FORGIVE ME, LORD! JEEZ, THE JEFFERSONS WAS RIGHT!

Billboards like this one [above] ended up predicting the truth, as the world ended on Saturday.

In a bit of a shock, the world ended Saturday, fulfilling the prophecy - but "shocking the shit" out - of 89-year old Harold Camping, the former civil-engineer-turned-multi-million-dollar-doomsdayer. "Frankly, I thought it was horseshit," admitted Camping. "You didn't really think I believed any of this?!"

Alas, Camping's prophecy was true after all. The first clue was the sudden death of former wrestler Randy "Macho Man" Savage on Friday. This was foretold in the Bible, when - in the Gospel According to John - the Bible predicted, "And in the day before the coming of the great Apocalypse, a large, macho man with hair plugs will up and dyeth on the floor of his gym."

That news was soon overshadowed by [and, in hindsight, was further confirmation of the end] the Middle East peace between Israel and, "every country that hates her", announced by visiting Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Of course, soon an even bigger story took over the news cycle. "Well, tickle my ass with a feather!" said an irritated Netanyahu when he was informed that the world had ended. "I didn't even get laid [on this trip to Washington]," he said dejectedly.

But Bibi was not the only political figure angered by the end of days. An irritated President Obama said disgustedly, "Naturally! First black man in office and the world ends mid-way through my first term. Typical."

The end of the world also means a number of mysteries will be left unknown - at least unless the Lord comes to His senses and recreates the world. For one, the winner of American Idol will remain a mystery for the remainder of days. The NBA champion, Stanley Cup champion, winner of the Preakness, and the experiment of Ashton Kutcher replacing Charlie Sheen on Two and a Half Men will all remain unknown. Indeed, even the actual date on which Sheen fatally overdoses will forever remain a mystery.

One person thrilled with the news was former California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. "Thank you, Jesus!" said the smiling former body-builder. Smoking one of his trademark cigars, and with a co-ed on each knee, Arnold smiled as he said, "At least this knocks me off the front page of the paper."

On the positive side, terrorism, pollution, nuclear holocaust and Oprah's new show on her stupid OWN network also got wiped out with the end of the world. Indeed, some theorized that God chose May 21, 2011 to end the world specifically to prevent Oprah from airing her last show. "The first clue to the end of the world, in fact, was the rise of Oprah Winfrey's career," theorized Professor Smedley Lump, who was the chair of the Religious Studies department at Harvard University before the end of the world. "That a large, hideous, ostentatious, self-centered, prima donna could become America's sweetheart should have been our first warning."

While most of us - including the guy who promoted the idea - were shocked that the world really did end, some lunatics were prepared. Some shut themselves inside to pray for mercy. Others met for tearful last lunches with their children, and prepared to leave behind homes and pets as they were swept up to heaven. Naturally, it was heaven. None of these morons contemplated that they might be sent to hell.

And so it was across the globe, as followers of the California preacher's long-publicized message that Judgment Day would arrive Saturday turned to the Bible, the book they believed - accurately, it turns out - predicted Earth's destruction on May 21, 2011. Camping had been promoting his doomsday message far and wide via broadcasts and web sites through his multi-million-dollar 'nonprofit ministry', which was based on his apocalyptic prediction.

And Camping was successful in scaring the shit out of millions, albeit - it turns out - for good reason. After spending months traveling the country to put up Judgment Day billboards and hand out Bible tracts, Camping follower Michael Garcia spent Friday evening with his family at home in Alameda, California, near the Christian media empire's Oakland headquarters.

Prior to the world ending, Garcia hit the nail on the head, saying he believed Camping's prediction that the end would start as it became 6 p.m. in the world's various time zones. "We know the end will begin in New Zealand and will follow the sun and roll on from there," said Garcia, a 39-year-old father of six before the end of days. "That's why God raised up all the technology and the satellites so everyone can see it happen at the same time." As for why it would begin in New Zealand, Garcia echoed Camping's frequent response to the same question, "God hates New Zealand."

Of course, now that the world is over, Camping's radio stations, TV channels, satellite broadcasts and website are irrelevant. Many thought the same thing about Camping himself when, in 1994, his prediction of the world ending did not occur. At the time, he told Larry King that he blamed it on a 'mathematical error,'. "I'm fucking horrible at math," said the then-72-year old lunatic. As for that episode, Camping last month dismissed the possibility of a repeat in 2011. Speaking of the 1994 misfire, Camping said, "I'm not embarrassed about it. It was just the fact that it was premature - like my ejaculations," he told the Associated Press last month. "But, when you're 89-years old, you take [ejaculations] anyway you can get them. Even if you're just sitting in a diner eating soup."

Perhaps the most upset about the end of the world really happening were those who thought it was a joke and guaranteed themselves a one-way ticket to the fiery pits of Hell by mocking the event. They attended 'Rapture'-themed parties to celebrate what they mistakenly expected would be the failure of the world to come to an end. Bars and restaurants from Melbourne, Australia to the Florida Keys advertised bashes. While in Oakland, atheists gathering at a local Masonic temple dealt with the end even-handedly, saying "How much different can Hell be from Oakland, anyway?".

Indeed.

Camping was not entirely right, however, because Camping and his followers believed that 200 million people would survive. There were no survivors left on Earth, however, by the end of the day on May 21st. Still, since Camping preached that those left behind would end up dying in earthquakes, plagues, and other calamities until Earth was consumed by a fireball on October 21, 2011, anyway, the point is kind of moot.

So, as we say goodbye, I'm reminded of that great episode of All in the Family, when Archie is locked in the basement, drunk off a bottle of Polish vodka he's downed. He talks to God and calls out asking Him to save him. Just then, a furnace repairman coming to the house to fix the furnace hears Archie's cries and tells him he's coming. Expecting that he is about to meet the Lord, Archie gets down on his knees and says, "Well, this is it Lord!" He looks up to see a six-foot-five tall black man in overalls. To which Archie - after recovering from the shock - says, "Forgive me Lord!" He then says, "Jeez. The Jeffersons was right."

In this case, the ranting octogenarian was right. Forgive me Lord.

copyright 2011 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Get Your Hands Off My Light Bulb

The only way you'll get this light bulb [above] from me is out of my cold, dead hands.

Just to be clear: I really don't give a damned about my carbon footprint. My forefathers didn't, so why should I? I mean, you're telling me that they got to take advantage of all the great inventions [coal, gasoline, being able to read at night] and I can't? Screw that. Let my kids figure it out - that's why I pay taxes to pay for their public education.

Every time I see something that is 'green' - no trays in the cafeteria, silverware recycled from used toilet paper, etc - I want to vomit. Perhaps nothing sets me off more, though, than those ridiculous-looking so-called 'light bulbs' that look like something you get at Mr. Softy. I hate them. If there was a stronger word in the English language than 'hate', I'd use it. So, 'I fucking hate them' will have to do.

For one thing...well, like I said: they look like ice cream [or whatever they put in Mr. Softy]. For another, you get more illumination from a Charlie Sheen sermon than you do from these monstrosities. At my previous office, they replaced all of my lighting with these things and I ended up lighting candles and setting furniture on fire just to see at night.

Somehow, I missed something in Congress a few ago that may mean every light bulb I ever see is one of these 'green' bulbs. It'll be great for the eyeglass, contact-lens and lasik-surgery industries. Apparently, a 2007 bill - passed overwhelmingly by both houses of Congress and signed into law by President Bush - will make the old, familiar and loveable [not to mention light-emanating] incandescent bulb subject to strict 'efficiency standards' next year. One of the causalities will be the 100-watt incandescent bulb.

Gone.

You better start hoarding them now - as, indeed, some are. If you have an Easy-Bake Oven from Hasbro, particularly, you better buy them up. Otherwise, Junior will be cooking in the dark - which is how fires get started, I think.

While the law does not outlaw incandescent bulbs or dictate that consumers must use the ridiculous-looking spiral-shaped compact 'fluorescent' lights, it does intrude into my life by limiting the amount of light allowed to be emitted per watt of power used. Thus the currently effective 100-watt bulbs must become 25% more 'efficient', meaning that its makers are forced to design new bulbs.

I never in a million years thought that I would be on the same side of an argument as one of Congress' preeminent assholes, Rep. Joe Barton [R, Tex.]. Barton is against just about everything except oil companies and making himself filthy rich. Plus, he had the audacity to oppose the 2006 Combating Autism Act and publicly apologized to British Petroleum CEO Tony Hayward in 2010 for what he called President Obama's "shakedown" of the oil industry.

So, it's clear the guy is a prick. Still, on this issue, the prick and I are on the same side. Who knew it would take a light bulb to put us there? Barton has sponsored a bill to reverse the new light bulb guidelines. "From the health insurance you’re allowed to have, to the car you can drive, to the light bulbs you can buy, Washington is making too many decisions that are better left to you and your family," Barton said when he introduced his bill in January.

Plus, a convenient fact dismissed by environmentalists is that the supposedly 'green' bulbs are actually health hazards because they contain mercury. So, they're 'green' unless they break. While some tree-huggers try to discount the danger by saying the mercury in a single fluorescent bulb is less than what some power plants throw into the atmosphere while generating the electricity it takes to light one incandescent bulb, I'm reminded of the great Archie Bunker line: when Gloria tells him that 60% of those murdered in the U.S. in the previous year had died of gunshot wounds, Archie says, "Would it make you feel better if they was pushed outta windows?"

I'm now not only on the same side of the issue as a bastard like Barton - I'm on the same side as the lunatic-fringe Tea Partiers! My head is spinning. One of their darlings - Rep. Michele Bachmann [R, Minn,.], introduced a bill to repeal the light bulb law in 2008, and did so again this year. I apparently missed learning about the light bulb law after the President's January State of the Union Adress...then again, I missed the Address, too. Anyway, Bachmann gave the Republican response to President Obama's Address. In her response, one of the things she blasted was the light bulb nonsense.

Another Tea Bagger - Sen. Rand Paul [R, Ky.] - said not only did he resent the light bulb standards but he also blamed the government for poorly working toilets in his house because of the regulations on how much water they should use. Once again: whoever thought I'd be on the same side as a wacko like Paul? I hate those goddamned toilets. You may as well shit on the living room floor for all the good these new toilets do.

Oh, and these light bulb regulations have already affected the American economy. Last fall, General Electric closed its last major United States plant producing the old-style incandescent bulbs, in Winchester, Virginia. I wonder if those out-of-work employees are worried about their carbon footprint. Indeed, nearly all of the compact 'green' fluorescent bulbs are made in Asia. While some United States manufacturers say they will retool former factories to make other energy-efficient bulbs, you'll forgive me if I'm a bit doubtful.

Meanwhile, the clueless Energy Department says the energy savings from these curly-Q bulbs are 'significant'. Deputy Assistant Secretary of Energy Kathleen Hogan told a Senate committee this week that - by meeting the new lighting standards - consumers could save nearly $6 billion in 2015. I don't even know if I'm going to be alive in 2015, lady. Get your fucking hands off my light bulb.

Hogan later made a statement that makes one wonder where she pulled that $6 billion figure from anyway. Hogan told the same committee that a household that upgrades 15 current incandescent bulbs could save about $50 a year. Wow! A whole $50?!?!? How much would we save if we just went back to lighting candles?

Candles are cheaper than current halogen incandescent bulbs, which now cost about $1.50 each. Another 'green' wonder - the LED bulb - can cost $20 or more each. While it is true that the LED bulb has only recently been introduced [and, thus, one assumes they'll eventually go down in price], and that they supposedly can last ten years or more, the fact is: I like changing a light bulb. Why the hell should I have to wait ten years to do so?

So, now, in addition to the bedroom and my pocket, I want the government's paws out of my light bulbs. Amy Ridenour has the right idea. She is the president of the National Center for Public Policy Research, a conservative group, and has already hoarded about 100 old-style incandescent light bulbs in her basement. She hopes to have several hundred by the time the new standards go into effect on January 1, 2012. Her hoarding, she told the New York Times, is primarily driven by concerns about the mercury in the compact fluorescent bulbs. Her middle child, a 10-year-old son, is autistic. "He’s knocked over quite a few lamps," she said, and broken plenty of light bulbs in the process. Since I'm not convinced that mercury doesn't contribute to autism, I'm with her.

That's especially true in that the Environmental Protection Agency [EPA] actually issues detailed instructions on how to clean up a broken fluorescent bulb because of the potential for spilling mercury. In fact, because of the mercury, the EPA recommends recycling used fluorescent bulbs rather than disposing of them in household garbage.

You know what? Recycling was cute when it was cans, glass and newspapers. It's just a real pain in the ass now, and the novelty - like the days of the effective light bulb - is over.

copyright 2011 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Who The Hell is Ke$ha?

Every year I stay up late to watch Dick Clark's ball drop. Maybe I was distracted by Ke$ha's declaration to Ryan Seacrest that her 2011 resolution was "not to be a douchebag", but I never saw the ball drop last night. I think that means she's a douchebag.

Happy New Year. Being naturally morbid, every New Year's Day I think to myself - who has just celebrated their last New Year's Day? That is, which celebrities out there don't realize it yet but they will die sometime during this next year? Of course, it doesn't just have to be celebrities: often I'll wonder, 'Is this it? Is this the last year for me?' I told you: morbid.

So, on this first day of another year that no doubt holds something bad in store, here's a look back on all of those who rung in the New Year 2010 - most not knowing it was their last New Year.

While his public career died over 50 years ago, author J.D. Salinger died on January 27, 2010 at the age of 91. That's a pretty good run, 91 years. Since he hasn't had to work in 50 of those years, I'd say that's a damned good run, indeed.

One of the oldest Klansmen in the country died, too. A United States Senator by hobby, racist Sen. Robert Byrd [D, W Va.] died on June 28, 2010 at the ancient age of 92. Yes, Salinger was also ancient - but no one's seen him since the 1950s. Byrd refused to go away. I'm not sure if he was buried in his Klan gear, although it would have been fitting [well, if not, I'm sure they could've taken it to a tailor to get it properly fitted].

Also in politics, one convicted and one convicted-overturned politician no longer have to worry about raising campaign cash. Former Sen. Ted Stevens [R, Alaska] died in a plane crash - the second of his life - on August 9, 2010 at the age of 86. Stevens - as I've written about before - was convicted in 2008 only to have it overturned the next year. Unfortunately for him, that was too late, because he'd already lost his 2008 reelection campaign. The old fashioned convicted pol - former Rep. Dan Rostenkowski [D, Ill.] - died two days later, on August 11, 2010 at the age of 82.

From the history/government department, President Kennedy's speechwriter and great Camelot propagandist Theodore Sorensen died on October 31, 2010 at the age of 82. Someone who declared himself 'in charge' - but who was not President - also died. Alexander Haig - who served his country with distinction as a military officer, presidential aide, and [to a lesser extent than in the previous roles] Secretary of State - died on February 20, 2010 at the age of 85. Just recently, diplomat Richard Holbrooke died, on December 13, 2010, at the age of 69. The woman who had the great misfortune to dedicate the best years of her life to a scoundrel like former Sen. John Edwards [D, N.C.] also lost her life; Elizabeth Edwards died on December 7, 2010 at the age of 61.

Participants in America's Civil Rights movement continue to disappear as those tumultuous years fade further into the past. Former head of the NAACP, Benjamin Hooks, died April 15, 2010 at the age of 85. [EDITOR"S NOTE: I'm definitely noting the pattern of dying in the mid-80s. If our average span of life in this country reaches 85, then those of us working today have about as much chance of seeing money left for our Social Security as we do seeing any of the people in this post appearing on Dancing with the Stars...although I think I just hit on a new TV show: Dancing with the Dead Stars!]. Another great Civil Rights leader, Dorothy Height - who led the National Council of Negro Women for 40 years (1957-1997) - died on April 20, 2010 at the age of 98. One of the nine African American students who helped integrate Arkansas public schools in 1957, Jefferson Thomas, died September 5, 2010 at the age of 67. Finally, Ronald Walters - a pioneer in the Civil Rights movement who organized the sit-ins at drug store counters in Wichita, Kansas and Greensboro, North Carolina - died on September 10, 2010 at the age of 72.

Hollywood - as usual - provided the most noted deaths. From behind the camera, director and screenwriter Blake Edwards - whose works ranged from The Pink Panther to Days of Wine and Roses - died on December 15, 2010 at the age of 88. Director Arthur Penn - whose films included Bonnie and Clyde and The Miracle Worker - died on September 28, 2010; ironically, also at the age of 88. Another noteworthy death was that of producer Dino De Laurentiis [Serpico, Three Days of the Condor], who died on November 10, 2010 at the age of 91.

From in front of the camera, actor Tony Curtis [and his toupee], died on September 29, 2010 at the age of 85. Father of actress Jamie Lee Curtis, the Some Like it Hot star's real name was Bernard Schwartz. Good choice on the name-change, Tony. A sister of one of the great anti-Semites of our day died, when actress Lynn Redgrave died on May 2, 2010 at the age of 67. While her career took a hit when sister Vanessa rallied to the Palestinian Liberation Organization's cause in the 1970s and 1980s, Lynn still managed to maintain her career and her sanity. The movie Airplane! lost two of its central characters as Peter Graves died on March 14, 2010 at the age of 83; while Leslie Nielson died on November 28, 2010 at the age of 84.

From the world of music came the death of a legend: the incomparable Lena Horne died on May 9, 2010 at the age of 92. Teddy Pendergrass - whose career was largely destroyed after a horrific car accident in 1982 that left him paralyzed - died early in the year on January 13, 2010 at the age of 58. The man who tried to turn Frank Sinatra into Fabian, producer Mitch Miller, died on July 31, 2010 at the age of 99. Since there is no category for Dead Food Producers, we'll slot Jimmy Dean here under music. The singer of "Big Bad John" died on June 13, 2010 at the age of 81.

Television - a medium that was popular from roughly 1950-2000 - also lost some from its family. Art Linkletter, the long-time host of Kids Say the Darndest Things, died on May 26, 2010 at the age of 97. The second Trapper John M.D., Pernell Roberts, died on January 24, 2010 at the age of 81. The white half of the dynamic interracial television paring in I Spy, Robert Culp, died on March 24, 2010 at the age of 79. In addition to his role with Bill Cosby on that show, Culp was a genius as Ray Romano's father-in-law on Everybody Loves Raymond. Finally, nearly exactly 174 years after his death at The Alamo, Davy Crockett died again , this time with the passing of actor Fess Parker, who portrayed the legend in the miniseries Davy Crockett in 1955 [alongside co-star Buddy Ebsen for your trivia buffs]. Parker died on March 18, 2010 at the age of 85.

In sports, a number of legends passed. The man almost universally considered the greatest coach in the history of basketball, John Wooden, died on June 4, 2010 at the age of 99. Two baseball Hall of Famers died: manager Sparky Anderson - who captured World Series titles in both the National [Cincinnati Reds] and American Leagues [Detroit Tigers] - died on November 4, 2010 at the age of 76; and pitcher Bob Feller died on December 15, 2010 at the age of 92. A man who should be in the Hall of Fame, iconic Yankee owner George Steinbrenner, died on July 13, 2010 at the age of 80. While from the world of football, Hall of Famer George Blanda - whose unbelievable career lasted from 1949 to 1975 - died on September 27, 2010 at the age of 83.

Undoubtedly, I've missed folks. It was a long year, remember. And, as 2011 begins, we know that next year - assuming I'm not one of them - I'll be writing a blog post about those who are here today celebrating New Year's, unaware in most cases that it will be their last.


copyright 2011 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

To Cap it All Off

I'M TOO SEXY FOR MY PANTS: The guy in the shit-colored cap is Mike Rowe and I want him out of my life - NOW!

"I've been told they make my butt look good." This is the catchy line of a television commercial for a pair of Lee jeans. Who is the hunk serving as spokesman? Brad Pitt? George Clooney? Hell, Joe Jonas? Uh, no. It's a middle-aged guy in a baseball cap.

Meet Mike Rowe. Of course, you don't need me to introduce you to this guy, he's been all over your life for the last year-and-a-half. Until the commercials - first for Ford and now for Lee jeans - I'd never heard of him, and that was mighty fine with me. Of course, I didn't know about him because I don't watch television. Well, not what passes for television in 2010, anyway. So, you probably already knew that this guy was the host of something called Dirty Jobs on cable.

All I knew the first time I saw him on a commercial was there was some asshole in a baseball cap on my TV trying to sell me a Ford, and acting like I should know who he is. If there's one thing I hate [and, believe me, there's a lot more than 'one'], it's fauxlebrities who act as if I should know who they are. So that, in combination with the baseball cap that was making me angry, meant there was little chance I was going to like Mike Rowe from the beginning.

Still, I figured it'd be a few commercials and then he'd be gone. I mean, whose brilliant idea was it to use this schmuck as a spokesman? What, was Ron Jeremy busy? I figured the poor bastard who suggested to the boys at Ford that they use Rowe would get shit-canned in a few weeks and I'd never see Mike Rowe again.

Hardly. Instead, he's become a mainstay of Ford's commercials. And, may I say, Ford really sucks. I don't mean the cars - haven't driven one in 15 years. I'm talking about their commercials. Between Rowe and the incredibly obnoxiously annoying ones with voice-overs by Denis Leary, I wouldn't drive a Ford if it was the only escape for me from a Demi Lovato concert....well, ok, maybe I would - but that's the only reason.

The "make my butt look good" line comes from his new line of products he wants me to buy, jeans. Yep, there he is again - with the fucking baseball cap on! It's not even a cool cap. If it was a Yankees cap, or a cap that said 'Go Fuck Yourself', then maybe it'd be cool. But it's this bland shit-colored hat that you generally see worn by the toothless, the drunk, and the shiftless.

I tried to do some research on this asshole so that I could figure out just what the fuck the deal was with the hat.

That was when I found out about Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel [I didn't even know that network was still on the air, by the way]. Initially, I thought, 'Well, maybe that's why he wears the cap: he's constantly filthy.' Turns out I might not be too far off: I guess on this 'show' he performs difficult, strange or disgusting [or a combination of all three] tasks alongside the poor bastards who have to do it for a living. This is supposed to, somehow, entertain us: to watch people getting paid shitty wages doing shitty jobs with this capped asshole making a mockery of their lives and very existence. Sounds like entertainment to me.

He apparently came to Discovery's attention when he was doing local TV work in San Francisco and did a delightful piece on the artificial insemination of a cow. Personally, I'd have found it more entertaining if he'd actually inseminated the cow himself, but that's just me. He sent a tape of this brilliance to Discovery and, the next thing you know, there he is selling trucks and pants.

I've searched and searched and simply can't find any explanation for the hat. Is he bald? Balding? Is there a hatchet protruding through the center of his skull? He never even acknowledges it - like it's perfectly natural for a 48-year-old to walk around with a shit-colored baseball cap, without having to explain himself.

It reminds me of a great scene in a great film - Uncle Buck - where John Candy's character is driving while wearing this God-awful wool hunters cap with ear flaps. He turns to his passenger and says, "Do you like this hat? 'Cause some people get angry when they see this hat."

Consider me angry when I see that hat.


copyright 2010 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Not Exactly Ozzie and Harriet

FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP THE MADNESS! For anyone out there who doesn't know, this [above] is the scourge known as 'Will(ow) and Jade(n) Pinkett-Smith'.

How many more children do Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith have? I need to know because if there any more that haven't been force-fed into my life I want to plot my suicide now. This plague of Smith children simply must stop. First of all, it's not as though Will Smith and Jada Pinkett were Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn to begin with. Will Smith is a decent actor - which is funny since he got his start as a rapper, and he may be one of the worst rappers in the history of that God-awful genre. As for the old lady, quick: tell me one thing Jada Pinkett has done. No peeking at Wikipedia, either.

Be truthful: you had no idea what in the hell Jada Pinkett had ever done before you cheated, went on Wikipedia, and remembered that she co-starred with Eddie Murphy in the funny but pointless remake of The Nutty Professor. Ok, then you remembered her on A Different World. Otherwise, she's famous for being married to the guy from Fresh Prince.

For those of you now scared blind, fear not: the Pinkett-Smiths - or whatever the hell you call them - stopped at two offspring; although Will does have a son from a previous bout of sexual intercourse. So, that third kid is always a threat to appear somewhere. Hopefully, though, Will Smith's first baby momma had the kind of genes that produces a doctor or lawyer or something.

And, anyway, the two kids Will and Jada have is more than enough.

I confess, I haven't seen the pointless remake of Karate Kid [you'll notice the family-trait of appearing in pointless remakes, no?]. Nor will I ever. So, for all I know, Jaden Smith is the best actor to appear on the screen since Sir John Gielgud. I highly doubt it, though, and I'm willing to go out on a limb and say that if his parents weren't who they are, the kid's only shot at appearing on television would be as a contestant on BrainSurge.

So, while I didn't see the kid act, I have seen him just about everywhere else and I can't take it anymore. I don't wish anything terrible on anyone's child, but there's a part of me that wouldn't mind if one or both of these off-spring pull a Demi Lovato and disappear into rehab for a while.

Here's the thing, though: Jaden Smith is Elvis compared to his little sister. Willow Smith has recorded the single-most offensive vocal reproduction in the nearly 130 year history of recorded sound. John and Yoko's Two Virgins? It's fucking Exile on Main Street compared two Willow's "Whip May Hair". When I first heard it, I assumed that someone had sampled Alvin and Chipmunks covering something from Frank Zappa.

Here's a link to this twerp's song. I defy you - defy you, I say - to listen to the whole thing without either:

a) Vomiting
b) Jamming a sharp object into both ears
c) a and then b

For those of you faint of heart [not to mention stomach and hearing], here are the lyrics to what Will and Jada's offspring hath wrought [and I'm not making this up]:

I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.

Hop up out the bed turn my swag on.
Pay no attention to them haters.
Because I whip em off.

And we ain't doing nothing wrong so don't tell me nothing.
I'm just tryin' have fun, so keep the party jumpin'.

So wassup! (yeah).
And if they don't know what to do.
We turn our back and wave our hair.
And just shake em off.
Shake em off
Shake em off
Shake em off

Don't let haters keep me off my mind.(mind)
Keep my head up I know I'll be fine.(fine)
Keep fightin' until I get there.
And I'm down and I feel like giving up.

I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.

I'm a get more shine in a little bit.
As soon as I hit the stage.
Applause I'm hearing it.
Whether it's black stars, black cars.
I'm feeling it.

But no other can whip it like I do.
I, I gets it hmmm yeah so hard.
When they see me pull up, I whip it real hard.
I whip it real hard.
Real hard.
I whip it real hard.

Don't let haters keep me off my mind.(mind)
Keep my head up I know I'll be fine.(fine)
Keep fightin' until I get there.
And I'm down and I feel like giving up.

I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.

All my ladies if you feel it.
Go and do it, do it, whip your hair.(whip your hair)
Don't matter if it's long, short.
Do it, do it, whip your hair.(whip your hair.)

All my ladies if you feel it.
Go and do it, do it, whip your hair.(whip your hair)
Don't matter if it's long, short.
Do it, do it, whip your hair.
Your hair, your hair!

Yeah.

I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.
I whip my hair back and forth.

Just writing those lyrics I've already poked one of my eyes out and I'm working on scooping out an ear drum.

The first thing we need to do is have Will Smith neutered. Second, we need to pass a law stating that 'celebrity' must skip at least one generation. That is, if mom and/or dad are famous - even if neither is terribly talented - their children are forced into a lifetime of anonymity, albeit wealthy anonymity.

For now, I'm willing to limit it to that second generation. Should the grandchildren of celebrities become famous, I'm willing to give that a shot. I'm figuring that the dilution of the obnoxious gene might actually create a celebrity with a smidgen of talent.

Until then, I'm going to whip my hair back and forth until my other eardrum falls out.

copyright 2010 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

National Lampoon's Canadian Vacation

AND PEOPLE THOUGHT JOHN & YOKO WERE NUTS: Actor Randy Quaid [left] and wife Evi [right] are delivering the performances of a lifetime in what is apparently a movie about a talented actor who goes nuts and moves to Canada.

Randy Quaid has been in a boatload of funny movies. He's done some great dramatic roles, too [his portrayal of Lyndon Johnson on the Made-for-TV biopic LBJ: The Early Years earned him a Golden Globe in 1987. But comedy is his claim-to-fame. He's been in a lot of them.

And not one of them is as funny as what Randy Quaid and his wife, Evi, have been up to in their private lives. If you think your sibling is an embarrassing freak that brings shame, scorn and humiliation onto your family name, you ain't got nothing on poor Dennis Quaid.

Where to begin? It's been clear for years that Randy was losing his mind. Many blame his second wife, Evi, whom he married in 1989. First, in September 2009, the couple was charged with defrauding an innkeeper of more than $10,000, as well as conspiracy and burglary, after an invalid credit card was used at San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito. While felony charges were later dropped against Randy Quaid, Evi Quaid pleaded no contest to a misdemeanor count of defrauding an innkeeper and was sentenced to three years' probation. She was also ordered to perform 240 hours of community service.

That was not the only encounter with places of lodging. There were also numerous claims from hotels around the country that the Quaids had left them in the lurch for tens of thousands of dollars in unpaid hotel bills. Some involved fake credit cards; others on cards that were maxed out. The Quaids escaped jail - somehow - by reimbursing all of the hotels.

The latest trouble began with the Quaids breaking into the guesthouse of what they claim is their former home, and basically squatting there until the current owner couldn't take it and called the police. A contractor showed police more than $5,000 in damages - caused by the Quaids - to the guest house. The Quaids told deputies they had owned the property since the 1990s. The Quaids were arrested and brought up on vandalism charges and were released on bail. TMZ got a hold of audio [God knows how] of Evi being arrested. During the arrest she can be heard screaming, "Please shoot me!!! My dog!!! Doji!!! My dog!!!!"

Naturally, after posting bail, the Quaids fled to Canada. Once there, they requested asylum in Canada to protect them from what Randy Quaid called "Hollywood star whackers" who wanted to kill him. Now, especially having just written extensively about John Lennon - the most famous star killed because of his celebrity - I'm not insensitive to the idea that some lunatic could try to kill Randy Quaid. That being said, the frantic way in which the Quaids have been screaming about the conspiracy to kill him simply looks and smells like mental illness.

Then there was the scene at the Canadian immigration board hearing on granting the Quaids asylum. Evi Quaid mesmerized those in attendance by telling them that her famous friends, including David Carradine and Heath Ledger, were "murdered" under strange circumstances and feared something similar would happen to her and her husband next. "We feel our lives are in danger," she said. "Randy has known eight close friends murdered in odd, strange manners. We feel that we're next."

Now, why on Earth would anyone want to stop this comedy by killing the two stars of the film? Well, the Canadians eventually tired of the plot line to the film, and released both Quaids, declaring that Evi Quaid was, indeed, a Canadian citizen.

While in Canada, the Quaids agreed to sit down for an interview with Andrea Canning from ABC's Good Morning America . The couple [of what?] delivered one of the finest dramedic efforts in television history. First, Randy Quaid complained about how his claims have made him a laughing stock. "To have my, my integrity and my reputation so denigrated so mercilessly, why? Why would somebody want to do this to me?" Of course, that's a question Randy could get answered by looking in a mirror.

Evi didn't disappoint either. She whined with a straight face, "We are refugees. I mean that's essentially what it is: Hollywood refugees. Seeking to be left alone by the criminals in America. I genuinely feel like these people are trying to kill us." When Canning asked who would be trying to kill them, Evi said, "an estate planner who had set up a living trust in a county where they could cash Randy's royalty stream forever." When Canning pressed as to why someone would want to kill them, Evi responded, "To get the money."

When Canning asked if anyone has actually threatened to kill them, Randy Quaid said, "They follow us. They, they tail us, they tag our cell phone, they hack our computer. And now, with the Internet, a celebrity is fair game. And it's all designed to sell advertising space." Just in case you're thinking that maybe somebody is trying to get the Quaids, try to make sense out of that last quote and get back to me.

In the interview with GMA, Randy Quaid further said, "It is very possible that, uh, Heath Ledger could've been murdered. Or David Carradine." Evi added, "And Robert Blake was set up." Whem asked to further define 'star whackers' [the phrase Randy Quaid had used in an address to the media], Randy Quaid said, "It's possible for people to gain control of every aspect of your life." Evi added, "They're businessmen. They're absolute businessmen. It's the Mafia. It's organized crime."

When the Quaids were asked if they felt there were any particular celebrities who should be worried about being killed, Evi Quaid responded without missing a beat, "Lindsay Lohan." Randy Quaid said, "Yeah, definitely. Brittney Spears." Evi Quaid continued, "Mel Gibson, too." When Canning asked if Evi thought that maybe - just maybe - the content of Gibson's recorded conversations might be the reason Gibson is now persona non grata, as opposed to some conspiracy, Evi would have none of it. "I think he was drugged. I think he was slipped a mickey. That's my personal opinion. " Randy Quaid added, "I think she [girlfriend Oksana Grigorieva] was sent in to do him in." Following up on the star whacker theme, Canning asked if Randy meant Grigorieva was 'sent in' to kill Gibson, both Quaids reacted as if it was the craziest thing they'd ever heard. "No, no, no!" Randy said, "Just Figuratively. To ruin him. I mean look at all this [negative publicity]."

As to the charges against the Quaids about the tens of thousands of dollars in hotel bills on bogus credit cards, Quaid answered - apparently - another question that must have been in his head. "When we've gone a day here, a day there without anything to eat or a place to stay, and that happens more frequently and more frequently, at some point, you know, you're gonna end up out on the street."

So, what does poor Dennis Quaid make of all of this. Well, Randy Quaid says that he is worried about his brother. "I feel he's being victimized the same way that I have by the same people. And, um, accountants..." Randy Quaid said he's tried to warn his brother, but to no avail. "He doesn't, uh, he doesn't respond." Evi went further. "Dennis is now on a treadmill of making films that are garbage. And it's unfortunate because he's talented."

My favorite part of the interview, though, was when Randy went off on Evi herself. After she constantly answered questions intended for him, Randy snapped. When she did it again, Randy angrily turned to Evi and said, "Evi, would you shut up for a minute please? Please? C'mon!"

See. I told you he could do drama.


copyright 2010 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Why Paris Hilton Must Be Put To Death

THIS GIRL'S GOT SOME SET OF BALLS ON HER [and, this time, not on her chin]: Would you believe this is the pose billionaire fauxlebrity Paris Hilton struck the other night in her mug shot? For that alone, death is probably warranted.

Believe it or not, some good can come out of Paris Hilton's latest intrusion into our lives [in case you hadn't heard, the multi-billion dollar receptacle for semen was busted for cocaine the other night]: we can kill her now. Granted, that may seem a bit harsh for a cocaine violation. Still, because it is more serious than the booze and pot she's been busted for before, an argument could be made that heroin and crack can only be around the corner for this stupid bitch, so we might as well kill her now.

On a larger scale, though, there is a real benefit to ending the life this bimbo has wasted with 29 years of vapidness: it may, in fact, be our last best chance to end this nearly 15-year scourge of 'reality'-based entertainment that threatens to send us back into becoming a pack of savages that beats each other with sticks and points up at the sky in horror at the sun, thinking it is a giant yellow monster. Yes, killing Paris Hilton might be our last chance to save us from that future.

How would putting Hilton to death kill 'reality'-based entertainment? Well, for the message it would send. For too long, fellow fauxlebrities - people who are famous for absolutely no discernible reason - have looked at what Hilton has done and sought to emulate it. And who could blame them? Hilton went from being just another teenage billionaire cunt who - despite her wealth - still had to wait in line with the rest of the other rich people waiting to get a table at Nobu, and became someone who made herself a household name/face that never had to wait for anything again. She could go on David Letterman, say nothing and get skewered by Letterman while having absolutely no clue as to what he was saying, and only get more famous. She was a trailblazer - not just for other rich kids living off dead relatives' money - but for people with a lot less money than she had when she became famous.

As a fauxlebrity, Hilton made her own rules [namely, she had none], went where she wanted, when she wanted, and with whom she wanted - using whatever she wanted [booze, drugs, etc] along the way. She became so famous that - even though her wealth was beyond anything imaginable - she stopped having to pay for anything because people wanted her at their parties, at the their restaurants, at their clubs, etc.

What made it even more enticing to other would-be fauxlebrities was that she suffered no consequences. None. Even when she violated parole on drunk driving charges and was sentence to 45 days in prison [she served only 27], she emerged from it more famous, more in demand and more obnoxious than ever.

Because of Paris Hilton, we've been victimized by people whose names you - and more importantly, I - should not know. These include but are in no way limited to: Tila Tequila, Heidi Montag, Kim Kardashian, Brooke Hogan, and Kate Gosselin, Justin Guarini, Ruben Studdard and Octomom. Now, c'mon: you sit there and tell me with a straight face that your life wouldn't be more fulfilling with those assholes out of your head.

If we execute Paris Hilton now, do you think any of the above mentioned assholes would ever dare allow themselves to be photographed on a red carpet for absolutely no reason at all? Do you think Kardashian would risk having her homemade porn movies 'leak' out into the Internet [setting porn back about 30 years, by the way]? Do you think people like Jon and Kate Gosselin or Octomom would ever again dare to procreate in an effort to become famous? Would douchebags like Richard and Mayumi Heene have the temerity to put other lives in danger by faking a story of their son accidentally taking off in a balloon? Would scumbags like Tareq and Michaele Salahi try to breach the security of the White House in the middle of two wars by rubbing elbows with the President of the Untied States?

....uh, well, you're right: they probably still would. But at least with the precedent of putting Paris Hilton to death we'd now have a way of getting rid of all of them.

Then maybe, just maybe, people can become famous again for actually doing something.


DISCLAIMER:In no way shape or form am I advocating the execution of Paris Hilton, or any other person on Earth. Lest anyone be confused by this post and take it into their feeble minds to actually try to kill any of these folks, please remember this is satire. If you are a maniac susceptible to hearing voices or doing stupid things, please unsubscribe from this blog. Oh, and another thing: I realize the above disclaimer might seem hypocritical [i.e. 'I don't advocate the execution of any other person on Earth'], since I constantly call for the death of all terrorists. You're wrong, though, there's no discrepancy at all: while disagreeable and annoying, I'm about 93% certain that Paris Hilton is still a human being. Terrorists, however, are not. Therefore, ispo fatso as Archie Bunker would say, there's no hypocrisy in my statement.


copyright 2010 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Two and a Half Maniacs

DROPS OF JUPITER: The lovely mug shot of Charlie Sheen (above) shortly after his Christmas Day 2009 arrest for domestic violence.

When that idiot Charlie Sheen was arrested last Christmas for pulling a near-O.J. [slang for pulling a knife and placing it at your wife's throat while threatening to kill her], all could agree [well, all except the Hollywood community that continued to embrace him] that he should be shunned from society and exiled to Elba or somewhere.

Well, now that the police incident filed that day has been released, Sheen comes off no less repugnant, but we can come to another conclusion: his wife should join him in Elba. It is clear that both of these two are certifiable and almost certainly deserve each other. This is in no way to justify what Sheen did, nor to condone in the slightest domestic violence no matter how little your wife listens to you [that's a cheap joke, folks].

It is, however, worth noting that while Sheen is a malcontent who frequents prostitutes, enjoys dating porn stars and displays all of the responsibility-traits of a serial killer, the incident on Christmas Day may not have played out exactly the way we were all lead to believe.

Sheen had a very interesting conversation with the arresting officer. Officer Rick Magnuson describes in the report how he entered the home to find Sheen's wife, Brooke Mueller Sheen sobbing uncontrollably. Mueller told Magnuson that Charlie Sheen [or, Carlos Irwin Estevez, as he is referred to in the report; below I substitute 'Sheen' because I kept thinking, 'What the hell is Emilio Estevez doing in this story?'] was upstairs with a knife. When Magnuson went to the stairs and called up, identifying himself as a police officer, Sheen came downstairs with his hands in the air.

While another officer - Casey Ward - interviewed Mueller, Magnuson asked Sheen to speak with him downstairs in the basement, to which sheen readily agreed. According to Magnuson's report, Charlie Sheen told the officer that the fight between he and his wife started with an argument over "a song with a daughter, whom [Sheen] fathered with another woman. [Sheen] further explained that he and the daughter share an affinity for both astronomy and the song 'Drops of Jupiter' from the band 'Train.'" According to Sheen, this affinity is what initially set Mueller off. According to the report, "Mueller was jealous of this relationship with his
daughter. He stated that Mueller said, 'you have a song you share with your
daughter, but not one with me.'" If true, this is probably all the confirmation a jury would need to have Mueller committed to a mental institution along with her husband.

After recovering from the shock of this explanation for the origin of the argument, Magnuson asked Sheen, "if he struck or pushed Mueller. [Sheen] denied pushing
or striking Mueller. [Sheen] added that during this argument, Mueller became
irate, threatening to divorce him and take the children away. [Sheen] stated
that Mueller said, 'I'm calling Troup (a divorce attorney) and you will never
see your kids again.' [Sheen] stated that he became very upset with this threat
because of past experiences."

And God knows Sheen has had past experiences with the law. Indeed, things got a bit humorous when Magnuson asked Sheen for an ID. As Sheen handed Magnuson the ID he told the officer nonchalantly, "'It's fake, I had it made from someone on the set after I lost the real one.'"

By this point, Magnuson heard from the Officer Ward, who had been questioning Mueller. "I learned from Officer Ward that Mueller accused [Sheen] of strangling her, putting a pocket-type knife to her throat and threatening to kill her. Officer Ward added that he observed red marks around Mueller's throat, consistent with a strangulation attempt. Officer Ward also advised me that Mueller claimed that [Sheen] had harmed her in the past."

With that information, Magnuson went back to question Sheen. "I asked [Sheen] if he attempted to strangle Mueller or placed a knife near her throat. [Sheen] denied threatening Mueller with a knife or strangling her. I asked ]Sheen] if he ever harmed Mueller in the past. [Sheen] stated that approximately two months ago, in California, Mueller accused him of sleeping with prostitutes. [Sheen] stated that he denied this allegation, which escalated into a 'huge fight.' He added that when Mueller attempted to leave the argument, he grabbed her by the wrist, causing her to fall to the ground. [Sheen] added that Mueller hit the back of her head on a piece of furniture as she fell to the ground. [Sheen] stated that Mueller was injured when her head contacted the furniture." Ah, yes, the domestic abuser's best friend: the 'hit the back of her head on a piece of furniture' excuse.

By this point - clearly confused as to whether he was talking to an abuser or a guy married to a lunatic - Magnuson turned his attention to the alleged weapon. Magnuson asked Sheen if he did really have a knife. Sheen, "stated that he had a folding knife in his travel bag, which was near the upstairs bedroom. We went upstairs to the hallway outside the bedroom where the altercation occurred. I
observed two black Prada bags in the hallway, approximately six feet from the
bed. [Sheen] reached into the larger travel bag and I observed a dark colored
knife with an approximate four inch blade, which was in the open position. [Sheen] took the knife from the bag, laying it on the floor where I retrieved it. I attempted to close the knife and found it to be in the locked position."

Magnuson noticed something else: two pairs of broken eye glasses. When Magnuson asked Sheen what had happened, the actor - as calmly and rationally as if he was explaining how he'd gone out in the morning to bring in the paper - told Magnuson, "that he took two of Mueller's eyeglasses and broke them in front of her. He demonstrated this by making a breaking gesture with his hands. He added that after breaking the eyeglasses he threw them on the floor of the bedroom." At that point in the report, Magnuson makes one of the oddest segues in the history of police reporting. After writing how Sheen just broke his wife's glasses, Magnuson felt compelled to add that Sheen "was cooperative, forthcoming and polite during my conversation." A polite maniac, that's nice.

That Sheen is a maniac was confirmed shortly thereafter when Magnuson compared notes with Officer Valerie McFarlane, who'd joined Officer Ward in interviewing Mueller. According to the report, Mueller told Sheen was leaving him, seeking a divorce and taking their children [although, the report states the Mueller's exact words were the loving expression, "you'll never see the fucking kids again!"].

Mueller told the officer that Sheen went nuts at this. According to the report, Sheen "grabbed Mueller by the upper part of the throat while straddling her as she lay supine on the bed. Mueller added that [Sheen] then pulled out a knife, holding it to her throat and saying, 'You better be in fear. If you tell anybody, I'll kill you. Your mother's money means nothing, I have ex-police I can hire who know how to get the job done and they won't leave any trace'." Presumably, these are the same ex-police that O.J. said were hired by someone to kill Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman.

After Officer McFarlane showed Magnuson the pictures she had taken of Mueller - which showed "obvious reddening around her throat and a scratch on her arm, between the wrist and elbow" - Magnuson went to see for himself. When he approached Mueller, he could see that she had red marks on her neck "consistent with a strangulation attempt. I asked Mueller if this was normal and she stated that it was not; adding that [Sheen] caused the marks on her neck while he was holding her down on the bed with his hand."

Mueller went on to explain what happened next: according to her, Sheen, "placed a medium sized folding knife, blade exposed, next to her throat, while he straddled her torso on the bed. Mueller told me that she was afraid she was going to die at that moment, adding that she was unable to get up while [Sheen's] other hand was around her throat and his weight on her torso. Mueller demonstrated this incident by lying on her back, on the bed; she placed one hand around her throat and the other was near her neck, mimicking the holding of a knife, with the point aimed at her neck."

Before arresting Sheen, Magnuson asked her about the prior incident of which he'd spoken to Sheen, where Mueller had hit her head. "I told Mueller that I confronted [Sheen] about the incident; adding that [Sheen] claimed that Mueller's injury was inadvertent. This upset Mueller; she was very adamant that [Sheen] intentionally hurt her by throwing her to the ground, like a 'rag doll.' Mueller added that [Sheen] did not want to report the incident to the police. Mueller added that she saw three doctors in California for her head injury. She stated that the injury was
diagnosed as a 'closed head injury'."

The report does have its humorous moments. For instance, it was not just Sheen and Mueller in the house. There were others. Including someone that, I'm sure, all of us having living at our homes. "I also interviewed Kathleen Marie Conway (DOB 11/27/1961). Conway was a guest at the rental home and serves as the sobriety life-coach for Mueller and [Sheen]." Right, like you don't have a sobriety life-coach at home.

Conway did add some color to the details of the incident. "Conway stated that she heard yelling upstairs and went to the upstairs bedroom. She observed [Sheen] in the doorway and Mueller in the bed. Mueller saw Conway at the door and screamed, 'He held a knife to my throat for an hour. I want a divorce. Call Troup & Troup [the attorneys].' [Sheen] yelled back, 'You're not gonna fucking do that. I'm texting my attorney right now and I'll file first.'"

Of course, Conway was not the only guest, either. Hell, she wasn't even the only sobriety coach in the house. Officers also interviewed Sammy Kent, a 'sobriety assistant' Sheen had just met a few days earlier. "Kent explained that [Sheen] hired Kent to counsel him while in Aspen over the holidays. [Sheen] wanted to be sober during this time." Kent said that over the three days he'd observed Sheen, the actor did not appear to be boozing. "Kent said [Sheen] had been doing fine and was sober. Kent said on 12/24/09 at about 10 PM, Conway had learned that Mueller had taken one of [Sheen's] Gabapentin pills. Kent explained Gabapentin is a medication that helps people deal with the desires to drink alcohol. He said it's actually an anti-seizure
medication but also curbs the appetite for alcohol. Kent said Mueller had told Conway she stole this pill from [Sheen]." Ozzie and Harriet these two ain't.

Although, let's face it: The Charlie and Brooke Show would be a helluva lot more entertaining.

copyright 2010 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Lethal Weapon V

Noted anti-Semite Mel Gibson [right] and his frightening-looking ex-girlfriend Oksana Grigorieva [left]. The deranged Gibson is accused of beating Grigorieva and accusing her of being a tempting target to "a pack of niggers!" with her scantily clad outfits.

This just in: Mel Gibson is a racist asshole. For those of you shocked by this statement, shame on you. What, his anti-Semitic rantings a few years ago [against a bunch of cops who dared try to get his drunk Aussie ass off the road before he killed someone] wasn't enough for you? You dismissed it as a drunken rant by a man who was otherwise a great guy who looked hot in a kilt?

You are an asshole, then. Gibson's latest attempt to thoroughly sabotage his career is the simply fascinating diatribe he laid on his incredibly disturbing-looking ex-girlfriend. Take a listen. I think some engineer should double-track it with the aforementioned anti-Semitic rant and release it as a single [do they still have singles?].

Gibson may be in deep shit this time, hopefully. This wack-job has now been named as a potential suspect in a domestic violence investigation involving the disturbing-looking ex-girlfriend, Oksana Grigorieva [who I think might be Carol Channing in a wig].

She is also the woman with whom he fell in bed while still married - which annoyed his wife - and led to the end of Gibson's marriage to said wife [although, technically, while both have filed for divorce, it is still pending. See, there's hope yet!].

Back to the domestic violence. While I realize in 21st-century America it is ok to hold a knife to your wife's neck [at least it is if you make CBS a lot of money on that stupid sitcom Two and a Half Men (which should be renamed Two Men and The White O.J.)]. In this case, police believe Gibson attacked Grigorieva back on January 6, 2010, in one of his dozens of homes, this one in Malibu. In one of those delicious ironies, the D.V. investigation is being conducted by the same sheriff's substation that is home to the very same cops Gibson accused of being "fucking kikes" when they arrested his ass in his 2006 drunk driving fiasco.

To his credit,Gibson eventually apologized for being caught on tape making those anti-Semitic [and sexist] rants during his arrest. He played the "I've battled alcoholism for all of my adult life" card, seemingly arguing that he only hates the Jews when he drinks.

Wisely, Gibson's remarks in 2006 led to a lengthy 'cooldown' period for the actor, who at one time was once one of Hollywood's most bankable stars.

Hopefully his next cooldown period will be behind bars. Note to Mel: lose the kilt, pal. Not a great idea in jail.

copyright 2010 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

That A Way

Rest assured, my airport looks nothing like this (above).




Things worked so much better when the Mafia ran the airport nearest my home [and I use the term 'nearest' loosely, as it's about an hour away]. Granted, you paid $34 for a Pepsi and $150 to park your car, but at least you had a place to park near the airport. Now, you have to park - literally - a mile away from the airport and wait for a shuttle bus to pick you up.

It's not just that, though. Since the Mafia left, there is no one at the entrance to the airport to try to shake you down. You might think that's a good thing, but it ain't: at least under the Mafia people were there to answer questions for a fee. "Are you lost, sir?" For a mere $10 the guy'd get you to wherever you needed to go. "The restrooms, sir?" For another Hamilton you'd be peeing in comfort [well, the bathrooms were cesspools, now that I think of it; but at least you were peeing where you were supposed to]. I mean, those were the days.

Since they drove the Mafia out of the airport, however, it's been a fucking lonely nightmare. Sure, the place is cleaner than a virgin's you-know-what, but good luck figuring out just where the fuck you're supposed to go or finding someone to tell you where the fuck you're supposed to go. Sure, the Pepsi is back to an only semi-laughable $8, but good luck finding a place to get one once you pass through security.

One of the fears we all had back when the government created the Transportation Safety Administration [TSA] was that they'd grow into a typical government bureaucracy staffed by losers, shiftless daydreamers, hopeless ne'er do-wells and people incompetent to do anything else. Sure enough, eight years later, we're there. And good luck firing anybody. At least when the Mafia ran the place it was pretty simple to... how shall I put it?, Terminate an employee.

All of this is a prelude to an ode about my recent trip. Thanks to Osama bin-Laden, I have to get up at 3 am to catch a 7:30 am flight. Just for that they should kill him. As I say, it's about an hour's drive to the airport from my house, plus they want you to get there at least 2 hours beforehand because they readily admit they don't know what the fuck they are doing at those security check points.

So, I get to the entrance and get ready to get in line for the security/anal penetration check. It's a longer line than I'd like, but I'd listened to my government and gotten there early enough. Just as I was about to get to what I assumed was the back of the line, an enormous TSA person - to call him a "worker" would imply that he did, in fact, work - put a big fucking paw on me and said, "The line begins back there." I looked to where his Rush Limbaugh-like stubby finger was pointing and saw a line of people with about 100 to 150 awfully pissed-looking would-be travelers in it. TSA Man had cleared the space in front of the roped off area so people could walk [where to, I've no idea, since the checkpoint was up against a wall], separating it essentially into two very long lines instead of one enormous cattle train. I took one look and instantly realized I was going to miss my flight despite getting up at 3 am.

Just as I started to trudge back to the end of the line, this Gabourey Sidibe-looking TSA Woman waddles past and says to the first fat bastard - the one who put his chubby paws on me a second earlier - "That fuckin' door ain't workin'. Shouldn't we send 'em to Gate C or D?" She was talking about the one security scan that was open [the other two were unstaffed and closed]. It was responsible for the long line. She had asked this question loud enough for me and the first few people in the line to hear, but soft enough so that no one else could. I nearly knocked Gabourey over - no small feat, mind you - to race [at least what passes for racing in my condition] to Gate C or D. Whew! Almost no line and I got through security with only a minor anal probing and this time without a catheter sweep [one day I'll write about that trip].

I figured, "Hmmm. My luck is changing. Normally, I'd have been waiting in that line for 3 hours only to later find out I could've gone to Gate C or D." So, I start walking to my gate. Naturally my flight is leaving from the one gate at the airport that they built so far away from the rest of the terminal [I'll grant you, that was the Mafia's doing; but everyone makes mistakes] that you - again, literally - take a bus to it.

I start walking expecting to see the signs for the "Bus to Gate F" - which is the most appropriately named Gate in the airport because you are Fucked if you have to fly out from there. Instead, I see signs pointing directly to Gate F - not a bus to Gate F, but the real Gate F. Now, since the Mafia left, they've been building additions to this airport. I figure, "Hmm, they must've built a walkway to Gate F so you don't need a bus." I keep walking, and walking. A mere 15 minutes later I see a set of glass doors that read, "Gate F". I get ready to walk though them when I notice an itsy-bitsy little sign the size of a postage stamp that reads, "Hey Asshole: If You walk Through These Doors You Have to Go Back Through Security Again and Get Your Ass Probed."

I turned on my heel and reversed myself. Now, I noticed another enormous TSA employee [don't ask me how I missed him the first time] sitting in a big go-cart-like kind of thing, seemingly taking a nap. "Excuse me, how do I get to Gate F," says I. Looking at me as if I just asked him how many times he'd banged his sister, the TSA guy mutters, "There." and points to the doors I just passed. I replied, "But, uh, that thimble-sized warning sign says I'll need to go through security again." Again, TSA Guy looks at me like I'm trying to goad him into a fistfight. "Oh, yeah, you'll need to go through security again." This was getting me nowhere. "OK, " I said, starting to lose my famous temper [they don't call me Evil for nothing]. "Let me rephrase this: How do I get to Gate F without having to go through security again?" Now he smiled. When a government employee smiles at you it's like a spider smiling at something it has just caught in its web. "You need to walk a way back down that hallway to Gate C. There's a bus that picks you up." I couldn't believe it. "But, there's no sign there for the bus." I could tell that the concept of actually putting a sign there telling people where to go was a completely foreign idea to this asshole. "There is a sign. Just like that one," he said, smiling and pointing to the postage stamp.

So, now I'm doing a slow burn. I walk the 15 minutes back from whence I came and found the microscopic sign and got on the bus. One bus ride later, I get off at Gate F. I'm looking for F-44. I see a big, big sign that says "Gates 41-49 This A Way". So I walk 'this a way'. I get to the end of the terminal and simply cannot find Gate F-44. Then I notice: all of the gates on this side are odd numbers. These fuckers put the odd numbers on one side of the terminal and the even numbers on the other side. "But", I thought, "that sign distinctly said that Gates F 41-49 were 'this a way'." I walked back to where the bus dropped me off and, taking a second look at the sign, I see what they've done: the sign I saw did say 'Gates 41-49..." But now I see another sign. This one says "Gates 40-50 This A Way". What the two signs don't say, however, is that "Gates 40-50" means Gates 40, 42, 44, 46, 48 and 50; while "Gates 41-49" means 41, 43, 45, 47 and 49. Shaking my head, I caught my flight.

Now, if I went through my airport to leave, I am obviously going to have go back through it again when I come back. I remind you of what I said earlier: back when the Mafia ran the place, there was ample parking everywhere. Since then, they have knocked down a couple of parking garages. That's why I had to park a mile away. Ok, you say, what went up in place of the parking garages? Well, they put up some green space, with a fountain, couple of benches. Very nice. Except no one is allowed to use it. It was built in a part of the airport that is now off-limits for "security reasons". So, in place of useful parking spaces they now have the Hanging Gardens of Babylon where no one can go.

Back to my return trip home. I left, obviously, from another airport. I arrived super-early, as I had no idea what their security check points would be like. Naturally, then, my flight home was delayed. Hours later, I finally boarded. Now, this was a weather thing, and no one can control that - not even the Mafia. So, I finally land home a few hours later. Late? Yes. But, it could've been much worse.

Then I notice what gate we're pulling into... You guessed it, Gate Fuck You. This means that I'm going to have to get back on that damned bus to the regular terminal from which I'm going to need to catch yet another bus to get to my car. I'd have rather made a crash landing on the nearby interstate, closer to my car.

So, I start walking to where I think the bus is. Then I notice a huge sign - biggest one there - says, "This A Way to Parking Lot Bus". Hmmm, thought I: they actually run the parking lot bus to Gate F. Who woulda thunk it? So, I walk and walk and walk a bit more until - finally - I'm outside at what looks like a pick-up point.

By this point, it was about 30 degrees colder than what it had been in the city I'd just left. So, wearing only a Unabomber-type hooded sweatshirt, I waited. And waited. There were half a dozen TSA mothers sitting around drinking and smoking, kind of looking at me. I guessed they were on break - shocker.

Twenty five minutes pass. The TSA workers and I are still there. "This is some fucking break these assholes are on," think I. Just then, I see the parking lot bus. "Thank Christ!" I think. I get my stuff ready and prepare to make the last leg of the trip. The bus slows down.....and then immediately speeds up when it sees me and takes off right past me. "You fucking motherfucker where the fuck are you going!" I screamed. "Mother Fucker!" I screamed again, making sure to make them two separate words. I turned to the cadre of TSA wastes-of-space still on break. "Where the fuck can I get the parking lot bus?" At first, I thought the big guy in the group was getting ready to punch me. Instead, he simply was pulling out a lighter from his pocket to light his 15th cigarette of the break. "Ya gotta go a way up that a way [pointing to where I had just come from....30 minutes and a case of pneumonia ago] and cross over that thing [pointing to a walking bridge that takes you over the Hanging Gardens you can't use] and go through that thing [pointing to what looks strangely like another terminal] and it's there."

Now, I didn't really know where I was going. But I knew that it involved more walking and that I'd just lost 30 minutes of my life that I'd never get back. "Mother Fucker!" I screamed, again, making sure to say them as two separate words. "What the fuck!" Just then, the guy calls after me, "Well, sir," for some reason the politeness from someone who I know is a complete prick in real life just really pisses me off. "You coulda just taken a bus back to the terminal." I was going to get into an argument and say something like, "You douchebag: don't you think I would have?! You assholes put a fucking sign up telling me to come here." But I realized he was just going to tell me that there was another post-it note-sized sign back where I'd gotten off my plane telling to catch the bus there.

So, I blurted out something that I think was "Cocksucker!" but I can't swear to it. It might've been "Asshole!' or "Douche bag!" For the continuity of the story, however, I think "Cocksucker1" works best. Just then a TSA cop was at my side, "Can I help you sir," says Barney Fife. "Yes, you can get that fucking bus to stop and come the fuck back here to take me to the fucking parking lot!" Barney looked disturbed. "I don't really like being spoken to like that, sir." For some reason, that just made me mental. "Really?! Well I don't like having my chain yanked for 30 fucking minutes waiting out here for a bus that these assholes [pointing to the TSA workers who were still on break]] obviously knew wasn't going to stop here." Just then Barney got real serious-looking. There was still a fraction of my brain functioning normally - well, normal for me - telling me "Feets don't fail me now!". It was pulling me away from what was probably going to be an unpleasant confrontation. "Sir, you need to lower your voice and calm down." God, I wished, he hadn't said that. I was going to walk away without saying another word, honest-to-God I was. Then Barney had to go and say 'calm down'.

"Calm fucking down?" I said, although I did so while walking away. "Fucking goddamned motherfucking cocksucking pigfucking motherfucker!" I managed to get that out before being out of earshot of everyone. Fortunately for me, TSA Man didn't mace me and drag me into a holding cell. I was steamed. Then I realized something else: I always tell my employees that I don't give a damned what they do on their own time - including drunk driving, public urination, aggravated sexual assault - whatever. Just for God's sake make sure you're not wearing anything that has the company's name on it when you get arrested and booked. Just then, I looked down and realized that the Unabomber-type sweatshirt and the polo shirt peeking from under it both had our company's name big and bright and bold out front. If I'd have pushed that TSA Cop a little further, it might've meant more than an arrest. It could've meant my job.

For some reason, this made me angrier. At least, though, I was walking away from the situation without handcuffs. I finally found the spot where the parking bus will pick you up. 25 minutes later - again spent out in the cold - the fucking bus came by. One hour after I'd gotten off the plane. That was, itself, a few hours late. I was finally getting to my car.

I had flown instead of driving to my destination because a 7 1/2 hour drive was just too much for me. As I was driving away from the airport, I looked at my watch and realized....it was exactly 7 1/2 hours after I'd first gotten to the airport to begin my journey home 450 miles away. Time saved? Zero.

Somewhere, Osama bin Laden was laughing his terrorist ass off.
copyright 2010 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

WTF

An alien looking in on the screen shot above would assume the man at the podium had committed the most heinous of acts with the children of the members of the gathered audience before him.

Spinky is an alien from the planet Triptor. In an unfortunate [for him] twist of timing, his arrival on Earth was completely overshadowed Friday by the Tiger Woods' Apologia Concerto [in A-minor, in Three Movements]. Arriving on Earth, Spinky clearly figured he'd be greeted - minimally - with a fighter jet escort from frazzled Earthlings. Instead? Nothing. He couldn't believe it. "WTF?!" he texted back to his commander on planet Triptor.

Spinky happened to land just outside a large mall. Seeing the parking lot was full of cars, he went in to scare the shit out of some humans. He also went in hoping to find out exactly "WTF". The walkways of the mall were empty with the exception of an enormous crowd gathered around a seemingly endless row of high definition televisions, all tuned to the aforementioned Concerto. Spinky decided to idle on up to the crowd and see what was happening. By this point, thoroughly disappointed with the anticlimactic nature of his arrival, he was not shocked that no one in the crowd even batted an eyelash at an alien among their midst. This despite the fact that Triptorians - by the same quirk of genetics that turn caterpillars into butterflies - develop 16-inch penises [peni?] on their foreheads at maturity. Worse, the penises are flaccid, making them nothing more than conversation pieces - minimally - or huge distractions when trying to put on a hat.

"What's going on?" Spinky asked an enormous human - he couldn't figure out the gender. "He's apologizing," said the large human mid-way through an enormous Angus burger it had just purchased at the Burger King across from the television displays. Good Lord, thought Spinky, all of these people are fat! Indeed, the human on the televisions - while looking as if someone had been hitting him with a 2x4 for the past two months - was the only human he saw who weighed less than 200 pounds. That included the two 11-year old twin boys at the sides of the enormous Angus-burger-chewing human, both of whom were finishing off their own second burgers.

"Apologizing for what?" Spinky asked. Now the human looked surprised. "What, are you from outer space or something," the human said. Before he could answer, Spinky finally heard what the human on television was saying. "... I am also aware of the pain my behavior has caused to those of you in this room." Ok, so clearly he's done something to these people. But what?

Now Spinky understood. "So, he killed someone, right?" Spinky said. He'd remembered his Human History course at college and learning about a human named Orenthal who'd been a very famous celebrity and then became even more famous and celebrated after decapitating his ex-wife and a waiter. Not getting a response. Spinky said, "He molested some kids, right?" Spinky remembered from his Human Mythology course that many humans believed in a supreme being and that some humans belonged to a group that - at one time - believed an old Polish former school teacher was this supreme being's representative on Earth. The teacher was so revered that - even though he condoned pedophilia in his ranks - some still wanted to give him his own talk show. Or something like that. Spinky wasn't good on details.

Spniky couldn't get an answer. The longer this human on Earth talked, the worse Spinky figured he'd done. By the time the human was finished, Spinky concluded that this must be the famous Hitler he'd read about. Finally, annoyed at his constant questioning, the large human with the vanishing Angus burger said, "He cheated on his wife, asshole. And, he lied to me and everyone else here."

Spinky figured he must have missed something. Clearly the man must have done something while cheating on his wife, right? Perhaps he blew up a school bus? Slaughtered an entire kennel of dogs? Stolen the Tonight Show from Conan O'Brien? Something. Clearly he couldn't possibly be delivering this mea culpa to an entire world - an entire planet - because he cheated on his wife, could he?

Now. having read that, do you understand how completely fucking ridiculous this crucifixion of Tiger Woods is? As the great philosopher, Allen Iverson, once said about practice: "Cheating!?!? We're talkin' 'bout cheating? Cheating? Cheating?!?!?" Unless I'm missing something, Tiger Woods cheated on his wife multiple times. Like most men, he loves sex and likes doing it with new partners. Like most men who are wealthy, he is able to do this - as opposed to the rest of us who simply have to settle for fantasizing about it. Also, like most men who are wealthy and get caught in the process of liking "strange", he has been deemed a "sex addict" and forced to go to something called a sexual rehabilitation clinic. To quote Spinky, WTF????!?!?!

Watching Woods' apology, I sat there stunned at what I was seeing. O.J. never apologized like this. Charlie Sheen has never apologized like this. Charles Manson hasn't. Nor has Mark Chapman, Sirhan Sirhan, Edi Amin, Pol Pot, Josef Stalin, the aforementioned Hitler, Slobodan Milosevic, Osama bin Laden or Jay Leno [for that violently horrible prime time network television debacle that set the industry back 50 years].

Yet we're making Tiger Woods repent like he killed more than the combined number of people the assholes above? Sponsors are "outraged". Fellow golfers are "mortified". Get over yourselves, people. Tiger shouldn't be forced to apologize to us. His wife? Yeah, he probably owes her that and a huge ring or sports car, too. His children? Yeah, they're going to be none-too-pleased when they get old enough to go on Wikipedia and learn about Daddy's extracurriculars. His immediate family deserves an apology. I assume the others gathered in front of him were extended family members and friends, I suppose. He owes them nothing. The only things he owes his sponsors is to keep hitting that stupid little ball [I hate golf]. Keep hitting that ball and help the sponsors sell their crap. Whether or not Tiger beds every Nordic-like goddess from here to Palm Beach isn't going to effect the sales of their crap. As long as Tiger's hitting that stupid little ball, they'll sell they're stupid little pieces of crap.

After all - isn't that WTF they hired him for in the first place?

copyright 2010 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.

Reality Check

THREE ASSHOLES: But only one of them belongs there. From the Facebook page of wanna-be reality 'stars' Tareq and Michaele Salahi, a photo of them crashing the White House on Tuesday [above]. Here they join another asshole, White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel.

When this reality TV bullshit started about 10 years ago, I knew that it would lead to the end of popular culture as we knew it. I didn't realize, however, that it would also lead to possible death of rescue personnel or a major breach of security at the White House. Even now, ten years later, I still cannot for the life of me discern what is entertaining about watching people - who you wouldn't let into your home if they were on your doorstep - enter your abode through the Idiot Box. Granted, they can't use the bathroom if you're must watching them on TV. But otherwise, I have never, ever, ever gotten the fascination with reality TV.

Recently, we went from the death of popular culture to the possible death of rescue personnel. That nearly happened recently when the asshole reality TV-wannabees Richard Heene and Mayumi Iizuka put the lives of countless rescue people in jeopardy as they tried to get their kid out of a giant instant popcorn tin that had floated away. Fortunately, no one was injured trying to save the phantom kid. Unfortunately, our society is not yet at a place where Richard and Mayumi would be taken out and shot immediately as their punishment for such foolishness.

Now, we have the assholes like Tareq and Michaele Salahi crashing the White House. First of all, why can't she spell her name like a normal person? It's Michelle you dumb bitch, not Michaele. Second, call me a racist, but when I find out that an unauthorized guy named Tareq is within feet of the President of the United States, I want to know where in the fuck is the Secret Service?

All of this is happening because now everyone wants to be on TV. I think it is time that Congress do something worthwhile for a change. There should be legislation passed immediately that says that if you do anything stupid in the name of trying to get on television, you, your accomplices and anyone who has 'friended' you on Facebook will be put to death with no trial. Period.

A bit harsh? I don't give a fuck. We have got to put an end to this scourge of reality TV and get back to the golden age when people who were celebrities had really done something worth celebrating.

This latest horror involved a couple of wanna-be reality TV assholes from Northern Virginia who crashed the White House's state dinner Tuesday night, penetrating layers of security with no invitation to mingle with the likes of Vice President Biden and White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel. I have no problem if they want engage in a manage a trois with Emanuel. But when they managed to get within a bitch-slap of the Vice President, we all have a problem.

These latest assholes - the Salahis -- are self-described "polo-playing socialites" whose claims to fame prior to Tuesday were a bitter family feud over a D.C.-area winery. These two idiots were slated to "star" in a forthcoming piece of celluloid bullshit called "The Real Housewives of Washington". They arrived at the White House and quickly posted on Facebook photos of themselves with VIPs at the elite gathering. "Honored to be at the White House for the state dinner in honor of India with President Obama and our First Lady!" one of them wrote on their joint Facebook page at 9:08 p.m.

There appears to be some discrepancy as to whether or not these two were or were not interlopers. A White House official initially said the couple was not invited to the dinner, not included on the official guest list and never seated at a table in the South Lawn tent. This was met by someone describing herself as a publicist for the Salahis who denied that they were trespassing. Pressed for details, this bimbo - appropriately named Mahogany Jones - sent a statement saying simply: "The Salahis were honored to be a part of such a prestigious event. . . . They both had a wonderful time."

While the White House offered no official explanation, it appears to be the first time in modern history that anyone has crashed a White House state dinner. The uninvited guests were in the same room as President Obama, First Lady Michelle Obama and Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh - although I don't particularly care if they bring Singh into their aforementioned tryst with Emanuel. I'm more concerned about them getting anywhere near the Obamas or Bidens. No one seems to know whether the Salahis met the Obamas or Singh.

"Everyone who enters the White House grounds goes through magnetometers and several other levels of screenings," said Ed Donovan - a spokesman for the Secret Service - unconvincingly. "That was the case with the state dinner Tuesday night. No one was under any risk or threat." How in the fuck would the Secret Service know? If they can't give me the blood types and Social Security numbers of every human who enters the White House, we have a problem, folks.

Donovan said a preliminary internal investigation has identified "a Secret Service checkpoint which did not follow proper procedure to ensure these two individuals were on the invited guest list." He declined to give further details. An administration official said the White House will conduct its own review. Gee, I hope so, as it's obvious the Secret Service can't be trusted to do it.
The Salahis, both claiming to be in their 40s, showed up about halfway through the guest arrivals. A Marine announced their names, and the couple -- he in a tux, she in a red and gold lehenga [which is apparently traditional Indian formal wear] -- swept past reporters and photographers, stopping several times to pose for pictures. They then walked into the White House lower hallway, where they mingled with guests on the red carpet before heading up to the cocktail reception in the East Room.

Later, these two assholes posted pictures that seem to chart their course through the night: Michaele posing with Marines outside near the White House doors, and with Katie Couric and Rep. Ed Royce (R-Calif.) inside the mansion. I'm not even sure Couric should be allowed in the White House, but at least she started as a journalist before becoming famous for televising her colonoscopies. In the East Room, the Salahis both cozied up to D.C. Mayor Adrian Fenty and his wife, Michelle.

That was nothing: once inside the dinner tent, they got pictures that appeared to show them with ABC's Robin Roberts, Bollywood composer AR Rahman, PepsiCo CEO Indra Nooyi, Obama Chief of Staff Emanuel (identified as "Ron" in the couple's Facebook photo caption; I'll give them points for goofing up his name) and two with a grinning Vice President Biden. The photos end there -- no shots of the Salahis sitting at a table, their seatmates or the post-dinner entertainment.

How could it happen? You could ask that question both about how these two pricks got into the White House as well as how American popular culture as sunk to such depths. A former White House senior staffer -- who more than a decade ago encountered a crasher at one of the executive mansion's less-fancy parties -- offered this theory: a savvy pair of crashers, dressed to the nines, might arrive on foot at the visitors' entrance, announce their names -- then express shock and concern when the security detail at the gate failed to find them on the guest list. On a rainy night like Tuesday, with a crowd of 300-plus arriving, security might have lost track of or granted a modicum of sympathy to a pair who certainly looked as though they belonged there. If their IDs didn't send up any red flags in the screening process, they would be sent through the magnetometers and into the White House. Yes, you read that last part right. And yet, the former staffer noted, someone from the White House social office should have been posted at the guest entrance with the guards.

If you can believe it, apparently once visitors were in the White House itself, no one necessarily would ask them for further identification. They could check their coats, give their names to the Marine on duty, walk past reporters and into the lower hallway where guests picked up their table assignments. They would pass the junior staffers handing out seating cards and walk on up the stairs for cocktails in the East Room. Of the White House.

Later, all guests were directed to head for the dinner tent on the South Lawn. Facebook photos suggest that the Salahis walked into the tent; it's unclear when they left. Reporters were cleared from the entryway by the time dinner seating got under way. There is no security checkpoint to leave the grounds.

The Salahis seem to think they were destined for national fame via reality TV. Michaele, a razor-thin blond who used to be a Redskins cheerleader [meaning she not only can't pick a winner in husbands but lacks the skill to choose one in football teams], has apparently been in contention as one of the "Real Housewives" in the forthcoming D.C. edition of a Bravo cable series. Although Bravo has not officially finalized its cast - and I can imagine how painstaking a process that must be - its cameras have followed the couple at numerous parties -- including something called the "America's Polo Cup" held on the Mall in September, part of a series of tournaments the Salahis founded a few years ago. Abby Greensfelder, head of the local production team Half Yard Productions, referred questions about the Salahis to Bravo. A Bravo representative wisely declined to comment.

Prior to this brush with fame, these two numb-nuts had gained some notoriety for a long-running feud with Tareq's parents, Dirgham and Corinne Salahi, over control of the family's Oasis Winery in Hume, Virginia. Last year, Tareq accused his mother's attorney of punching him; the lawyer was found not guilty. Court records show that Oasis filed for bankruptcy in February, with Tareq listed as "debtor designee." A note on the winery's Web site promises a reopening for business in 2010. Their 'America's Polo Cup' has also endured controversy, last year drawing a lawsuit from a Middleburg caterer over alleged non-payment. That suit remains unresolved.

Hours before the White House denied that the Salahis were legitimate guests, the Washington Post asked the couple - via Facebook - how they happened to attend the dinner. Tareq responded: "India is the challenger in the America's Polo Cup World Championships June 11/12 2010, and they are very excited in this first ever cultural connection being hosted on the DC National Mall since Polo is one of the primary sports in India." When pressed about why they did not appear on the official list, he added, "it was last-minute attending."

If I have my way, doing something like that again will be the last "last-minute" thing assholes like these two will ever do.

copyright 2009 by EBBP Redux. If you are reading this on a blog or website other than EBBP Redux or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.