Did Santa Buy You Everything You Never Knew You Wanted?

Far and across America, there are dried-out Christmas trees, exhausted from slurping up stale water in their bases and supporting the weight of tired family ornaments. Underneath these trees are opened boxes containing Kirkland sweaters three sizes too large for the wearer, books and board games eager and willing to lap up the dust they'll collect under coffee tables or in closets, and of course, DVD collections destined never to be unwrapped, let alone watched. I mean really, did we ASK for The Hitchcock Collection (not the good ones from Universal - the boring ones from Warner Brothers) or It's A Wonderful Life: 2-Disc Set (full-screen, no less)?

Santa has a funny way of bringing the average person tons of crap they did not ask for but cannot be re-gifted. I mean, how does one re-gift "Scategories" without looking like a re-gifting a-hole? And let us not forget the 25lbs of Russell Stover chocolates sitting under that poor tree along with the gift baskets stocked with enough palm oil and corn syrup enriched snacks to keep the Energizer Bunny pounding away for decades. In fact, the annual census of diabetics in the U.S. has to spike this time each year simply due to the folks at Harry & David alone. Between the Moose Munch popcorn (does a moose even eat chocolate?), the white chocolate truffles and lemon shortbread, it's no surprise that gym memberships skyrocket come January 2nd.

Christmas is about giving. It is also about problem-solving. Like how to solve the problem of $300 worth of crappy gifts that even the Disabled Veterans would laugh at should you attempt stuffing it all into a yellow collection bag. It's safe to say that most people love their stepmothers. In the vein of charity and good will, would it be too harsh to explain to her that it's sometimes better not to receive anything than to know that she poured through the aisle tables at Bed, Bath & Beyond for that 5-in-1 flashlight with your name on it? I personally have enough travel grooming kits, sheepskin steering wheel covers, fondue sets, bartending books and silicone potholders to last ten lifetimes.

Please Santa and Santa's Little Helpers, next year let's all shoot for gift cards or maybe that nice bottle of booze. Anything by Ketel One will do (sorry to pull the snob card, but Smirnoff merits a re-gift). And for the love of the little baby Jesus, let's not let all those useless presents linger under that poor, fire-trap of a Christmas tree. It's suffered enough this month.

Where's the Brake?!

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, TDC)
How many farmer's markets and bus stops have to be plowed over before the higher-ups realize it's time to put the kibosh on anyone over eighty driving a motorized vehicle traveling at a great rate? Haven't they driven enough? Sixty+ years of driving is enough.

"If I can see, I should be able to drive," squawk the elderly, yet when people's livers are laying in the street cuz Pops drove his '77 Impala into a crowd, they cry "I'm old -- I'm not responsible!"

I don't know. When phlegm is a food group, it's time to retire the driving privilege. Remember, it's a privilege, not a right. Thank you.

**Editor's note: the only elderly man allowed to drive above 75mph ought to be Cool Hand Luke himself, driving Newman's Own 950 Volvo with its Cosworth race-bred V8.

James Woods, You Sick Bastard!

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)
God bless you, sir. I don’t care if you do have stains in your shorts older than your girlfriend. My hat is off to you!

The look on your face just screams, “Two hours from now, this broad will be face down on my pool table slathered in aloe begging for the Ben Wa Balls.” And what’s the best part? You don’t have to waste your top shelf liquor on her, because SHE’S UNDER 21!

I’d always heard you were smart. You probably just spent the Veteran’s Day weekend defiling this girl and were only out the price of rubber gloves and some Skittles. But let’s not forget the risks.

You’re old. Yeah, that’s a snazzy dye job, but we all know only about half that hair actually grew out of your scalp. The guy you play on TV is supposed to be about fifty, but you left the half-century mark in the dust a LONG time ago. Sir, don’t you realize that at almost 61 years of age, you risk your life and what’s left of Jeri Ryan’s career every time you pop a boner pill and mount this kid? Please be careful.

I’m not saying don’t debase a woman young enough to be your great grandchild. I’m simply suggesting you take it easy, because you have over sixty more episodes of Shark to put in the can before there’s enough to sell into syndication. You’ve got a lot of fans out there who don’t want you to die ravaging this young lady, because we’re hoping you’ll live to take her baby sister to the Emmy Awards when you’re seventy!

Viva Viagra!

Pass the Cyanide: An Oscar Host With No Script?

The shock and horror of the Writer's Strike will come thunderously down on us in 2008. I am not referring to the economic impact of the countless lost jobs and regional business. No, I am referring to the disastrous improvising birthed by John Stewart, host of 2008's Academy Awards. Recall our collective Cheetos choking this year as we witnessed Ellen Degeneres harassing Steven Spielberg and Clint Eastwood in the aisle. Obviously unscripted, we can look forward to more of the same awkward moments of social ineptitude should this strike linger into next February, as by all accounts it will. Stewart is a funny man off the cuff, but anyone attempting to steer the mother of all awards ceremonies sans a writing staff ought to query Roseanne Barr on singing gigs at the World Series.

We also must brace ourselves for the mental horror of picturing poor planetary Bruce Valanche helpless at home, burying his face in a vat of Duncan Hines Chocolate Buttercream frosting, unable to scribble a knee-slapping groaner for Stewart after Sharon Stone walks out in a camel-toed body suit to deliver the Best Costumes Oscar. Yes, the poor host will have to stand there in front of millions of viewers worldwide and make it up as they go, warts and all.

Those of you with HD televisions are encouraged to decrease the screen contrast, lest you up-chuck your Doritos from John Stewart's flop-sweat and neck rash during the thunderous silence of crickets following an ill-conceived suicide wisecrack as the cameras pan to Owen Wilson.

CNN Wants You to Win What they Think Might Kill You

Reminds me of those old SNL skits with Dan Aykroyd as Irwin Mainway of Mainway Toys. Dr. Gupta, I think your fly is officially open on this one.

101 Osmonds

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)
In the immortal words of Marlon Brando, “The horror… The horror.” It is fortunate I don’t watch Oprah and only learned of this familial coagulation from the relative safety of the Internet. I mean, why are there more than a hundred Osmonds?

Yeah, I get it. They keep copulating sans birth control. Understood. The compulsory reproduction of say Alan, Wayne, or even Merrill is understandable. Wouldn’t Jimmy Osmond’s wife, at some point, have crawled out from underneath the chubby dork and asked, “Honestly, Jimbo, how many more buck toothed falsetto Mormons does this world really need?”

Do the math! If they all live as long as old Bombo or whatever his name was and keep reproducing at this rate, there’ll be like five hundred of them before long. That can’t be good. They just don’t serve any purpose. They all have bad hair, dorky teeth, irritating mannerisms, and nauseating singing voices.

And how did they warrant an audience with the Queen of All Media? A tubby divorcé feints on national TV and a two hundred year old man dies. That gets you and a hundred inbred relatives on Oprah? For the love of gravy, put them back where you found them, Oprah. They’re over. I know you’ve had a rough couple of months, but come on. The Osmonds?

We said “Aloha!” to Donny and Marie when Jimmy Carter was still president. If Donny wants to pretend he’s Dick Clark or play Joseph at a dinner theatre in Scranton, that’s fine. Marie just needs a MySpace page and a date. The rest of the country must stop pretending that pie-faced has-been with fireplugs for legs is a better dancer than Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. She’s not. Besides that, the excessive Botoxing and oversized false teeth make her look like Shakes the Clown wearing an Incan Death Mask.

Go home. Make another hundred pumpkin-heads destined for the back row of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Do some damned thing. Just leave the rest of us alone.

Possible Armpit of New Star Trek Movie Uniform Spotted!

Pausing from hours of QWERTY callous-inducing Warcraft carnage, internet shut-ins everywhere are drooling over what could possibly be a square foot of synthetic cloth and an inseam from the new (old) uniforms from director JJ Abrams' upcoming new (old) take on Star Trek, filming this week. The prospect of glimpsing the thread-count of a four inch-patch of what quite possibly may either be Captain Kirk's shirt, a quickly dispatched ensign from the first five minutes of action, or perhaps a costumed female fan at Gen Con 2007 is probably too much for your average 37 year-old virgin, flush with Domino's Pizza and pud-tuggings to Tivo'd Bionic Woman episodes to handle. Unfortunately, The Mung Hour cannot verify that this section of what appears to be gold material is indeed from the new movie or simply adorning a 13" Sideshow Collectible Captain Kirk figurine, protecting the desk top of one of Jeri Ryan's many dedicated, masturbating fans.

Neal, Your Lungs, Please!

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)
The aforementioned passing of dear Mr. Goulet leads one to believe we must break new ground with respect to preserving our most beloved celebrities. Why should a charismatic, talented, and otherwise youthful singing legend be allowed to expire on an organ donor waiting list when irritating hacks swathed in satin continue to draw breath on this earth?

This is why all legitimate entertainers' unions must immediately draft and ratify The Compulsory Celebrity Organ Donor Initiative. To gain acceptance into a performers' guild, less talented and more annoying celebrities must agree to forfeit major organs should a bigger star need them to survive. Had this plan been in effect last week, Mr. Goulet would still be with us.

Assuming all necessary donor compatibility issues could be worked out, at the moment Mr. Goulet was diagnosed as requiring a transplant, The CCODI could have leapt into action and saved Camelot's favorite knight. Neal Sedaka, for example, should have been dragged from the stage of whatever trailer park or Indian Casino he was playing and immediately interned into the primary CCODI protocol. Since Mr. Goulet required lungs, Mr. Sedaka's chances for surviving the procedure would've been remote at best. Though I'm sure family members and fans of Laughter in the Rain may have protested, the rest of us surely would've rejoiced at the recovery of Robert Goulet.

Please be aware that in cases like this, the Sacrificial Celebrity would be provided as pleasant an expiration process as possible. Think Edward G. Robinson at the end of Soylent Green. The more annoying personalities, like Carrot Top, would probably not warrant such merciful treatment and simply be clubbed over the head like a baby seal.

The urgency here cannot be ignored. Many great actors, singers, and artists are at risk from old age, unfiltered cigarettes, binge drinking, and risky sexual practices. We need to implement this program and identify matching donors for the most important on the list. Potential donors should include:

• Kirk Cameron's liver to George Clooney.
• Dane Cook's lungs to Denis Leary.
• The last twelve inches of Willie Aames's colon (including sphincter muscle) to Charlie Sheen.
• Ashton Kucher's body parts should be available a la carte to Clint Eastwood on an as needed basis. Mr. Moore can be kept alive like that little child molester guy in Se7en.

The concept is simple. If useless pustules like Britney Spears want to continue 'making music', then she has to be ready to make the ultimate sacrifice if Pink loses her sight in a freak Pinesol/Fireworks accident. Paris Hilton needs to be on call 24/7 in case Shakira needs a kidney... or two. Sooner or later the booze and pills will catch up with Paula Abdul and Sanjaya better be ready to answer the call.

A celebrity worshipping country such as ours doesn't have a moment to lose. Ratify CCODI, find Kirk Cameron and shove a GPRS device up his poop chute before Clooney and DeVito head for the martini bar at Koi one too many times.

If Ever He Would Leave Us

Sir Lancelot's armor has been pierced and with angels does he now sing. The Canadian baritone who had the enviable task of serenading and mashing with young, hot Julie Andrews in her prime has left us this 30th of October. As we don our Halloween costumes and revel with the spirits, let us all hope that the ghost of Bob Goulet follows along with us, waiting for that one moment when we're alone, perhaps on the toilet or putting on our costumes in our bedroom, waiting for that perfect moment to bellow into our ear his rich rendition of "C'est Moi" from Camelot, sending us three feet out of our shoes with fright. God speed, Mr. Goulet.

Head! Beer! Now!

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)

Someone has to say something about Sylvester Stallone's head. In this July 2005 pudding ad, he appeared to be a very fit 59 year-old man benefiting from strategic cosmetic procedures and a nice hairpiece.



A scant eighteen months later, he answers the question, "What if that guy who fell into the fat of toxic goop at the end of Robocop came out with a dead muskrat on his head?"



Are we supposed to pretend this man's head isn't 30% larger than it was less than two years ago? It's taken years, but we've accepted The new Oompa Loompa version of Barry Bonds. Then again, that dome would cause nausea if it were plastered all over an IMAX screen. When will someone explain to aging baseball players and action stars that the Human Growth Hormone turns their heads into Death Stars and their fingers into Li'l Smokies?

How can Stallone not know his face has doubled in size in less than twenty-four months? Yo, this hat used to fit. Has the constant Botoxing affected his wife's sight? I'd like to think my spouse would say, "Honey, your head is scaring the children."

I know the man has built no small part of his cinematic fame on his physical appearance, but can't he see the cranial expansion? Sure, it's important to have nice pecs and we were all flabbergasted by the taut torso in Rocky Balboa. A misshapen head may be too much of a sacrifice though.

We must collectively implore Mr. Stallone to stop the madness before he abandons plans for "Stop, Or My Mom Will Soil Herself!" to remake The Elephant Man sans need for Oscar caliber make-up effects.

"Yo, I am not an animal! I'm like a human being!"

Oh, and here's the latest trailer for the creatively titled Rambo, should any of you wonder how the man's cranium can be captured in a 35mm camera lens ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzZwzoD1ZFM&eurl=http://www.aintitcool.com/node/34540

How to Apply Your Remake-Up

Break out the Suave mousse and Brut cologne, folks. We have two competing Knight Rider projects going head-to-head for the title of America’s Least Needed Project. Either studio execs are unfazed by David Hasselhoff’s recent liver violations or feel the press around the Hoff’s boozing helps keep the project on the front burner. In any case, the original show’s producer, Glen A. Larson, has a feature film in development while NBC Universal is looking to revamp the concept for a new television show. Personally, I think Michael Knight and his talking Trans Am should only ever exist again as thirty seconds of parody on Cartoon Network’s Robot Chicken.

But before I throw on my rubber Gene Siskel Halloween mask and bitch in the mirror about remakes, I need to face facts. Remakes, particularly from TV shows are here, baby. End of story. I guess I should call up Alec Baldwin and ask if he needs a roommate when he moves to Europe (Alec, it’s been 7 years now since Dubya won, let’s get chopping on that flight.)

Following the success of Michael Bay’s Transformageddon, Hollywood is drooling to pee $150 million away on the next 22-minute toy commercial from the 1980s. Warner Brothers has optioned Thundercats under the direction of videogame helmer Jerry O’Flaherty, and G.I. Joe is due in theaters in 2009. I’m showing my age. My only memory of G.I. Joe was from babysitting kids shoveling Pop Tarts into their mouths while some guy in a blue helmet and a Kleenex on his face called himself the Cobra Commander. Lots of bullets flew and nobody got shot. It was kind of like The A-Team only without the charm of Mr. T.

Note to film students: you will get kicked in the teeth by your NYU professor if you use “without the charm of Mr. T” in a sentence.

Look, I can at least understand the despera--- I mean, motivation from the studios. The target blockbuster demo is men ages 18-34. You take these cartoons from their childhoods and make them look both modern and retro with lots of CGI, and you’ve got a pre-sold franchise. In a Gordon Gecko world of logic, it does make sense. More baffling are the remakes of movies that are not that old or oddly enough, went to the stage. Footloose, anyone? If ever there was a case for cinematic Downs Syndrome, this has to be it. The original 1984 Kevin Bacon movie was and remains painful to watch by most males on the planet and the only reason females resonate with it now was their infatuation with Kevin Bacon’s dance double and a few acid-washed tunes from Kenny Loggins and Deniece Williams. I honestly think I would rather pick the peanuts out of sewage treatment tanks than have to listen to “Let’s Hear it For the Boy.”

Footloose: The Musical made it to Broadway for about ten minutes in a 'modern' re-telling of the triumphant tragedy of a town without dance. Honestly, dancing is a bit overrated. They should have at least done something original with the upcoming remake and center the drama on what resonates with today's youth. Call it Oral Sex Loose! Have big dance numbers where the teens gather to get drunk and go down on each other. Now THAT would be fodder for a good John Lithgow speech.

Also on the docket are remakes of awful films that still agitate people over their desecration. Friday the 13th is targeted for another ‘re-imagining’. I guess Rob Zombie’s Halloween must have put enough asses in the seat to justify them taking a stab (yuk) at the first Jason Voorhees romp. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t the killer in the first Friday the 13th movie Jason’s mother, looking a lot like my mom’s bridge partner Carol Whitney, circa 1978? This film itself was essentially a gory rehash of John Carpenter’s Halloween, and its sequels got worse and worse as the years went on, kind of like casts of Saturday Night Live.

At this point, I wash my hands of the whole trend. With the Writers Guild strike looming in a few weeks, putting thousands of industry folk out of work, I suppose there is some pathetic logic behind the studio stockpiling of pre-sold and hell, pre-written franchises. They assume we’d rather watch a remake of a mediocre Kevin Bacon movie. Actually, two. Did NO ONE notice that I looped two Bacon movies into the same article? (Hint: Mrs. Voorhees served his neck up as birthday cake.) Let’s hear it for the boy.

A Mighty Broken Wind

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)


"Eleventeen beers ago and I still feel the same!"
Some of you may recognize this bewildered looking individual swathed in a Coleman tent. It is indeed former action icon Steven Seagal. Those not familiar with his 'work' since the mid-90's are probably wondering why anyone would claim this thirty year-old photo of the Reverend Jim Jones is actually a current image of the aforementioned Aikido whiz.

It is indeed the man who was once Hard to Kill while Under Seige. Clearly, while Out for Justice, he stopped at Carl's Jr. and the Cold Stone Ice Creamery. Once Marked for Death, he presumably became despondent and decided to keep a keg tapped in his basement at all times. The Fire Down Below was most certainly an unnecessary third or fourth chili dog.

A little over a year ago, me and a friend witnessed the girth first hand. During a surprisingly enjoyable albeit surreal Seagal concert, we witnessed what would've happened had Hop Sing cut the sleeves off of his shirt and transmorgified into Hoss Cartwright. Yes, that night, Sir Steve did not drape himself in the fine burlap pictured above, he ambled on stage in a fresh pair of Big & Tall Levi's and a Hop Sing wife-beater. There he was. A six and a half foot tall, three hundred pound jowl explosion with a furry Pittsburgh Steelers helmet hot glued to his scalp.

I kid not because I love, but because I paid $45 to watch the man riff on a guitar that cost more than the car I drove to see him in. I kid because I actually own a copy of Exit Wounds. I kid because Flight of Fury and Attack Force are in my Netflix cue. I kid because even though the man is clearly incapable of the martial arts maneuvers he once employed on Henry Silva, I will still offer up time and money to watch him wheez his lines and pretend a close up game of paddy cake for the camera is just as good as the opening scene of Above the Law.

So, rest easy Steve. Have another bite of cheese log, then wash it down with two or three pints of dark beer. The gravy train will not be stopping anytime soon, because there are thousands like me and we all have our noses pressed to the glass at Blockbuster waiting for Urban Justice to hit the shelves.

Crazy Is As Crazy Weds

Okay, The Mung Hour has broken its creed to not step into the curves and crevasses of TMZ, Defamer and other tabloid websites, but this story was not to be resisted. I'm approaching my wedding anniversary this week, and I couldn't help but notice that everyone's favorite busty beach EMT and connoisseur of foot-long, heavy metal kielbasas, Pamela Anderson, has tied the knot this past weekend. Who is the clueless, silicone-mammary admiring groom? Rick Solomon. If you're scratching your head wondering who this guy is, well you simply must don a pair of night vision goggles and look at the photo again. Oh, and picture him naked in a hotel room defiling the long lost Kennedy heir, Paris Hilton.

Solomon, 38 and the 40 year-old Ms. Anderson (seen here searching her brassiere for her wallet, car keys and two small children) sent out a message to their family and friends apologizing for not providing more advanced notice of their Las Vegas nuptials but promised to videotape the honeymoon and post it online.

The End of Film - Lethal Franchises

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)

It is easy for the intellectual elite to point at recent cineplex fodder and declare the end of 'good'storytelling in mainstream film. Before embarking on a vivisection of the bloated Pirates finale, a meandering installment of the Spidey franchise, or the umpteenth variation on Ben Stiller's humiliated schnook, it is important to differentiate mainstream movies aimed at a broad demographic from those made with the intention of winning awards.

Bourgeois film experts can go all day long comparing Michael Clayton to The Verdict. Juxtaposing Eastern Promises against Scorsese's grittier work from the seventies will not tell us if film has evolved. No, if the modern American Movie Buff wants to take a
serious look at the evolution of film, he or she needs ascertain objectively whether or not Rush Hour 3 is a better film than Lethal Weapon 4.

Both are pointless installments for franchises long past their primes. Each featured leading actors just a little too old to recapture the physical acting magic from the first film(s). Though, six years had elapsed between movies in both instances, the original director was still at the helm. A veritable laundry list of other similarities could be identified if someone were so inclined.

My theory is simple. Mainstream film is better in today than it was ten years ago, because Rush Hour 3 is a much better movie than Lethal Weapon 4. Neither offered much in the way of storytelling, though Rush Hour 3 feebly attempted to weave in a bland arc about the meaning of friendship. LW4 was pretty much an episode of Three's Company with virtually all of the film's 'dramatic' tension derived from Danny Glover/Mr. Furley's obliviousness to the marital status of his character's daughter.

With RH3, the writers had at least read some instructional books on basic screenwriting. They drew a thin story thread from the first film and used it as the glue to connect some chases, kung fu fighting, and snappy one-liners. LW4 did no such thing.

It was just a series of noisy unrelated events bogged down by the needless inclusion of far too many characters. The film literally did not follow the three-act format. There were no acts. Characters
behaved in accordance with plot requirements. The illusion of motion was maintained by constantly rotating back and forth between humor and violence.

RH3 stuck to the two character original concept and did an okay job of being entertaining for ninety minutes despite the fact thirty years of stunt work had obviously hobbled one of its stars. LW4 featured
a plethora of ancillary characters that barely served to distract the audience from Mel Gibson's thinning hair.

In short, a rising tide lifts all boats. If a paycheck driven and pedestrian sequel is better today than in 1998, that simply must mean movies are better now than they were then. After all, had the bar not risen, it would stand to reason that Steven Seagal and
Jean Claude Van Damme movies would still warrant theatrical release.

But, that is another story.

Good Will Hunting For Food

Okay, not to go all TMZ here, but you'd think with all the money Matt Damon is making off the Bourne franchise, he could at least buy his ol' Oscar buddy some In n' Out double-doubles. In the past, it was Ben who puffed up in between movies, joining Tobey Maguire and Keanu Reeves at the Krispy Kreme for a post-franchise film-shoot donut fest. With Damon now in the top spot, reigning over the largest star-driven property any actor could wish for, it looks like he's the raised-glazed ingestor while ol' Ben is dwindling down to nothing. Unless Affleck is researching his next role as Adrian Brody in the period biography, "NewYork-Land".

September Gets the Shaft

Funny thing about the end of summer these days, there's just no love for month number nine. Kids deplore it because it means homework again, and parents ignore it as they prepare for the holiday onslaught. Hell, even the movies blow. Worse, you're launched directly into Christmas, at least at most major department stores. Lowe's Home Improvement, for instance, completely bypasses Halloween and assaults you with pre-lit fake trees and decorations the minute you set foot. I yearn for the nearest rifle and clock tower when those animatronic holiday toys blare from their shelf. Why must everything talk, move, sing and fart Christmas music? When I was a child, I was content with the 16" Santa Claus that waved at me. I did not need him to wiggle his fat ass to 'Jingle Bell Rock' nor Rudolph's nose to light up in ten different fiber optic colors.

For the love of everything in this expanding universe, can we PLEASE find a way to balance our consumer-driven economic reliance on the holiday season to allow us to luxuriate in what little of autumn we're allowed? Oh, and as for Halloween stuff? Love it. Bring it on. I would prefer to stand in line at Target and stare at a 5 year-old giddy with his brand new Michael Myers mask and machete than deal with Frosty the Snowman barking 'Let it Snow' in a New York accent.

And as we vicariously step away from September, please take a moment to appreciate it for its subtlety and thankless role of transition.

Make Mine a Quadruple! Why the Trilogy Will Be Ignored

Summer is behind us now. Before we dust off the powdered-wigged queens and boinking cowboys (not the same thing) and other Oscar-baiting Fall movies, let’s bag on the sequels, shall we?

Summer 2007 was littered with loud tri-feculence comprised of Pirates, Spidey, Shrek, Bourne and Rush Hour. Cap’n Jack Sparrow’s three-hour paycheck was reminiscent of those Thanksgiving dinners where the third dollop of turkey and mashed potatoes ruined what you loved about the first helping. Like the Matrix trilogy, the two Pirates follow-ups were no disasters at sea, but if we only had the first film on our DVD shelves, we’d all survive swimmingly.

We saw the trilogy apex this year, but rearing its ugly head was the specter of sequels beyond the first three. Film studios have become more and more desperate for tent-poles mined from properties past their point of freshness. Aristotle might have been correct about threesomes. Or was that Dean Martin talking about three martinis (one is too little, two is too many and three is not enough)?

Regardless, a trilogy is solid and sexy. The obvious exception is if a character's trajectory has been specifically laid out to move beyond a trio of chapters, like literary protagonists. It is astounding that the Hairy Penis films—whoops, having an Equus flashback -- the Harry Potter films have turned out as well as they have. Yet with the fantasy and sci-fi genres, there seems to be an obsessive, obligatory drive from the fans to champion certain sequels no matter the quality. Recall the legions of moviegoers who loathed the first two Star Wars prequels but stood for hours opening weekend of Episode III. I believe I was one of those idiots. Hypocrisy also leads to the Dark Side, folks.

The only ‘suck-it-dry’ pass granted is for the James Bond franchise. After 45 years, the 007 films exist in their own genre. Peter Sellers’ Pink Panther movies only excelled on the shoulders of Sellers’ and Blake Edwards immense talents. We all know Steve Martin needs the paychecks to pay for his Picassos. But at age 60, Steve why not just defile yourself in Roxanne 2: Nosy Children instead?

Spider-Man 3 brought new meaning to the age-old phrase, “Get that bawling hero a freakin’ tissue and get on with the goddamned action.” And while you’re at it, please trim the bad guys down to one good plausible (insert peanut gallery giggles here) villain. Raimi’s threequel made a fortune, so a fourth film is inevitable and will hopefully refresh. If they gag us with anymore back-story, please explain how an unemployed superhero living in the ghetto goes from sweats and a ski mask to sewing together a $65,000 spandex suit with Oakley lenses.

Shrek 3 was pretty much like mowing the lawn for most parents. You just gotta do it. Like Rush Hour 3, I can’t think of a film that existed for no other reason than money in the bank. Amnesiac Jason Bourne proved that breaking kneecaps over three films is box office gold. I’m not sure if the folks at Marvel Comics can sue the Bourne producers for ripping off Wolverine’s storyline, but we’ll get more of the amnesiac clawed one in the unofficial fourth X-Men movie, the spin-off inspiringly titled Wolverine. Finally, we will learn how the angry mutant learned his tour-jeté and tap dancing skills.

So what do we have in store for next summer? Besides the further money-grubbing adventures of Batman, Hulk and a new Iron Man movie, more blood will be squeezed from tired characters. Bruce Willis did well this summer in Live With Ashton and Demi or Die Hard which grossed $370 million worldwide, ensuring that 2007 will bring us more old farts from the 1980s. Grumpy vodka tonic enthusiast Harrison Ford breaks out his whip and the Advil for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, aka Transformers 1.5 co-starring Shia LeBoeuf as Indy's replacement-- er, protege.

Sylvester Stallone, everyone’s favorite growth hormone smuggler and winner of the 2006 Fattest Head Contest (beating out Steven Seagal) brings the angry mulleted John Rambo back in … drumroll please … John Rambo. Yo, Sly. Just because we have a soft spot for the borderline retarded Rocky Balboa, does not mean we want to watch you at age 60 strap on the raccoon wig and and as the internet footage revealed, liquefy Asians with a .50 caliber machine gun. You’ve got millions of dollars and a lovely wife that looks like she could suck-start an Escalade. Please just enjoy both in retirement.

Will we ever see an end to these installments beyond the all American trilogy? Doubtful. The Terminator franchise is pushing forward without Ah-nold, and there’s always been talk of a fourth Godfather and more Aliens movies. I wish we could just see the originals re-mastered and re-released in theaters, but that's why we have Blu-Ray and plasma screens. Looks like we’ll all be watching sequel after sequel until the studios cannibalize their own properties with re-starts like hmmmm, STAR TREK. In fact, I think the new Captain Kirk has just been cast. No word on whether William Shatner will cameo as Grandpa Kirk bequeathing his beloved toupee to his young grandson.

Indiana Jones and the Mountain in Space

It would be too Warholian for Harrison Ford to ride his namesake's rollercoaster at Disneyland. Moreover, the sting of seeing the animatronic Indy looking far more ambulatory than the real thing could result in a meltdown in front of The Corpse Bride and her son. That smile looks a little too large, Harry. Hmmmm, Dr. Jones. Do we have a case of the churro munchies?

Jimmy Carter sang on The Love Boat

His name was Jimmy Carter, and he rocked the Love Boat. Before I’m bombarded with peanuts for insinuating that our 39th president had a secret nightclub act, let me echo the immortal words of Master Yoda, "There is another."

I was 14 years old and wondering if I should vomit off the railing or into the orchid planter on board the Island Princess. The Pacific Princess was the crown jewel of the Princess Cruise line fleet circa 1983, and I was on its lesser known sibling. It was also billed as "The Love Boat," but there was no hot Julie McCoy to stiffen my loins as cruise director or any guest stars like the Landers sisters to leer at poolside. No, for a kid on Christmas break stuffed into a 7'x7' coach cabin with his mother and grandmother, leaping overboard was an hourly option to consider.

With not much to hold my attention amidst the grey-haired retirees and humping newlyweds other than ping-pong and vandalism, I was anything but the smiling guest star flirting with Captain Stubing's daughter, Vicki. I was the pissed-off extra in the background wondering why the goddamn show is so popular. That is, until a certain nightclub singer would change my view of the world forever.

The thrill of tossing patio furniture into the moonlit wake off the ship's stern dissipating, I realized that there had to be more for a young teen to do after hours. Luckily, I was cajoled by my mother and the other Hawaiian Tropic-slathered alcoholics to watch the evening's nightclub show, a male and female singing duo. The gal was a brunette drink of water who must have found fellatiating the ABC Daytime casting directors futile and threw her talents to the sea. The male singer made his mark the second he introduced himself.

"Hi, my name is Jimmy Carter and it's loooooove, exciting and new!" Then he launched into a medley of Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond and Fiddler on the Roof. With his pale blue eyes and curly blonde hair, he looked like Mark Hamill with an afro. It's easy to assume this guy was scraping the bottom of the career barrel crooning to vacationing stiffs on board a floating Christmas ornament. However, Jimmy Carter owned that stage. He charmed everyone with his sparkling showmanship and strangely enough, he liked hanging out with me after hours.

Now before you toss this into the NAMBLA file, Jimmy Carter was as straight as an arrow, and our interest in each other was puerile for sure but only in pointing our wicked sense of humor at the other passengers, particularly the very few hot women. In fact, the hottest woman on the ship was his co-star and he was nailing her. How do I know this? Because he asked me to keep watch outside his room while they went at it.

Turns out they both were married and apparently, the mantra for 1983 was what happens at sea on a Princess Cruise stays at sea on a Princess Cruise. As we relaxed on the lido deck (no, Isaac the bartender didn't make that term up), Carter told me of his plan to deflower his leading lady but needed it kept secret from the rest of the crew, such was the piety of the business even in the coke-fueled eighties. My curiosity of what 'deflowering' meant was answered with a condom reveal in his palm. "Ohhhh, now I get it."

So later that night, I stood outside a cabin while a certain set of performers went at it. Now I know it all seems so lascivious, particularly since this cruise ship lothario needed an adolescent accomplice, but the guy really was charming and had the whole boat smitten, including my mother. Had she ever found out that this guy confided his innermost sexual fantasies to her young son, I'm sure the Coast Guard would have found more than deck furniture floating in the surf.

Where is Jimmy Carter now? Probably downing Valtrex and wondering if 25 years of alimony payments merit forgiveness in the afterlife. If you're out there, Mr. Carter, I want to thank you for the hilarious memories. As the TV show's theme song says, "Welcome aboard, it's loooooove." Or at least a quickie between co-workers.

Day One - Or How I Stopped Worrying About My Blog and Learned to Love It

First of all, I'd like to welcome you for spending quality time, minutes out of your life, to read the blatherings of someone whose opinion and observations mean about as much to the world as the 7-11 on Van Owen and Lankersheim in NoHo. My opinions are typically tempered by the amount of high fiber cereal I had for breakfast, or more importantly, the amount of broccoli and tofu I ate the night before. Thanks for taking time away from the tmz.com ambulance chas-- er, journalists or those immensely talented defamer.com rummies to spy my site. Hey, free marketing for the aforementioned entertainment sites. I ought to at least get an autographed photo of Britney's pock-marked ass signed by Harvey Levin.

As this is my first bit of writing at this location, I will start out today with the most unoriginal of icebreakers between writer and reader: a list.

OBJECTS IN MIRROR LOOK LARGER THAN THEY APPEAR:
1) Reverend Al Sharpton's head.
2) Harrison Ford's liquor cabinet.
3) Valerie Bertinelli.
4) The envy of Shia LeBoeuf's former classmates who called him a dick in school.
5) Barry Manilow's Botox bill.
6) The round planet about to crush The View's Sherri Shepherd in what my college ethics professor would call 'ironic punishment'.
7) Michael Vick's future shower mate.
8) Bill O'Reilly's salivary glands as he listens to Hillary's health care plan
9) Thunderous crash to the ground of Lady Justice's scales when Phil Specter gets off with slap on the wrist.
10) Conan O'Brien. 2009 is right around the corner, Jay.