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Johnny Depp and Tim Burton Collaborate on Another "Character-y" Film

It's been announced that the highly-successful duo of director Tim Burton and hunky Adonis/character actor Johnny Depp will be getting to work on another film collaboration.

Though no plot currently exists, Burton promises his fans that the film will contain a lot of character-driven moments, fueled by Depp's unusual method acting.

Very subtle moments, no doubt.

"In the film, I play a man called Messiah Jones," Depp told reporters at the premier of yet another animated movie. "Well, I use the term 'man' loosely. For now, let's just say I play something called Messiah Jones."

Burton has described the character in the following ways: quirky, odd, peculiar, an outcast, and handsomely disheveled.

"He'll most likely wear a cooky outfit," says Burton. "Something with ostrich feathers and a big hat. Or maybe one of those monocles."

"There's something about our collaborations that are just so profit--I mean, creatively fulfilling," added Depp, coughing loudly and then pretending to take a sip of water from a clearly empty bottle. "It would be a shame to deny audiences the opportunity to pay us make at least fourteen more wacky films over the next three years."

I Still Love the 90s Part II: Harder.

What?

Sorry, I can't hear you. You're going to need to speak up.

Oh. The music? Yeah, it's pretty great, isn't it?

HUH?

No, I...uh, I can't turn it down until the song's over, man. Sorry, it's...it's too good!

But in the meantime, let me tell you what I love about the alternative rock scene of the 1990s. In a word, it was overwhelming. There was so much of it around, so many bands who all sounded a lot like each other while somehow sounding remarkably different. Sure, Alice in Chains resembled Mother Love Bone, but you would never confuse the two if you heard their songs back to back.

I've lauded the shinier, happier version of 90s alt rock, but let's not forget this was also prime time to get up to your elbows in sludgy rock anthems about disappointment, depression, and distaste for everything that preceded. It was a time to wear your heart on the sleeves of your flannel. Sorrow was now a badge of honor. Lyrics about burning loins and drowning livers were ousted in favor of ones about tortured souls and wrecked childhoods.

Basically the 90s.

Here's what's problematic about all this, though: the 90s grunge/alt rock/whatever scene usually tends to separate people into extremely differing camps. There's the hardcore, slightly elitist who view Mudhoney, Pixies, and Dinosaur, Jr. (and other bands no one not in those bands has ever heard of) as the only alt-rock music worth listening to. Then there's grunge traditionalists who cling to Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, and maybe Alice In Chains. The recluses look to Radiohead and Sonic Youth. The goths love Manson and White/Rob Zombie. Those who wandered in late to the party can't get enough of Bush, Stone Temple Pilots, and all the other "grunge-lite" acts.

And then there was Nickelback and Creed. (But we're not going to acknowledge them any further.)

And then, of course, there's the relentless number of sub genres trying to incorporate every Neil, Chuck, and Mark to ever pick up a guitar: industrial rock, college rock, ska punk, post-grunge, post-punk, Post Cereal rock (bringing us such greats as Honey Bunches of Shotguns and Shredded Guitar Wheat), and so on.

Categorizations and individual preferences aside, though, I think it's safe to say everyone can agree on one thing: Hole was a fucking awful band. Right? I don't even care what you think about Courtney Love as a person--if you want to call her that--but you absolutely do not enjoy Hole. Every copy of every Hole album is now on a Goodwill used CD rack. That's not hyperbole, it's fact.

And every hole in Courtney Love is currently filled with a Goodwill employee...

But I'm not here to dwell on the rotten apples. I also realize that hate is subjective. So while I proclaim Hole to be the worst thing to happen to the 90s (at least until Sugar Ray came along), there's going to be someone out there shouting some combination of the words "stupid," "douchebag," and "charlatan" at their computer screens once I confess how much I loved the first Linkin Park album. (Luckily, I won't hear any of this because your laptop speakers do not link directly to my inner conscience.)

So on with the love! 

Though there's far too much to point out individually, I'm going to run down a list of the great music that was made to incite, emote, and make ears bleed. We, as a people, learned about "Sex Type Things" and "Bullets With Butterfly Wings." We were fed Cake, Crackers, Placebos, and Pearl Jam. (Just like grandma used to make.) Some of us even ate Korn and Bizkits but regurgitated it all a few years later.

Much of the decade was a Blur, a rather "Cumbersome" Orgy of "Teen Spirit" that took quite awhile to "Comedown" from. We had "Machineheads" that doubled as Radioheads. We planted Soundgardens and Screaming Trees. Dave Grohl became "My Hero" after Nirvana was no more. Eddie Vedder "Led Better" (and longer) than his grungy counterparts.

Whatever you called your poison, whether it was "grunge" or "heavy alternative" or "space blood rock," there's no getting around the fact that, for better or worse, it was an infinitely cool era to plug in a guitar, dress like a lumberjack, and get your bummer on.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go put on some Our Lady Peace and take a trip down Bleak Lane. Join me?

Word Sex

Auto erotic asphyxcianado = Someone well-versed in the art of sexual choking.

Balloon-y Tunes = Bugs and Daffy in a Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Bananigans = Restaurant with a very limited menu.

Beelzetub = A hot tub that's just far too hot.

Goo Goo Fighters = The band behind every rock song on the radio in the 90s.

Medieval Knieval = Man who jumped fire-breathing dragons on his steed.

Mismanage à trois = Why you and your best friend aren't on speaking terms.

Parentesticals = An aside to one's genitals.

Pronounciationanigans = What's keeping you from being able to say this word.

American Airlines Charges Extra for Those Fleeing Bahrain, Also Offers Charlie Sheen Free Tropical Getaway.

Increasingly dangerous protests in Bahrain that have so far resulted in riots, several deaths, and a general sense of hostile unrest, can now also add "population isolation" to its effects on the island.

American Airlines, a primary source of flights for U.S. citizens traveling to and from the island, has begun sharply increasing the price of tickets from Bahrain to the U.S. in order to capitalize on the amount of people trying to leave the area.

In related news, American Airlines has also offered to fly actor Charlie Sheen to the tropical resort of his choosing, and put him up in an ocean-view suite, at no cost.

The long-running grudge between Sunnis and Shiites has now escalated to the point that the king of Bahrain has declared a 3-month long state of emergency. Many American citizens were told by booking agents at American Airlines that they would have to pay much higher fees than they would have in previous weeks if they wanted to leave the island.

When reached for comment about why the airline is now charging extra, one AA manager commented that the situation in Bahrain, where martial law was recently implemented, "must not be that serious."

However, Charlie Sheen's recent breakdowns in the national news media have now elevated the possibility of his permanent withdrawal from television and film to "super serious" levels. Representatives for American Airlines realize how taxing the last couple weeks must have been for Sheen, and considered the free vacation a necessary deed to the Two and a Half Men star.

"He's given all of us so much joy over the years," said one AA spokesperson. "We figured this is a good start to showing our immeasurable gratitude."

A one-way ticket from Bahrain to the United States currently costs more than a round-trip flight. Theoretically, if someone wanted to permanently flee the dangerous riots of Bahrain today, that person would pay $1,106 to land in Des Moines, Iowa. However, if that person wished to flee the riots for only a day to get a whiff of the fresh, relatively kill-free Des Moines air, and then promptly return to the dangerous conditions of Bahrain the following day, they would pay just $818.

Sheen has been going back and forth between either Sandals and Bali, but so far hasn't reached a final decision for his fully-comped trip. He's ruled out Maui because he's already been there several times with his ex-wife Denise Richards, which, in Sheen's own words, "totally taints the thermal ecstasy of the sand now."

Another spokesman for American Airlines stated the company plans to raise prices even further if the civil unrest isn't resolved by next week. "People paying $1,100 now should count themselves lucky," he said. "Next week we're going to start charging pints of human blood."

*In a completely farce-less sidebar: please show your disgust by posting this article to your Facebook, Twitter, or other social networking account and write in to American Airlines about this outrageous act of greed!

**Also, only what's presented in bold is factual information, the rest is purely fictitious.

Does a Pooh Bear Crap in the Hundred Acre Woods?

Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp to Star in Movie Together, Bring Women Everywhere to Tear-gasms

"It's finally happening," says 39-year old Julie Seyers of Elkhart, Indiana. "It's my most beautiful dream coming true."

Rumors about a film starring two of the most prominent actors of the last two decades arose in an online forum discussion titled "OOOOMaG! JoHnNy n BrAd 2getha SOOOOON!!!!!"

"Except, in the dream version, I'm in between them. And there's a lot of non-toxic oils involved," the mother of two continues.

A blogger with the username Brand_Pijol, a less-popular portmanteau of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, tweeted the post, adding that the film will be "offfffff the hooooooook sexAY!"

"Oh, the things that we do to each other. Sometimes it's me and Johnny. Sometimes it's me and Brad," says Seyers, who celebrated her 12-year anniversary with her husband, Paul, in January. "And other times, it's just Johnny and Brad."

Several of the web's most reliable sources, including TMZ and Perez Hilton, have since confirmed that Depp and Pitt are signed on to co-star, with Ashton Kutcher, Leo DeCaprio, and Ryan Reynolds filling the supporting roles. George Clooney and Denzel Washington will reportedly make cameos.

This will be the first time the two 47-year-old heartbreakers have shared the screen since 1988, when a then twenty-something Pitt appeared on 21 Jump Street.

"That Brad is such a tease sometimes," adds Seyers, now 20 minutes late for picking her son up from soccer practice. "But Johnny...he's down-to-business. They compliment each other well."

It remains unclear how the superstars were brought together for the project, though some speculate it was a connection through Angelina Jolie, who recently starred alongside Depp in The Tourist, that made it happen.

The as-of-yet untitled project will feature both stars "shirtless in sophisticated situations," according to every comments section of the World Wide Web.

Commando Cats

It's 0200 hours. Me and my men have the only open eyelids in a 550-square-foot radius.

Our rations have dwindled to almost nothing. Some have already grown delusional with hunger and we probably don't have enough Whisker Lickin's to make it through the night.

But I'll be damned if I'm gonna walk away from this mission without a victory. I will not live in a world where mangy, backside-sniffing, walking puddles of slobber rule with an iron paw. I will not stand aside as they pant their way to the top of the heap, offering nothing but an occasional hot mess on the new carpet.

I will never say die to a dog.

We've lost some good felines along the way. I...lost a best friend. And I won't soon forget the image of Sergeant Pickles--the best goddamn soldier a commander could ask for--being chased into the vast darkness of that basement...where only the unspeakable happens...

"Major Bojangles, one of your paws is bleeding, sir! We should have the medic take a look at that."

My mouth is suddenly overwhelmed by the taste of kitty litter. Private Muffin Top is a good kid, but he's got the nerves of a squirrel and the gas of a 15-year-old house cat. I can only imagine what his guts must feel like in the heat of battle. I'm just glad he's got better control of his weaponry than he does his colon.

"Son, I ain't got time to bleed. And if the medic's lookin' at anything, it's gonna be that suffocating stench you carry around in your intestines."

If I had a penny for every time I made a new solider whimper, I could make it rain Fancy Feast.

"Listen up, troops. We're getting ready to move into the final phase of our mission."

As I scan the faces of my men, I see a collection of weary eyes and heartache-heavy expressions. It's sometimes easy to forget that these cats have feelings, too.

After all, we're not hate machines. We're just war machines.

"I know we're all tired. Our souls...they're heavy with fatigue and even heavier with the memories of those we left behind: Blaine. Dutch. Poncho. Colonel Spiffy. Our enemies...they want this jungle--with its mountains of suede and its electronic sunrises--to shut us out. They want us to feel out of place. They want us to feel like men without a home.

Well I say we lay out the welcome mat for these bastards and show them whose place this really is. Tonight we take back what is rightfully ours!"

A collective purr rises into the air. They come up off their haunches for the first time since The Battle at Ottoman Square.

"I promise you all one thing: when this is over, when we've got canine teeth under our feet and their slobbering jaws tight in our hands, you're going to go home to your wives, your kittens...your favorite lounge pillows. 

You're going home, soldiers."

If they knew how to clap their paws together, the applause would be overwhelming. As it is, the meows are loud and screeching; the way they should be.

But joy doesn't last very long on the battlefield. Within seconds, the high-pitched exclamations of my soldiers are overtaken by a series of low, hollow grunts--the unmistakable sound of a bloodhound.

From out of the shadows, his dripping snout appears; a hound's only real weapon.

Another booming grunt sends my soldiers scattering for cover, barricading themselves behind the square, painted trees and ducking into plastic leaves.

It's easy to fear what you do not know. But I know this snot-ridden face is nothing to fear.

"Brigade, regroup! This hound isn't a threat. He's nothing more than a scout with a scary voice."

The first to inch out of hiding was Corporal Skittles. "But sir, he's a purebred!"

"Skittles, I eat purebreds for breakfast. And right now...I'm pretty hungry..."

To Be Continued...

I Still Love the 90s. Hard.

Tell me, do you like hip-hop?

Then I'm not talking to you.

How about indie folk?

Get the fuck out of my face. Seriously.

How about 90s rock music?

Yeah? How about 90s alt rock? Okay, how about 90s light alt rock?

Well then, all right! Let me buy you a beer!

No, not really. This is the internet. I have no way of doing that. But, tell ya what, I'll go grab one from my fridge, you go grab one from yours, and we can drink together across the wires.

I gotta tell ya, it's nice to finally find someone who's not too busy "gettin' their swag on" or "crankin' that" to appreciate a bouncy and/or mopey 90s rock song when they hear it.

It was a fucking amazing era, wasn't it? I swear, every time the radio plays Oasis, an angel gets high and fails out of angel college.

True story: in 1993, the Statue of Liberty read: "Give me your Blues Travelers, your Foo Fighters, your Collective Souls yearning to be Better Than Ezra." (Sidenote: It was promptly replaced to its original wording in 1995 when Collective Soul released "The World I Know." What a shitty song.)

Go ahead, call me a fag for listening to the Gin Blossoms.

I dare you.

The fact is, anyone who listens to Hey Jealousy and doesn't get a little wistful...well, they're the ones who are wrong.

The 90s were breeding grounds for some of the best One-Hit Wonders to ever not...ya know...get a second hit. Remember all the success The Verve had after their big breakthrough? Me neither! But Bittersweet Symphony was a great fucking song.

Like a cheesy, melodic wine, these tunes only get better with age. "Breakfast at Tiffany's," for example: like nails on a chalkboard when I first heard it, but 15 years later, it's delightful. Ditto for anything the Spin Doctors ever put out.

(Some of you right now are thinking to yourselves: who are the Spin Doctors? And who sang Breakfast at Tiffany's? ...was it the Spin Doctors? To you people: go read a book, the rest of this does not concern you.)

I'm sure a few of you are thinking, "you're just selectively remembering the best parts of the era; there was a also ton of shit on the radio from 90 to 99." This is the part where you "helpfully" namedrop bands like Goo Goo Dolls, Blessid Union of Souls, Sister Hazel, Hootie (and his Blowfish), Matchbox 20, Vertical Horizon, Live, Tonic...and Sugar Ray.

Mark McGrath: the worst thing to happen to music since AIDS.

I can't say much in response to that. But I can say this: Dizzy was a good song, Hey Leonardo (She Likes Me For Me) is better than you remember it being, Sister Hazel put out two great albums in the past two years, Hootie is the most tolerable thing in country music, and all those other guys are most likely working for minimum wage somewhere in Idaho. So it all evens out.

Now, I've already listed some wonderful goodness to come out of the speakers of the 90s, but I've left out some of the greatness.

Between 1990 and 1999, we were lucky enough to have the radio give us Everclear, No Doubt, Mighty Mighty (mighty) Bosstones, the lighter side of Green Day, the beginnings of Ben Folds, the Lemonheads, a very commercial (and more fun) Tom Petty, "Today" and "Tonight, Tonight," Oasis a.k.a. the most artistic drunks in the world, two types of Crows (both Black and Counting), Third-Eye Blind, the mopiest of R.E.M., and Lenny Kravitz.

Remember Lenny Kravitz?

So, haters of this wonderfully prosperous decade for the jaunty, jangly, less-distorted side of alternative rock music, you have fun with your Daughtry and your Fray and your Coldplay.

I'll be over here in the corner listening to Fastball.

Essentially Condensed Reviews: Michael Jackson - Thriller.

Today I'm looking at the album that spawned half a dozen hits--including "Beat It," "Billie Jean," and "Human Nature"--and jump-started the solo career of the youngest member of Jackson 5. I'm talking of course, about Thriller.

It's, uh...it's got a great beat. Really danceable.


Next week I'll take a look at an album that featured a plain, white cover, and went on to sell millions.

interREview with Nickelback's Chad Kroeger.

Thanks for logging onto Pop Farce, your home for the best in music reviews. I am sitting here with Chad Kroeger, lead singer for the world-famous hard rock band Nickelback, for a special feature called "interREview." This is where we talk to artists for a collaborative reviewing process and let them share some of thoughts on their past work. This week, we’re looking at the album that gave Nickelback their breakthrough into the mainstream, Silver Side Up. Chad, it’s good to have you here. 

Chad Kroeger: Yeah, thanks for having me.

Pop Farce: Now, Silver Side Up was no doubt a defining moment in your career. It certainly broadened your audience, and with that, allowed for many future successes. But it also opened the floodgates to detractors who felt that you had gotten too big too fast. One critic said that you went "from relative obscurity to radio leeches in less time than it takes to shave a pubic mane."

What did you think when you first heard these types of criticisms?

Chad: Well, actually, I'd never heard that particular one. And I think the term "radio leeches" is totally unfair. We didn’t go to the radio, the radio came to us. But as far as becoming one of the top-tier rock acts of this decade--everyone in the band knew it was just a matter of time. We worked hard and played even harder, so it wasn’t a huge surprise when we climbed to the top of the charts.

PF: When the radio "came to you," some critics said they also "came all over the ears of the listening public" by making you guys the Most Played Rock Artist of 2002. Tell me, in your opinion, do you think that title was a blessing or a curse?

Chad: It opened all the doors for us, so it wasn't a curse. It gave us a lot of exposure. People got to see our faces, which made them go out and buy our records.

PF: Speaking of the people who went out and bought your first album, let’s talk about Never Again, the first track on the album.

Chad: This is one of our heaviest songs to date. We start with these crunching power chords and then I rip in through the chorus with this howl that just sets your ears on fire.

PF: That's a stunningly accurate description. Did you actively try for a harder sound or did it just kind of happen like that?

Chad: We never try to be hard, it just happens. We’re a hard group of guys.

PF: …right.

Ya know, I've heard trying too much can make it more difficult to be hard. But then again, staying hard can be just as difficult sometimes. How long do guys plan on staying hard? Because I've heard some say that once the hardness goes away it can be a very long time before it comes back.

Chad: ...This is making me uncomfortable. Can we talk about something else? 

PF: Next on the album is the uber-mega-super-smash hit, How You Remind Me. Was the intention there to create a radio-ready single?

Chad: People ask us that a lot, but I always have the same response: if we knew beforehand how huge that song was going to be, we would have made an entire album full of songs like it.

PF: Mm. And...you...you didn't...do that.

Chad: Every song on Silver Side Up represents a unique side of Nickelback. If we want to play fast, we do it. If we want to scream loud, we do it. And if we want to do both at the same time, all we have to do is check with the label to see if that’s all right, and then we do it. And we do it our way.

PF: How did your label, Roadrunner, feel about this next song, Woke Up This Morning? You drop a few curse words in that one. Did they ever put up a fight?

Chad: No way man, this album was raw Nickelback, and the label got that. 

PF: Can you speak a little more about the "raw" sound? What does that mean to you?

Chad: It's just unrefined, razor-edged rock and roll! You know? Like shards of glass in your whiskey! Fuzzy, heavy, distorted rock with a small bit of tweaking once it came time to mix the album. Then a little bit of layering with the guitars, some spicing up on the drum track, a little overdubbing on the vocals. And of course, we eventually had to teach my brother how to play bass guitar so we could add that in when it was all said and done. 

Ha! That last part was a joke.

PF: The whole album was...

[Clearing throat] Your second hit single, Too Bad gets my vote for the least awful...best song off the album. I uh...I really almost love that chorus. It screams "we have an aggressive male vocalist and know about rhythmic syncopation!"  

Chad: I get the feeling you're mocking me. 

PF: I wouldn't dream of it.

...I heard you asked Eddie Vedder to come in and do a few guest spots on the album. How did that work out?

Chad: That never happened. What...what are you talking about, man?

PF: No, I just heard he turned you down and that's why you chose to impersonate him throughout the album, just to get his goat a little.

Chad: All right, this is bullshit. I'm done.
 
[Stands up and marches out of the room.]

PF: Didn't see that coming. Who knew the lead singer of Nickelback would leave when he realized no one wanted to listen to him? 

[Long pause] Hey, does anybody know the lead singer from Fuel’s phone number? I've got a few questions for him...

Blockbuster Says 'Fuck It,' Charges $500 Per Rental

Executives at Blockbuster Video, once the nation's largest distributor of the Leprechaun movie franchise, announced Tuesday their plan to finally run themselves out of business once and for all by increasing the cost of movie and video game rentals to $500 per night.

James W. Keyes, Chairman and CEO of Blockbuster Inc., said the company has been considering drastic measures since it filed for bankruptcy in September of 2010.

"We understand that we're no longer relevant as a business," said Keyes at Tuesday's conference. "And we have no delusions about digging ourselves out of the hole we're in. But if we're going down, we're going down with our middle finger in the air and our genitals exposed."

The long, slow decline in business, resulting in $900 million worth of debt, could be considered just another casualty of the current recession. But it's worth noting that the company's biggest losses coincide with the rising popularity of Netflix and Redbox.

The face of considerable debt.

Blockbuster has made several attempts over the past year to remain competitive, recently adopting their own brand of self-sustaining kiosks--which are blue, and therefore much different--and advertising that they stock stock select titles 28 days before Netflix.

A representative from Netflix, while literally wiping his ass with a hundred dollar bill, said "there is no concern about Blockbuster's past or future ploys." Meanwhile, when reached for comment, one Redbox kiosk simply spat out a copy of Inception in exchange for a freaking dollar!

Keyes, along with most of his management team, believes competition was the least of their problems and places the blame squarely on internet piracy.

"We have copies of The Bodyguard that haven't moved off the shelves since early 2004," said a sobbing Keyes. "Now, I hate to jump on the anti-file sharing bandwagon like this, but if Kevin Costner and the incomparable Whitney Houston can't move product, then what excuses are left?"

Before Blockbuster goes the way of Movie Gallery and Hollywood Video, execs are hoping to recoup some of their lost assets with a bold move, upping the cost of nightly rentals by more than 10,000 percent.

"I know for certain that some people would willingly shell out a few Benjamins to watch Matthew McConaughey woo Sarah Jessica Parker," Keyes cackled. "And those people should pay."

At the beginning of February, Blockbuster will launch their new campaign, creating a tiered pricing system in the process. For example, a 3-day rental of a new release will increase from $4.99 to $1,499, while older titles will cost whatever the store clerk decides to make you pay. In conjunction, Blockbuster kiosks will only be stocked with movies directed by Tyler Perry, which will cost you one portion of your soul per night.

Keyes added, "Oh, and game nerds, that new Halo game you've been dying to play? Two grand per night, you pirating assholes!"

The campaign is tentatively titled "Bring Home the Magic For a Stupid Sum of Money, Just Because We Can, You Cheap Motherfuckers."

They still won't charge any late fees, though. So there's that.

David Cook, founder of Blockbuster, says he saw the "Block-pocalypse" coming for years, but chalks it up to personnel issues. "Since day one, we've painstakingly sought out the snobbiest, most socially inept employees we could find," said Cook. "It just caught up with us."

He added, "Also, we don't offer any free movies to watch online. So that's pretty shitty."

Outside a Blockbuster store in Pomroy, Ohio, frequent customer Marty Dellaford explained he would probably continue to rent from the chain even after the new pricing system takes effect.

"I dunno," said Dellaford. "I don't have a computer and those Redbox machines always have lines."

Ozzy Osbourne Yells Something From the Bathroom.

Hey! Mmzzz it, fuckin, no p-p-p-p rrgghh aaay!

Th-th-thez no dmmm, I mean I kahnt eyyven woy, for fuck...I n-need ssssum fucking sssstuff man! Jesus.

Et's like dunn jus leyve the fucking r-r-rollll uff! Fuck.

Wutamisuppozzadowitnodam...fucking t-tee pee, man!

Wwwerztheffff, aahm teychin a shit and thez no tee pee! Jesus.

SHARON!

Steve Urkel: A Retrospective.

It should have been a true “revenge of the nerds” success story. Instead, it played out like a slippery slope oiled with comedic atrophy and worn-out catchphrases, causing a major viewer revolt. Couch potatoes turned into snobby French Fries, demanding something better. (And probably saltier.) The potatoes had spoken: Steven Quincy Urkel was out.

TGIF: Thank God It’s the goddamn Finale!

On July 17^th, 1998, after ten years as America’s go-to nerd-in-suspenders, Urkel was launched into space for the series finale (…logically), and after a testy few TV minutes, he returns to the Winslow home, safe and sound. Sadly, he never returned into the homes of America.

Steve Urkel remains one of the most infamously annoying people to occupy the airwaves, sporting suspenders made of woman-repellant and the voice of kitten rape. He was a blundering genius and serial stalker who incessantly asked people that he’d just pissed off if he did indeed just piss them off. (The answer is always yes. Forever, yes Steve, you did do that.) And for nine seasons, America tolerated him. Hell, some even accepted the 100 pounds of squinting sexual repression with open arms.

And some wore blackface to...ya know...pay tribute. 

...to pop culture-obsessed vagina.

Strangely though, for all of the 90s nerd archetypes that found their bespectacled selves on sitcoms, Steve Urkel is the only one who thrived as a suave, pants-dropping playboy when not in the immediate presence of his costars. When the Winslows were away, Urkel would play. He’d play hard.

Let’s face it; Screech outside of Bayside High is probably the exact same guy as Screech inside Bayside High, just with a lot more baby lotion and hand-to-dong contact.

But Urkel?

At some point between oiling his six-pack and disrobing the ladies at the bar using only lyrics from a Boys 2 Men ballad, Urkel crossed the threshold into nerd-dom, inflicting ulcers on the world from 6 to 7 pm on Friday nights. He transitioned from shades to geek goggles, cranked the pitch up on his vocal chords, and presumably gave himself a very large, very permanent butt probe. (How the hell else did he walk like that all the goddamn time, people?)

And, to some extent, he made it work. For one hour every week, Steve Urkel was routinely welcomed into millions of homes—even with the very real possibility he’d break all of our expensive glassware.

That fucking table's going to snap any second. Just you wait...

To look at Steve Urkel’s track record in the post-Family Matters world is to look deep into the soul of a classically poor decision. It’s the moral of why a handsome man should never, circumstances be damned, hike his white jeans up to his shit-eating grin and talk like the puree option on a blender. During Family Matters' fragile final years, Steve Urkel was a lost dog, sniffing out anything vaguely familiar to take a crap on. Bewildered audiences found themselves staring at a nerdy apparition, the Ghost of Sitcoms Past. Urkel was on Full House. Urkel was on Step by Step. Urkel was on Meego (which was about a 9000-year-old alien...or something).

The fall of Urkle-Mania is not surprising. In fact, when looking back on those nine years, one begins to wonder how he lasted so long without being shot by his neighbor, who carried a gun as part of his job and had the temperament of a colicky baby.

Still, the fact that the handsome Steve Urkel never got the chance to unleash himself on the world the way his ball-squeezed, dork montage of a counterpart did is just wrong. The Steve Urkel whose gaze could unhook bras. The Steve Urkel who was sponsored by Plan B contraception. The Steve Urkel who…kind of looked a lot like that guy Stefan Urquelle, now that I think about it…

Like seeing Clark Kent without his glasses...and a dashing goatee.

The fact that he never got proper face time with America is an outright tragedy. An irresistibly hunky tragedy.

Jean-Claude Van Damme: The Quest to Dress Like a Male Prostitute not such a Hard Target for a Timecop. Could Have a Double Impact? Bloodsport!!!

Punch. Kick. Double punch. Jump, spin, kick. Splits. Pose.

Such is the life of "the Muscles From Brussels." This tedium is surpassed only by the constant flex of his biceps and straight-to-DVD work ethic. Jean-Claude Van Damme is a man of pattern: A + B + C = Damme. And for nearly 20 years, it worked like a charm.

Type "van damme flex" into Google. Then watch your computer explode.

In the 80s and early 90s, Jean-Claude Van Damme was to action movies what cranberries are to Thanksgiving: colorful, easy to digest, and on your plate every single year, regardless of if you wanted him there. But he was harmless and handsome, so it could easily be brushed aside.

You were never going to leave a Van Damme movie saying, "boy, I did not see that twist ending coming," or "I need to re-evaluate my outlook on life." What you more than likely said is something like "Jesus, did that guy dress himself out of Elton John's 'DONATE TO GOODWILL' pile?"

Liberace would have told him to tone it down.

Pick any one of Van Damme's movie titles from a hat. In that movie you will be guaranteed to see Van Damme do two things: wear a fluorescent tank top and split-punch a bad guy in the dick. There is no movie featuring Jean-Claude Van Damme where this does not happen! In some rare cases, they may even happen at the same time.

I understand that this era was a confusing time for male fashion, but frequent viewings of Death Warrant, Kickboxer, and Double Impact have made me think Van Damme was actively vying for the title of Fruitiest Wardrobe in a Movie About Avenging Someone's Untimely Death.

Like you wouldn't vote for him...

The only real question is why? Why wear the rejected items from a Kylie Minogue video when you're about to throat-kick someone?

Hold up. I was told this was an audition for that Right Said Fred video...

Budgetary restraints? Did you lose a bet to Dolph Lundgren? What, man???

In the end, you could dismiss it by saying that in the beginning, the rookie actor wasn't enough of a big shot to make decisions about his wardrobe. Surely the director/producer/assistant to craft services told him to shut his mouth and put the leg warmers on. But then, how do you explain this?...

Hold up. I was told this was the Miami Vice reunion...

Jean-Claude Van Damme: action star, ball-puncher, flagrant misuser of pastel colors.

**Thanks to Entertainment Weekly, Martial News, DVDactive.com, vandamme.ru, Picsicio, Punch Drunk Critics, and Muscle Weights for the photos.

An Open Letter to Troy Duffy, Director of Boondock Saints 2.

Look. Before I start, we get it. You like to see gunfire in slow-motion. And you love bloody squibs popping from the chests of your racially insensitive bad buys. And you obviously have a fixation with making people say and do manly things in very manly ways using a lot of expletives to prove how large their dicks are. Got it, thanks.

But the thing is: you already did that. Remember, it was called The Boondock Saints, and it was pretty terrific. Did you really need to go and make a second one?

I’ll answer that for you.

No. 

No, you definitely did not. Boondock Saints 2: All Saints Day acts as nothing more than a shout-out to the fact that you made a movie that some people liked ten years ago. You took the original, shoved in some more over exaggerated action sequences, turned the main characters into Irish versions of Inspector Gadget (minus the cool technology), brought back the supporting cast to read the same lines they read before, and replaced all of the dead cast with new dead weight.

There were no characters in your movie. There were only glimpses of people who would die, kill, or eventually call someone else a queer.

In Sunshine Cleaning, Clifton Collins Jr. played his character Winston, a handicapped sterile products salesman, with great subtlety and charm. I’m curious then, when Collins showed up on set for All Saints Day, did you make him re-watch that performance all day in a tiny room with the volume cranked up and the Spanish subtitles on? And then make him sit through twelve hours of Speedy Gonzalez cartoons?

And holy H.E. Double Hockeysticks, you replace Willem Dafoe’s Agent Smecker with that ridiculous collection of tit-wearing Southern witticisms? (Also, she was the worst part of the show Dexter. It’s like her job in show business is to take potentially wonderful things and ooze a deadly case of the terribles all over them.)

After watching two once-commendable actors play grab-ass and masturbate each other (mentally) on camera for two hours, I can see why Dafoe would want as little to do with this as possible. And yet, you somehow got him to show up for two minutes at the very end—for the purpose of…fuck, I dunno, something about faking his death in order to facilitate another horrible sequel? It’s at this point I’m forced at ask: do you have nude photos of Willem Dafoe banging an orangutan while force-feeding meth to a child laborer? I honestly don’t know how else he agreed to show up on set.

He can't even look you in the eyes...

I know, maybe he was so engulfed by the script that he was desperate to be included in the plot in any way possible? I mean, what’s not to love about this plot?

These things are not to love about the plot:

1)     The son of the mob boss who was killed by the boys in the last film is Judd Nelson...? (I’m not asking if that’s really Judd Nelson, I’m asking if it really had to be Judd Nelson?) He suddenly gets the urge to go after his father's killers. After 8 years. It took him 8 years to figure out he didn’t like that two dudes killed his dad? That’s just a poor family bond.

2)     Meanwhile, the boys have spent the last 8 years growing beards and playing hide the pickle with each other—though the last part is purely (accurate) speculation—in Ireland until they get news that someone killed a priest they used to know...or something. Annnnnd cue romantic comedy montage of trying on fancy dresses in a mirror while Hall & Oates plays in the background. Or something equally unnecessary and stupid.

3)     And that final conversation between Henry Fonda and Billy Connolly? You must have shot so many loads over that scene that both actors are now pregnant with scripts for Boondock Saints sequels. I’m sure you were aiming for an Oscar here but you got a fucking Elmo, guys. Sorry.

I’ve heard you say that you wanted to do another Boondocks movie “for the fans.” You wanted to “repay the fans putting clothes on [your] back for the last ten years.” But couldn’t it be that you wanted to do a sequel because you haven’t had a gig in ten years and need more clothes on your back? Well, hopefully the box office from this pays for some new threads from Farm & Fleet.

This wasn’t for the fans, Troy. This was two hours of homage to the first movie. A re-cut, regurgitated mess full of annoying new characters and bad accents.

Hopefully it’ll be longer than 10 years until you ruin your franchise even more.

Essentially Condensed Reviews: Nirvana - Nevermind

Today I'm reviewing Nirvana's seminal grunge album, Nevermind, which spawned mega-hits "Come As You Are" and "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

It's pretty good. You should go download it or something.


Next week I'll review Michael Jackson's Thriller.

Shaky Jake: Facebook Status Editor

No, no, no. You're still not getting it. The whole idea of a Facebook status update is to grab all your friends' attention and let them know, without a doubt, that you're not f'ing around here!

Let's go over it again. When Jenny reads that you "wish some people would just get over themselves," she's not going to know you're talking about her. Because you're not being specific enough! When she told you how excited she was about those new bedazzled headphones for her iPod, she probably didn't even catch your inconspicuous eye roll--mostly because that's what the word "inconspicuous" means. So do you really think your passive aggressive update is going to catch her attention? If anything, I suspect Jenny's going to "like" that update.

Go for the jugular! Try something like, "I wish some people wouldn't bedazzle every goddamn thing they own and stop cheating on RICKY WITMER with that douche from her Intro to State Gov class!" And to make sure it doesn't go unnoticed in the news feed, comment on your own update an hour later with the douche-in-question's address and phone number if you have the information handy. Now you're being specific and helpful!

And what about this update from Friday? You're "gearing up" for the weekend?

Mm. Mm hmm.

Well...who isn't? Not that I'm sure everyone won't be super impressed by your willingness to drink on a Friday--clearly you're a party animal--but this might be an undersell. Instead, let everyone know of your dedication and, again, be specific. Maybe something along the lines of "ready for tonight, I think: flares, wire cutters, shot of adrenaline, and a change of pants. Let's go bar-hopping!" Extra points if you post it on a Tuesday.

Hey! Are you even paying attention? Look, I'm trying to help--did you just post another status? What's it say?

Uggh. Inspirational song lyrics? ...Really? Okay, I understand that Josh Groban really "speaks to you" but nobody should have to wade through twenty lines of sappy, faux-motivational lyrics. No matter how badly you need to express your wish to "stand on mountains" and "walk on stormy seas." If you're going to go the lyric route--or post movie quotes--make it more than sappy and/or inspirational. Make it informative! Get everything out in the open using Tiny Tim's "She Left Me With the Herpes." Or make it instructional! Let Poison express exactly how you want that special someone to talk dirty to you. (Even though they still haven't confirmed your request to be in a relationship.)

Whatever you do, be specific, be confident, and most importantly, don't post an update every hour. Or I'll come back for another lesson. And I'll bring some rope, a ball gag, several swords, and a video camera. And my status will read: "Shaky Jake is gearing up for the weekend!"

Let's Hear It For the Boys...Hearing It For the Girls

In an age when music is more abundant--and thus, more divisive--than ever, a person can listen to truly anything that fits their personalities. The choices are endless. And yet, if you are the proud owner of a vagina, you may still feel underrepresented in the music world. Especially if you're not all that fond of current pop music. (Which you are, so stop lying on all of those surveys.)

There's not that many french-tipped fingernails holding the microphone nowadays. Who can you count on to tell the world how you feel? Not everyone can read your diary! And Taylor Swift is only allowed to sing about one topic for the remainder of the century. (Love, and how it's good and/or bad.) You're just not being heard out there!

But ladies, stop bedazzling the ass of your jeans for a second and think of how rough it must be for those on the other side of the gender tracks. You're not being heard because a huge part of the population can't hear you. No, I'm not talking about deaf-mutes. Or those who lost their ears in tragic goggle-related accidents. I'm talking about men.

Tell me this: when is it acceptable for a straight, heterosexual, masculine, non-cross-dressing, penis-having, labia-less man to listen to a female-fronted rock band? Or any variety of ovary-bearing musician? If you answered anything other than "very rarely," you're very wrong.

We with the extra appendage, the hanging sack full of guilt and social anxiety, the heavy burden of manliness, we are judged for enjoying things considered too feminine. And what could be more feminine than a female singing songs about feelings?

Meanwhile, you with the innie in your skinny, a closed door to your closed minds (and equally closed legs), you are the ones judging.

Men: why must we cross our fingers when we put our iPods on shuffle, praying the next song to come on isn't "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" (even though we're totally ready to deal with anything the world throws at us)? Why shouldn't we just hear what we want to hear, gender issues aside?

I've picked my brain (and my dong-waving iTunes catalog) to come up with the following list of acceptable chick music. I'm calling it...

It's now officially cool to listen to the sounds of estrogen when...

#1. When she's manlier than you.  
Joan Jett. She's the bad ass rocker chick that Juliette Lewis wants to you to think she is. Her raspy, "just smoked a pack of Marlboro Reds before chugging whiskey-coated rocks voice" would be enough to justify having her on your iPod, but she's also a leather-clad hottie.

GET YOUR MAN ON to Cherry Bomb.
Sisters In Arms: Pat Benatar, Patti Smith.

#2. When she's got (legitimate) attitude. 
Gwen Steffani with No Doubt. There hasn't been a boobed-punker with this much attitude since Patti Smith. Even the lighter songs ("Don't Speak," "Simple Kind of Life,") will make you remember you have a heart buried somewhere around your weiner. Society still won't condone you singing karaoke to "Just a Girl" though, regardless of how much you've been practicing your high-kicks.

GET YOUR MAN ON to Spiderwebs.
Sisters In Arms: P!nk, The Donnas.

#3. When she's a bit odd. 
Regina Spektor. She caters to all the hipster boners out there. For some reason, guys are allowed to dig the quirky music of weird girls with no excuses necessary. I'm not complaining, of course. I'd love it if Regina's mouth was open 24/7.
...singing...singing music...not...
 ...She's a very capable musician. Is what I'm saying.

GET YOUR MAN ON to Folding Chair.
Sisters In Arms: Lily Allen, Kate-Miller-Heidke, Kristeen Young.

#4. When she clearly runs the show.  
Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Girls who truly LEAD bands are just plain fucking cool. And Karen O definitely knows how to take control.
...with her music. When she...you know...when...singing...
...I'm starting to feel like this article isn't furthering the cause much. It might be doing the exact opposite by this point. Oh man.

GET YOUR MAN ON to Dull Life.
Sisters In Arms: Bat For Lashes, Fly Leaf.