay very close attention. The greatest movie straight to DVD movie of our time, One-Eyed Monster, has been officially released. According to IMDB, the movie’s plot is as follows: “A hostile alien wreaks havoc on the cast and crew of an adult movie. Amber Benson, Charles Napier, and Ron Jeremy star in an homage to “Alien”, “The Thing”, and porn.” Curious as to how low budget this movie is?? Good news — there’s a trailer online!
And like any fabulously low-budget alien horror film, the stars of the movie all came out to celebrate its launch last night. Which is where we discovered that porn stars look like complete maniacs in the light of day. Here’s Mary Carey and Ron Jeremy, who look like two dead gypsies found in the Romanian woods:
And who can forget Lorielle New, who we’re assuming plays the monster that eventually rips Ron Jeremy’s D off:
There are only 3 weeks left of American Idol. Do you know what that means? That means there are only 3 weeks left for me to have a reason to live. American Idol 8 is the first season of the show that I have sat through every episode, from the beginning (thank you, new DVR!), meaning my heart is now enmeshed with the stories of each and every remaining contestant (with the exception of Danny Gokey, because I’ve forgotten how to feel for him.)
So you would think that with only 3 weeks of the show remaining, Idol producers would pull out all the stops, choosing some kick ass themes to rouse (and arouse) the masses in the final push. This week’s theme? The Rat Pack.
OK, you know what? I love Frank Sinatra, DD Marty, all the guys from the ‘Pack (even you, Joey Bishop!) And who do you think will be mentoring these young, aimless souls through their quest to becoming America’s Idol? Michael Buble? The Grobez? The bones of JFK?
No. It’s this guy:
Jamie Foxx will be the “mentor” for the remaining contestants. Things he’ll probably teach them? You know, the important stuff… like “How to sing like a robot” and “How to be blind” and “How to blame it on the henny.” Also, how to make a hilarious horse face. You know… “the standards”.
PS: If the rumor that D-Gokez is singing “That’s Amore” is true, I might have to forego a recap because I will have possibly have flung myself over my fire escape railing.
If there is one thing on this planet that gets me out of bed every morning, it’s vodka gimlet. But if there could be a second thing, it would be my love for the band Survivor, a band that taught me how to live, how to love, how to fight… and how to survive.
Which is why this video of a group of wide-eyed children singing “Eye of the Tiger” while a local busker provides the acoustic backing track is officially my new favorite thing of 2009 (sorry, Adam Lambert – slowly taking off skull rings and ceremoniously removing bottom eyeliner). If you can’t afford a personal trainer or a gym, plunk down 99 cents for a used Reebok Slide on ebay, put some shower caps over your shoes, and listen to this jam for hours on end. Authorities will surely find your toned skeletal pile with a huge smile on its boneface after you work yourself out to death.
A couple of weeks ago, I slapped together a highly unprofessional letter to Sir Donald Trump, ordering him to return the 2 hours of my life spent watching his reality show The Celebrity Apprentice back after what amounted to a bullsh*t elimination. That week, The Donald fired T-Boz Watkins and Khloe Kardashian for reasons having nothing to do with the 2 hour task at hand.
Still, I gave Trumpy another chance because — let’s face it — I’m obsessed with Joan Rivers and would never dream of missing an episode. But last night was what expert’s refer to as “Michelle’s Final Straw”. That’s because, after sitting through an excruciatingly boring challenge involving a Right Guard ad in Sports Illustrated, once again America was GYPPED (sorry, gypsies, but even you know it’s true) in the boardroom.
You see, Playboy Playmate Brandy and Poker Player/Himmler impersonator Annie were left on a team with Melissa Rivers, who has really proven herself to be useful throughout the season. But because Melissa wasn’t in their clique, she was left out in the cold, forced to fend for herself in the hopes of not being eliminated at the end of the night. Brandy gave Annie all the responsibility; Annie screwed everything up; Melissa was along for the ride.
It was pretty clear to most everyone (in my family at least) that Brandy deserved the gold plated boot for being, simply put, mildly retarded. The only problem being… Donald Trump has almost definitely put his penis inside of her at some point in time. So, rather than it coming down to who made the biggest mistakes during the challenge, it ended up coming down to who could raise the most money during the finale.
Which leads me to ask: Why isn’t this garbage show called “The Celebrity Fundraiser”?
It took me a few minutes to realize I wasn’t staring at Lindsay Lohan.