Posts Tagged ‘parody’

I really don't see where anything more need be said.

In honor of their 25th anniversary and their new album "Back From the Dead," just released last month, Spinal Tap is asking the fans to get involved.

David St. Hubbins, Derek Smalls and Nigel Tufnel of Spinal Tap are inviting fans to create an original video to be posted on YouTube for one of the following songs off of their album BACK FROM THE DEAD — Hell Hole, Warmer Than Hell, Big Bottom, Stonehenge, Back From The Dead and/or Short & Sweet. Judging the contest, will be Colman Hickey, who created the classic video for Tonight I'm Gonna Rock You Tonight using characters made of Legos.

One lucky winner will receive an autographed, limited edition Spinal Tap prize pack!

No idea what the autographed prize pack consists of, but what the hell. More details available at YouTube and you can see a sample contest entry here.

Also they've produced an official Spinal Tap iPhone app. Listen to music, watch videos, get the latest Tap news, and see what other fans are writing on their wall. Free app, but it looks like you'll need to be connected to get anything from it so put it on the phone or keep your iPod Touch near a wifi connection.

If you haven't picked up the new CD "Back From the Dead," you should. Amazon has it for just $10.99 and you get 19 original songs, a one-hour DVD, and a "unique pop-up diorama package that unveils three 12-inch action figures (courtesy of Sideshow Collectibles) of the band along with a proportionally sized Stonehenge." What's not to love?

It's about time for a new Weird Al song, and he doesn't disappoint. Already available at various online outlets like  iTunes and Rhapsody, but I favor Amazon since there's no DRM on it. You can also buy the video you just saw.

This drove me nuts trying to identify the specific Doors song he's doing, but it's actually one of the style parodies he does sometimes, aided by original Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek. Nicely done, sir. Just how much hootch did you have to suck down to get the mannerisms right?

The latest in the hot and highly profitable line of pre-teen supernatural fantasy romance books, "Lightning" tells the story of a young and tragically misunderstood girl with low self-esteem, new to the area and the school, who falls in love with the one mythological being of horror she shouldn't. Author Lyzabeth Mary Sue Powers wrote "Lightning" in segments for herself on her LiveJournal page over the summer of 2008, and was gratified to see such widespread appreciation from her bank account.

Read the first chapter!

=====================

"Lightning" by Lizabeth Powers

Chapter One:

I approached my new school with trepidation borne from past experience. No point in trying to fit in, as my alabaster hair and waifish looks automatically kept me from fitting in to any of the established cliques. My stylish clothes wouldn't fit in here, nor would my professional hair style or my curiously clear teenage skin. I didn't know what the kids at this school would be like, but as my own interests included reading books and brooding I was sure we'd have nothing at all in common.

My mom was oblivious to my concerns, as usual, even though I had provided her with a cross-referenced list (with footnotes), and she kept jabbering on about how we'd make a new life here and how she was sure the new meds would do the trick. I fairly leapt from the car. Around me crowds of teenagers were swarming toward the school. They all knew each other from birth, obviously, and I could see several of them glancing at me. Suddenly I was even more aware of my hideous appearance. I held my books up flat in front of my face and walked on, accepting the occasional fall or brick wall collision as fair payment for my anonymity.

The first few classes were a nightmare. All of the boys – and a few of the girls – kept staring at me the whole time with hungry expressions. Were they so eager to start making fun of me? Six different guys, two girls, and one teacher asked me out for that weekend but I knew they were mocking me so I simply fled. Read the rest of this entry »

FADE FROM BLACK TO: A man in an expensive suit, straightening his tie and looking out a window at a line of people below. The people are marching back and forth in front of the building, holding picket signs that say different versions of "Writers on Strike." The man opens the window and heaves a bucket of water out at the line, then slams the window shut and turns to the camera. We can hear distant screams, and a car wreck.

CROWE: Hi, I'm Mick Crowe. And this is my job.

CUT TO: Opening sequence shows CROWE performing different disgusting jobs: sewage pumping, collecting soil samples in a swamp as an alligator approaches, greasing up competitive bodybuilders, working in a high school cafeteria, etc. Over this is the show logo: "FILTHY JOBS with Mick Crowe."

CROWE (V.O.): I travel the world to find hard-working men and women who do the jobs that make life easier for the rest of us. Now get ready… to get filthy.

CUT TO: CROWE walking through an elegantly-appointed hallway. He talks to the camera as we follow him past offices and busy employees.

CROWE: You may be noticing I look a little different today. Usually I'd be in old jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap bearing the name of whatever hapless company whose productivity I would be ruining that day for our show. This job has a different dress code, but trust me, it's one of the filthiest jobs I've ever taken on.

CROWE arrives at a polished oak door. On it is a small gold sign: "MIGHTY MOGUL ENTERTAINMENT, CEO."

CROWE: Today, I'm a studio executive.

Read the rest of this entry »

Decades ago Frank Miller turned the comics world around, rejuvenating tired heroes like Daredevil and Batman with the gritty, stylistic violence he later brought to his own gritty, fictional dystopia "Sin City." But few people know that Frank Miller was once asked to apply his magic to another once-popular institution.

EXT: NIGHT. We're on a dark, dirty street, looking over a trench-coated shoulder at a body spilling out of an overturned trashcan. Clumps of green fur are everywhere. Lightning turns the scene into a stark, black and white nightmare.

FROG: He wasn't much of a friend, but me and him were here from the beginning and that's important and now he's gone and I have to do something about it, something loud and violent and messy. No sunny days, not anymore. I've been a reporter, a TV show host, and a banjo-player, but now I'm vengeance.

In the alleyway nearby, a 7-foot bird sobs over a large, dark mound. Tears streak down his insane yellow face as he mutters.

BIRD: You can see him, can't you? Everyone can see him now, so why isn't he breathing? Snuffy? You can see him, right? Right?

FROG: I was wrong, it wasn't murder. It was war. Or maybe muppecide. I don't know how many are already down, but I know one thing for sure–

Lightning cuts across the sky with a loud crack.

FROG: –someone out there is keeping count.

Read the rest of this entry »

There I was Sunday night, all ready to write my column on Academy Awards trivia. Basic Q&A format, some quick research, spoon in some funny, no problem. And then I heard about the passing of Hunter S. Thompson, and I became ashamed.

Thompson's deranged prose changed the face of journalism. Where other reporters crouched at the marble altar of aloof objectivity, Thompson helped pioneer "gonzo" journalism that demanded the reporter force himself into the story's bloody body cavity and cover it from the inside even as it died a horrible, spastic death from his thrashing. Reckless? Unethical? Sure. But his writing had a fever-dream intensity that plain old "accurate" reporting simply can't match.

His books astounded and inspired me with their sheer audacity. How could I sit there Googling for Oscar FAQs when he would have been out there savagely ripping the truth from the shrieking, Botoxed lips of Hollywood itself? Did I really want to settle for less?

By six o'clock Monday morning I was staggering out of Los Angeles International Airport where the truth was waiting at the curb, ready to mug me and leave me naked and helpless among the ferocious timber wolves of the Topanga hills.

***

"I don't know anything! I don't even like movies! I only watch public-supported television!"

It was obvious he was hiding something but I didn't have enough time to starve him properly. It would have to be torture. I used my fourteenth 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew to wash down another fistful of Flintstone Chewables, for courage. I could feel one of my eyes spinning, counterclockwise this time, but I couldn't let it distract me.

The Academy Awards ceremony was to be held at the Kodak Theater at Hollywood and Highland, an imposing edifice that has hosted such gala events as the Moscow Stanislavsky Ballet, the American Idol finals, and concerts by Celine Dion and Barry Manilow. Even in the parking garage below I could feel it sucking at my very soul.

There were no velvet ropes outside yet but hopefuls were already lining up in neat rows, just in case some celebrities might decide to swing by six days early. For a wild moment I considered trying to pass myself off as James Lipton but I feared kidnapping.

Instead I lured a valet with promises of free bowling passes and then duct-taped him to a column. I was prepared to spend days breaking his spirit, with ice water and jumper cables if necessary, but we both knew I was doing him a favor. His mind was nearly crushed already from the weight of oppressive actor egos and unyielding auteur demands. Who knows what sort of loathsome detritus he'd seen while parking celebrity SUVs? He'd have been dead by Thursday if I hadn't come along, dead and dumped in the Bahia de los Angeles where crab-covered personal trainers bump gently against the rocks by the truckload.

"Answer my questions and I'll let you go," I lied. I guzzled the rest of my Dew quickly before the quarter pound of Pop Rocks I'd poured in there could stop fizzing.

"I don't understand…"

The words on my question list were blurry but that might have been the vitamins. Apparently the Wilmas were stronger than the Barneys, an odd gender reversal I didn't have time to explore. "Who has the most acting nominations? Answer me, you fiend!"

"I don't know! You're crazy! Help! Police!"

I hit him with the Mountain Dew bottle. It was empty so it bounced, but the intent got across. "Tell me! I command you!" I raised the plastic bottle again for a killing strike.

Suddenly he looked at me with the stricken eyes of the damned. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I had connected to the intelligence controlling him, and now I had to ride the tiger before I was dragged to death behind him. "Most nominations," I urged through clenched teeth.

"Meryl Streep," he spat. "13. But Katharine Hepburn holds the distinction of most wins with four Leading Actress Oscars."

"And the first ceremony?" I demanded, relentless. It was working! This column would blow the cover off the Oscars and then all my editor's talk of expense account abuse and litigation would melt away like spring snow. "When was it? You must answer! The social contract demands it!"

"May 16, 1929, with Academy president Douglas Fairbanks, Sr handing out all the awards." The valet cackled slyly. "Things were different then."

I heard a rustle behind me and I spun to see the members of the Academy, all 5,700 of them, standing around me in gold and scarlet robes. I had miscalculated, badly. I should have remembered that there are no humans left in Los Angeles who are not in the entertainment business. Roaming bands of feral actors swarm through the city, fighting to the death to read for a bit part in a Jack Nicholson picture lest they be banished to dinner theater, never to be heard from again. And I had just poked the Beast underneath its own temple of self-worship.

"He almost got away!" I screamed, and pointed back at the snarling valet. "He was going to spill the beans about where the name 'Oscar' came from!"

As one they turned on the hapless flunky and I bolted, throwing myself down the hall to escape their slavering teeth and A-list claws. I heard explosions behind me but I dared not pause. Instead I leapt into my rental car and sped off towards the airport, leaving my notes, my pharmaceuticals, and my gonzohood behind.

I heard later from my sources that I had been inadvertently aided by Jim Carrey's daring kamikaze raid on the building, a bold attempt to take by force the statuette he feared they'd never relinquish peacefully. There was a story there, but it wasn't for me. Hunter S. Thompson was a twisted genius who made gonzo journalism look easy.

Me, I'll stick with Google.

[We see a smartly dressed, impeccably groomed young man sitting in his living room. He is surrounded by elegant furnishings and exquisite objets d'art, but still he is anxious and fidgety. We hear his voiceover as the camera pans around the room.]

LUCIUS: I thought I had a good life, I truly did. And I've found the perfect man in Dominic. [The camera focuses on a portrait of Dominic. He is pleasant looking and trim.] We've been just darling for each other, but lately he's been drifting away from me. I'm afraid I'm just not… masculine… enough for him. I've heard rumors he's been seen hanging around biker bars and Young Republican rallies, and I'm terrified I'll lose him. [The camera returns to Lucius, who looks imploringly at us.] Please help me become more manly?

[Instantly the screen explodes with the stylized logo: a chrome wrench smashed through a beer can. The call goes out and we are introduced to the F-ed-Up Five: Tom, who's in charge of grooming (he's seen digging intently at something in his ear, with a barbecue fork), Dave, the interior decorator (as he pushes more dirty clothing under his bed until it achieves vertical), Meat, the chef (seen pouring chili sauce into a bag of potato chips), Vinnie, who handles fashion (pictured making an original design by scrawling "I'd Like To Bang" in marker on a Britney Spears t-shirt), and Pete, the culture guy (shown at a strip club shoving the dancer out of the way so he can see the game). The Five shamble down the street towards us, belching, until Pete kicks the camera over.

We cut to the Five climbing into a decrepit Ford truck (after a brief fistfight for "shotgun") and driving off in a cloud of thick black smoke.

Read the rest of this entry »

As we enter a new era, full of the promise of better lives for all registered Republicans, we approach a slight bobble in the road: our new president seems equally interested in improving education for all and in stomping on birth control alternatives, which leads to a bit of confusion amongst health educators. What do they tell the kids? Do they mention it at all, and risk censure and loss of federal funds? True, such a sanction has not been passed, but the topic of "abstinence only" based sex ed has been coming up again and again and it takes a brave person indeed to chance being the test case.

Fortunately I'm stepping up, ready and willing.

I would like to present my own series of animated musical shorts that help teach kids the important facts about reproduction and relationships while at the same time remaining harmless cartoony shows. I haven't hammered out all the details yet, but here's the first one. Please let us know what you think.

A couple of kids, ages indeterminate but they're horribly cute, wander into their big sister's room.

Boy: Woof! Sis sure had a tough lock on her door. Now we can dig through her lingerie drawers. But I wonder who that sad little blue tablet is?

We pan up to see a small round compact-sized box, open, with a darling little animated pill sitting on the edge. He is wearing a forlorn expression, and he begins, as all animated drugs must, to sing.

"I'm just a pill.
Yes, I'm only a pill.
And I'm sitting here on this window sill.
Well, now your sister's s'posed to take me
When she gets out of bed.
So there's no repercussions
When she has sex with Fred.
But if she takes me she won't be a mom
At least I hope and pray that she will,
But today I am still just a pill."

Boy: Gee, Pill, you certainly take your job seriously.

Bill: Well I have to. I can't do anything about preventing disease, but I can help keep her from getting knocked up. When I started, I wasn't even a pill, I was a bunch of herbs that women ate or stuffed or smoked to keep from getting saddled with a youngun. Some folks back home decided they wanted something more dependable, so they called their local biochemist and he said, "You're right, there oughta be a pill." Then he and his partners sat down and figured me out and introduced me to women everywhere. And I became a pill, and I'll remain a pill until your sister takes me.

"I'm just a pill
Yes I'm only a pill,
And she doesn't need the medical bill.
Well, now I'm stuck here unswallowed
And she's out on a date
Where she'll get good and hammered and she'll fornicate
And she can do it if she takes me soon
How I hope and pray that she will,
But today I am still just a pill."

Girl: But what if she doesn't take you? Doesn't she have any other ways to stop babies?

Pill: No, I'm one of the lucky ones. Condoms are too awkward and mood-breaking, diaphragms are worse, and teachers and clinics are afraid to discuss abortions because they might lose funding. If it gets worse I might disappear.

Boy: Disappear?

Pill: Yeah, disappear in the return of "morality" and "wholesomeness".

Boy: Then what happens?

Pill: Then women lose control of their reproductive cycles again and they'll have even more abortions..

Girl: Oh no!

Pill: Oh yes!

"I'm just a pill
Yes, I'm only a pill
And if she can't use me to prevent God's Will
Well, then she'll have to think of something else
She'll have to use tricks
Like a back-room abortion
Or RU-486
But if she takes me she won't be a mom
How I hope and pray that she will,
But today I am still just a pill."

Boy: You mean the government might try to tell her that she can't control her own body?

Pill: Yes, that's called being pro-life. She can still use rhythm methods, jumping up and down a lot, and prayer.

Girl: But that means she has to rely on luck or iron will power. It's easy to become a mom, isn't it?

Pill: Yes!

"But how I hope and I pray that she will,
But today I am still just a pill."

A young woman runs into the bedroom, glares at the kids, and flops onto the bed.

Sis: No problem, Pill! I blew him!

Pill: Oh yes!!!

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This is only the beginning of our new Whorehouse Rock series. Check back for the next ones, "Erectile Dysfunction, What's Your Function?" and "Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, Get Your Tampons Here!".