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.