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Me Likey Football: An Intelligent Debate on The Case of and For Football Bowl Saturation December 31, 2006

Posted by doctorolove in Pop Culture Rants, Sports.
1 comment so far

There is a small majority in this country that will wake up this Monday, eyes bloodshot and their breath reeking of cheap champagne and late night cold pizza. They will strip off their tuxedo shirts, still creased heavily from falling a sleep where they fell. And they will not get brunch or make phone calls to people apologizing for the drunken words they spewed on New Years Eve. They will take no calls; they will not organize a laundry list of resolutions. They will be watching College Football.

Monday is to the college football fan what the eighties were to Tina Turner, Michael Jackson and the cast of Gimme A break – their time. And while my prognostication skills limit me making any predictions, I can relate. For the initiated, New years Day is like a Chinese buffet: so many choices. You obviously go for what you came for (Your alma mater or the General Tso’s) but you keep going back for seconds and thirds, even when all they have left is those green shrimp puffs or in football’s case, the Poulon Weed Eater Bowl.

For the uninitiated, the day is an anomaly. How could you wake up early on one of the country wide accepted days of rest and not take advantage of the state sponsored day of rest? And even if you can relate to some people’s fanaticism, why are there so many bowls to watch anyway? Well, as my yearly good deed (and may I say, I’m getting this one in right under the wire) I am providing the following:


(That last part is a lie and strictly there to get traffic from horny and lonely exchange students who think their key to sexual prowess can be found late at night while surfing Google with a glass of light beer in one hand and an unanswered love letter in the other. But don’t click away, Sexually Deprived Youth…stick around, you may learn something before it’s done. Hey. Hey. Hey. Though you’ll still be lonely)

In the beginning, man created football. People aren’t exactly sure as to the basics of how the game got started. Theories range from people who just tired of the broken sternums and rampant deaths from more violent games like rugby and horseshoes (see the various stories on the 1826 Athens Horseshoe massacre and the short film Blood on The Grass and Spleens on the Sideline: A rugby Primer for more info). Whatever the case, some men got together with leather helmets and shoulderpad puffed shirts they borrowed from a few 1950’s female stenographers and the game of football was born.

The game of yesteryear is a far cry from today’s wide-open pass and run style. Passing back then was for wimps. Throwing the ball was a symbol of your fear of getting clobbered. And when you did throw the ball away, you did it in a flailing girlie style that practically screamed, “Don’t Hurt Me, Scary Man in Poofy Shoulderpads.” (For a modern representation of this act, please watch any game film from the Detroit Lions.) It was essentially a gladiator like struggle as men crashed and bumped into each other, all while still maintaining perfectly coiffed buzz cuts and keeping up enough stamina to dance the Charleston and drive around in Studebakers that had tiny little raccoon tails hanging from the antennae (Vodeo-vodeo-vodeo-do)

The game was a natural fit for college campuses. Collegiate administrators viewed it as a way to unite and enthrall students in the fall and young virile males saw it as a chance to unleash their two inner demons: condoned violence and sexual tension (Girls in long poodle skirts and turtlenecks would show a little shoulder and maybe some calf for a football player.) Soon, school after school was fielding teams. The leather industry was pumping out helmets at record pace (now third behind stirrups and belts). And shoulderpads were now disappearing from shirts, not again to be seen until the mid eighties (Damn you, Melanie Griffith and your letting the river run!)

With the game blossoming like an ill advised rash, the school administrators looked at other ways to exploit, I mean, spread their game across our great nation like Johnny’s Appleseed or faux fur. It was the West Coast schools that thought of the bowl idea first.

“Hey, we have some good football teams on the West Coast that nobody knows about. Heck, nobody comes to visit us. The Donner Party never showed and people are off making movies in New York. Maybe we should have a big football game at the end of the year that pits one of those teams that play in bad weather up north against one of our good teams. The weather alone should bring them here. It never rains in Southern California…that’s catchy. Here’s another great idea; somebody get an effeminate, whiny guitarist to write a song about that. But do the football thing first.”

And so the Rose Bowl was born. And it was momentous. Both coasts finally had something to play for at the end of the year, other than campus notoriety and a long off-season spent nursing gaping head wounds (As it turns out, leather helmets were not as safe and reliable as originally thought.) The game was so successful and so watched and written about, other cities took notice. New Orleans, Miami, Dallas. All cities with burgeoning football traditions and good weather of their own (though, strangely, each city eschewed whiny guitarists and wimpy anthems.) Their thinking was, “hey, there’s more than just one or two good teams in this country and they should all have something to play for. There were a whole bunch of Middle America teams who wanted their own prize at the end of the season to go with the wounds, the campus love and the corn (Extra bonus for Middle American college football.)

And so the bowls were at peace. There were a few and it was just enough for the teams in college football. But like any good thing (peace, tax-free week, non-corrupt governments), it would not lose. As other colleges added football (thanks to the genius who finally made the helmets harder), there were more people who wanted their piece of the pie. Places were fish don’t fry in the kitchen. Where beans did not burn on the grill. And it took a whole lot of tuh-ry-in’, but they got their wish. Soon, other cities that had no business holding end of the year events were throwing their own invite only bowl parties. I mean, sending teams freezing in January to Miami or Tampa or L.A. makes sense. But how pitiful do you feel when your team spends the holiday in weather slightly worse than what you play in normally? It’s like watching everybody else get PS3s on Christmas and you get socks.

Which leaves us with where we are today. The Bowl game invite is no longer a congratulations for a good season or a reward in the sun for an accomplished team. It’s like a ribbon on 3rd grade field day: you have to be completely inept and unathletic to not get one. It’s good in that it gives you the chance to possibly face the alma mater of that guy in accounting that you hate because he always makes a “KAPOW” noise when finishing an e-mail. It’s bad in that you could lose to him and be forced to hear about it all year.

SO, while I will be watching on New Year’s Day, but not for the reasons you would expect. I’m watching each year, praying for the play to get worse, for the ratings to drop. Maybe just maybe, they’ll come to their senses, those rich people who run the bowls, and give us only a few thrilling matchups.

Yeah, and it may rain in Southern California.


Thiz Poast To2lly Rox! December 16, 2006

Posted by doctorolove in Music, Pop Culture Rants.

We keep trying to solve our educational system’s declining prowess in the world. The USA, for years, was viewed as the pantheon of educational prowess, and not just because we knew how to properly use words like “pantheon,” “prowess” and “the.” But because we were really were pretty good at. Our schools were top notch. Our teachers were inspirational leaders who, if movies have shown me anything, riled us up to stand against authority, succeed in the face of adversity and have us read poetry in the woods naked. While I’m not what birthday suit renditions of Rimbaud accomplish, I do know that we were educating some fine, intelligencia. And then it stopped. Like child support checks signed “K. Federline,” the system dried up. And now we have to depend on Oprah or Bill gates or some rich benefactor with a complex try to stop the gaping wound with ill placed band-aid like state of the art computer centers or pools. (Because when taking the SAT, it is important you have found away around your school’s firewall so you can look at porn or play World of Warcraft, right?)

But what happened? Like that old guy who waves you off his lawn with a blunt rusty gardening tool while wearing tattered robes and wifebeaters, I blame music. Not because of the minds its’ lyrics can warp. Not because of the rampant sex and general debauchery it can cause (I still get amorous when I hear Barry Manilow, we all do.) But music has done one thing above all to mush our brains and school systems to slightly above Yemen and the Maldives on the educational prowess list.

And that would be misspelled band names.

The epidemic of misspelling in music had its roots in song titles. The first documented culprit were the strange family, commune/jam band known as Sly and The Family Stone (not to be confused with The Family Stone, a leader in the “crappy holiday movie” disease of 2005). Their song “”Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)” was a worldwide hit. People across the planet were shocked by this collection of horns and grunts and strange people saying words they could not understand. The song was a pioneer in misspelling. It made sense when you spoke it aloud, but staring at on a piece of paper made you wonder if this was some sort of strange new language that was being brought to us by a new world community which served up nothing but peace and love. That thought soon quickly faded when we dismissed the spelling to lazy proofreading by a technician who was too busy trying to clean the bongwater off his reel-to-reel that he let it slip by. Whatever this happenstance created, it served notice. Misspelling was a way to get your point across. It made people think you were special or different. It made your band seem that no rules, even those of grammar and spelling, applied to you. You could make a statement with words, not your music. Sly and the Family Stone, unfortunately, disbanded a few years later when in a heated argument, Sly left the group when he wanted to change the group name to Webster, Biatch. Yet their mark was left.

Soon bands were changing letters in their songs left and right. But the misspelling was left to the titles of songs. And nobody really writes the titles down. You don’t break out a placard at a concert reading “Play Sk8er Boi,” you shout it, leaving the hip statement of your grammar abilities behind. (Notable exception: Asking for The Who songs in written format or Braille is fully acceptable…in fact, they suggest it for maximum fulfillment.) So realizing the idea of misspelling their songs was not getting their anarchist or hip or funky vibes across, bands began to misspell the only thing they could think of: their own names.

Led Zeppelin was the first to branch out with this “purposeful misspelling.” While they never really came out and admitted it, how many people do they know they got to listen to them because the people thought, “How ballsy are they? They don’t even need extraneous vowels. That must mean their music rocks!” And taking the cue of their gritty, string hairy British brethren, Def Leppard followed several decades later. But, being younger and feistier than the white pantsuited elder idols, they misspelled both words. That’s right. Not only did they not need extra vowels, but they were going to misspell a word most people didn’t spell correctly anyway. When kids see this word they learned in a 5th grade vocabulary lesson entitled ‘We Go To The Jungle,” and see it misspelled, the subconscious thinks, “Wow, these guys are badasses” and “So, that’s how leopard is spelled.” (How else can we explain our fascination with ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me,’ a song with lyrics only slightly ickier than ‘My Ding-A-Ling.’ Mr. Elliot, keep your sticky sweet away from me, thank you very much.) Soon, essays across the country were missing vowels and looking like drunken sailors wrote them. The first wave of damage had been done.

And then it got worse. Bands that wished to convey their extremeness and their radical nature began adding extra “X” to everything, or worse dropping an “E” before their name (Don’t pine for the “E”s however; most of them were sent to Indiana, care of Dan Qualye’s new potato chip venture). And the worse culprit of all were bands that eschewed the typical plural convention that for years was nothing more than a simple “s” and replacing it with a “Z” (Boyz II Men, being the prime example) Apparently, a Z made you him and gave a phonetic boost to your overall bands sizzle. Heck, the letter Z even makes you think of the word sizzle (unless you are Greek, then you think of the word Zorba; bands take them chance, often eschewing the untapped Hellenic market.) With this over saturation becoming the norm, vocab scores plummeted and our descent into educational disrepair was near unfixable.

With the average IQ now down, the floodgates opened. Look at the deluge of misspellings saturating the CD counters. Staind. Limp Bizkit. Korn. With the point of creating a separatist identity long gone as the purpose, the names are doing nothing more than making people view the words as gospel. And when spelling is the first to go, prepositional use, verb tense and soon coherence in all its’ forms are first to go. It’s like intelligence Alzheimer’s: first, we can’t spell and the next thing we know, they’re selling Cliff’s Notes for Goodnight Moon.

And it won’t stop. What’s worse is that the bands have simply misspelled for the norm, not for a point.  And because of the rampant misuse of letters, we are failing as a nation.  And until as a group they stop, we’ve got nowhere to go but Doyuwn. Or Dizown, for you rap afficiandos.

Whatever Happened to Predictability?…The Milkman? The Paperboy? Meth Addicted Jesus Freaks? December 10, 2006

Posted by doctorolove in Pop Culture Rants, TV.

Kimmy Gibbler, I don’t know where you are right now. Maybe you’re raising a family of annoying neighbor character actor children who you will tour with like a hell spawned Von Trapp family. Maybe you are secretly working with producers in attempt to orchestrate your comeback special with guest appearances by Sha Na Na and the deaf girl from Facts of Life. Or maybe you are performing Lady Macbeth with the Portsmouth Shakespeare Festival. Whatever the case, I am warning you thusly. The Full House curse is in full swing. And you are the final name on the list.

First off, let me congratulate you on the wonders of just what the show was. I know you had little to do with it, other than pitch perfect line readings and flawless comic timings (limited mostly to “stinky feet takes” which last I checked is an inherent talent and not taught in most acting schools.) Full House was just another in the long line of the sitcom theory that men taking care of young children is funny. It started way back in the My Three Sons days, which coupled two men raising three boys and wacky antics ensued. You had musty old Conrad Bain (coincidentally, Miss Gibbler, doing Shakespeare up in Portsmouth…his Claudius is what might be right for you, might be right for some) raising orphaned children “diff’rently.” Guys finally raised girls in My Two Dads (Whould’ve thought that the mousy nebbish one would be the big star while the good looking established TV star would be battling Jeff Fahey, Traci Lords and Gary Busey for Straight to Video/Late night Cinemax MVP?) And then Full House came along. It shirked the stigma by not committing too far to broad comedy and not too maudlin. Sure, the strings strung whenever Dad or one of the “uncles” had a heartfelt talk, but it also played well with broad comedy and lesson based humor.

Now we’ve all heard of the “young actor” curse, as I’m sure your agent warned you about when you eschewed normal teenage frivolity and replaced it with on-set tutors and the glitz and glamour of a family sitcom. The aforementioned shows all had their kids go through it. The Diff’rent Strokes cast alone was responsible for every major crime in the LA area from the years 1982 to 1989 (save 1987, when the little girl from Benson was a one women felony machine.) I’m pretty sure the girl from My Two Dads was busted for cocaine and I think a few of the Three Sons killed themselves (and if they didn’t, they should have…those dickies and patent leather shoes are a tough act to grow out of.) It seems to strike the TV children of unusual family situations even harder. You thought you were safe, because as the years went by, the Full House premise became more and more mundane. They had married couples, added a few female influences and took you to Disney World. Maybe the producers and writers knew about the curse and tried to save you all by removing the “different family” stigma, thus saving all of you from a life of crime. Yet, like a Brady Hawaiian idol or that weird San Francisco house being built on an Indian burial ground, they created something much worse. They upset the natural order of the TV gods that wanted you and DJ and that weird little effeminate kid who sang showtunes they brought on in Season 6 to all commit acts of violence. And when you didn’t, they unleashed the curse on the whole cast. And you are next.

Think about it. The Curse exists. Bob Saget is now doomed to live out the rest of his career as the smarmy old man, which, thanks to Mark Foley, isn’t exactly rocketing up the casting director’s watch list. Dave Coulier let women “go down on him in a theatre” and is now the man behind every single act of female angst from 1997 to 1999 (If you don’t get that one, that’s “Ironic,” don’t ya think?) And John Stamos lost his wife to the fat kid in Stand By Me and must now live out his days hoping and praying ER doesn’t come to it’s senses and cancel the show (It’s old and jumping the shark almost weekly…somebody take the hospital out to pasture.) And while Lori Laughlin may seem safe, eight hundred failed roles on every CW show ever speak otherwise.

Now if the curse just manifested itself in the adults, it would leave you safe. But the gods finally had their say and it made it’s way to the young ones. Jodie Sweetin – whole lot of meth. The Olsen Twins crotch shots should be on the Internet any day now. And Candace Cameron? Other than having a brother who gives Tom Cruise a run for the coveted “Cute ex-teen star turned crazy religious zealot” award, you did the unthinkable. You married a HOCKEY PLAYER. A hockey player? Come now, it’s not America’s fifth most watched sport for no reason at all.

I can’t speak for all the other guest starring kids and adults who graced you over the years. Rationale would say that by not hearing from them means they are all in jails or back alleys across the country, living out their sad existences, wishing they had stumbled into the auditions for Family Matters instead. (Urkel, the fat guy who was in Die Hard, the aunt who was in the group with Tony Orlando—all fine upstanding and moral individuals.)

But you. You can still be saved. I don’t know if you can reverse the TV gods smite, but you sure can try.  Reach out to your castmates and learn from their mistakes. Then distance yourself immediately. Start anew and never mention what went on in that four-story house ever again. No hanging with the Beach Boys. And most of all, hope and pray the gods smile on you. Maybe ask Urkel how he did it. Just don’t ask Screech. That hot tub line is just a put on. I wish you luck and hope you are on your way to salvation. And if you know where the twins are, take them with you. And run. Shooby-doo-whop-doo-wha.

(And to let you know, Portsmouth auditions are this Wednesday. Bring one contemporary, one classic. I suggest the soliloquy from the episode where you got really drunk….Hey if you’re gonna tempt fate, tempt with gusto.)

If I Ruled The World….Imagine That? December 3, 2006

Posted by doctorolove in Pop Culture Rants.

When we were kids, we all had dreams. Everybody wanted to be a fireman or a policeman. Some of us blessed with hand and eye coordination dreamed of taking the field as a ball player. And there was that one kid down the block who seemed overly obsessed with fashion. He wanted to design dresses. But nobody talked about him. And now that he’s on Project Runway, he never calls anyway, so whatever.

But even more of us still wanted to be superheroes. How could we not see this as a lucrative career move? Not only do you get untold powers, strength and media coverage, but more often than not you get your choice of girls. Sure, we were still investigating the reported gradual diminishing of the “cootie” virus as we grew older, but we did feel that having somebody hanging on you at all times just might not result in itching.

I was one of those kids, dreaming of my name and just what my political stance would be once I ascended into my own personal Fortress of Solitude. I even tried to reach out to the kid down the block on just how my suit should be designed, but he was always too busy watching reruns of Jem for inspiration. I was positive that at any moment my superpowers would reveal themselves and it was Goodbye, cul-de-sac, Hello World of Justice. But as most childhood flights of fancy often do (Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, the actual end of the government deficit), I soon came to a horrible albeit logical realization. Comic book superheroes do not exist. There was no training program or magic school in upstate New York that I could attend to harness the untold power coursing through my veins. There was no magical pod in my basement that I had arrived to Earth in. (I looked…no pod, but an inordinate amount of Christmas decorations). I was doomed to spend my life as nothing more than a normal child.

Yet, here I am, older, wiser, but still not quite mature enough to let go of my past. In the eighteen or so years since my dream crumbled apart like the body of Professor Xavier, no major comic book hero has emerged from the pages I read as a child. Which led me to one conclusion and one new dream: I may not have the power to be a hero, but I can be a SUPERVILLAIN!

Think about it. Last I checked, there hasn’t been rampant cases of worldwide mutation. No spaceships have been reported landing on the White House Lawn. And there hasn’t been a rash of, well, whatever happened to Iron Man to make him iron. We all know villains never win in the comic books, due to some eleventh hour appearance by somebody who is dressed in spandex and usually with some sort of grandiose mask or costume. The villain shakes his hand and growls just before escaping, because unlike the real world, nobody wants to go to trial (Comic book juries have an obscene amount of integrity). But the supervillain, for all his faults was realistic.

They never really had anything happen to them. They just woke up one morning and realized, Hey, I can take my intelligence and my dashing good lucks and my obscene amount of money and utilize them in evil ways. I may be working on the money, got the intelligence and hey, good lucks are relative. Yet, two major things are going in my favor: The comics have been providing me with a primer for years and, to repeat my youthful intonation, SUPERHEROES DON’T EXIST!

How perfect is that. Two truths that make this career totally doable. For years, we have watched the supervillain fail in his attempt. Be it gluttony, be it avarice, be it an uncontrollable reaction to dairy (Lex Luthor – lactose intolerant, little known fact.) Something always brought them down. And this downfall was usually precipitated by a superbeing. Money, power and uncontrollable dementia always wins. That’s the rules of the world. Unless you have a superbeing who can turn all of that against you. I have learned over the years how to curtail the mistakes they make. I can curtail my greed. I will kill my enemies when I have the chance. I can even make sure my henchmen are well trained and not easily persuaded by lame men in funny disguises trying to bring me down. And how will I do that? By correcting the biggest wrong comics have ever taught me. Take care of your henchmen.

Henchmen are, like every part of a supervillain empire, a cog in the machine whose final product is my worldwide conquest. Yet most supervillains, from years of research, do not create an adequate training system. I, on the other hand, would from the get-go, make them secure. I would have a kick ass dental plan (No gap teeth in my regime, thank you). Health care for everyone. But, and this is by rational, the most important, an amazing training program. I would teach the fundamentals of being able to aim a firearm, with special focus on people who have the ability to move with quick reflexes. I would also focus on notification rituals. I can accept that the powers that be trying to bring me down would be smarter than Earl, who’s working in my Fortress of Evil. But Earl should, and in my regime will, be able to notify me if any sort of threat to my dominative powers arises. And I have no problem with false alarms. All it does is temporarily distract me from the Swedish modeling team I’m currently “schmoozing.” And if comic books have taught me anything, it’s that there’s always time for schmoozing. But prison time? Yeah, not so much.

I would also make it my goal to stop all forms of possibly dangerous research and all sorts of space exploration. I find it not in my best interest to have a scientist, full of ambition and get-go, to be tooling around some major exploration and BAM, be hit with some sort of gamma rays. Those who are hurt by the hand that feeds them always hold a grudge. And if that grudge comes complete with heat rays or flying powers, than my plan will be for naught. Villains in comic never caught that simple fact. You have to create the hero. The villains, well, they’ve been there all along.

I’m not saying I’m going to do it anytime soon (We have a pretty good monopoly in government right now when it comes to all-powerful people with no moral scruples) but I’m thinking about it. In fact, I’m currently searching Craigslist for low cost hollowed out volcanoes, so I can at least get the ball rolling. If anybody sees anything, let me know.

I’ll at least get you competitive wage and a good dental plan in my New World Regime. Heck, maybe even an office with a view of the lava flows.

Like We’re Totally An Axis Of…Of…Something..Screw It, Where’s My Mojito? December 1, 2006

Posted by doctorolove in Music, Pop Culture Rants.

When great minds come together, magic happens. Peanut Butter and Chocolate came together in, if you believe the re-enactment, under strenuous circumstances and boom, thighs across America shuddered. When Milli met Vanilli, we all finally were able to point our fingers at precipitation and save countless shaky relationships. When Hewlett met Packard, they, um, did something really cool and I think there was some typewriters or stocks or something I don’t follow, but man, was it great. And lest we forget what happened when Damon met Affleck. We got Good Will Hunting (well, not entirely them, since the script was rumored to be written by Kevin Smith, Art Buchwald, Lawrence Kasdan, the brothers Weinstein, several chimps with typewriters and Earl in Janitorial services who had a great joke about apples.)

But for every great meeting of the minds, there is the reverse. Think South Korea and Iran talking about how they can sacrifice food and general well being for a few rods of radioactive material. Think the failed experiment that was Debbie Mate..Mata…Matty…Greek Name on The View. But those all pale in comparison into the new Axis of Density which has now formed. Look at this picture and let the shuddering begin.

That’s right. We done got ourselves Trouble. Trouble. Right here in Pop Culture. Trouble with a Capital T and that rhymes with C and that stands for crotch shots. (I’m not going to go further into details…let’s just leave it at the fact that seeing all the recent crotch shots is kind of that guy you didn’t like stealing your whole pack of Hubba Bubba, chewing it, wrapping it back up and showing it to you…you’ll never have it and it’s just disturbing to look at.)

No, the trouble is this. Think about what these girls have in common. Think about the things they have tried to put us through.

Nope, it isn’t drinking contest. I know a few co-eds at USC that would crush them like walnuts.

And it isn’t movies. They already did Charlie’s Angels and I think the rights to The Bobbsey Twins movies require the actress not to be total whores.

Shuddering yet? Cause that’s right. The only real thing of substance they could talk about (besides having to choose a skimpy outfit in the morning while nursing a dull coke and Cristal hangover) is music.

They’ve all tried it, with varying degrees of success. And each took different roads to get there. Britney started her path to Sloshy Starletville by succeeding at it. Her albums were everywhere and actually sounded good. Don’t believe me. Simply listen to the lyrics of Hit Me Baby One More Time and don’t think that song is haunting and evil, wrapped in Pixie Stick Sex. Lindsay tried to branch out into triple threat category and while she can sing, she sort of sounds like that girl in High School who you hated because she could do everything you couldn’t. But it ain’t mind blowing vocals and you know she’ll never succeed. And Paris’ album sounded so overproduced that it sounded like she was singing outside the studio, through a screen door and into a microphone that was plugged into one of those bright, big buttoned recorders you dragged around at age 4. Some success, but mostly failure. Not in a financial sense, but for the mercy of all our ears.

And now they’re together. And each wants to conquer the pop world. Britney, to prove she can comeback from two marriages, two pregnancies, a drug scandal, several failed albums and the idea that every child in her son’s kindergarten class will have the same name as her. Paris, to prove to the world that you can still have no talent and still make money with everything you touch. And Lindsay wants to succeed just to piss you off. That and so she can break away. Cause tramps like her…yada yada yada..she just wants to not get old and fat like her mom.

Think about what that album could mean. An album that full of ego has not been attempted since The Beatles last sat in a room. And what’s worse here would be the attempt to out sing one another that would soon degredate into something akin to cats screeching at one another. And one could only imagine the press tour and how close to an all out cat fight that may become. On second thought..wait, no, we have to think about the kids.

And the album would succeed. Everything Britney releases is purchased by 18 to 25 year old girls. Paris has a hand on the 18-25 year old gay males. And Lindsay has been working the creepy old pedophile market for quite some time. And the success would predicate another album. And the success of that album would prompt other friends to try things together just to release their inner beings. Next thing you know, you’re listening to a Very 70’s Show Christmas and watching Punk’d:The Musical. And that’s a few steps from the Apocalypse, I’m sure of it.

So they must be stopped. No matter how much good for the food crisis in Africa they are doing (Combined their caloric intakes is only slightly less than what Richard Simmons puts grotesquely obese people on), they must be separated. Any suggestions?

I just might ask the president. Rumor has it he’s good with breaking up Axes that threaten our very well being. No can we aim a Scud at Prey next Friday? If so, the girls best pack their underwear that night.

Time’s a wasting. And we best act soon, because I don’t even want to think of the alternatives.