It’s no wonder that, Michael aside, the Jackson family are a bunch of no-hope, weird-ass wastrels. And by excluding le King du Freak himself from the equation, I hope you’re catching my drift. These guys have no fucking clue.
Ever since the Peter Pan of Pop departed for the giant NAMBLA symposium in the sky, Joe, Katherine and the rest of the Jacksons have cocked up pretty much everything they’ve done to exploit his pretty pathetic memory. And his legacy. First there was the cringe-worthy memorial thingy in LA, then there was the tribute gig in Vienna (???) that fell to pieces because no-one got booked (alright, that was mostly Jermaine’s bad). And now there’s this: Michael Jackson’s latest hit, “This Is It”, is not really his at all. And the Jacksons have very quickly acknowlegded their fuck up.
The estate of Michael Jackson on Tuesday promised to give singer Paul Anka 50% of the songwriting royalties from “This Is It,” the single that was released posthumously early Monday morning.
Representatives of the estate and the Canadian-born Mr. Anka said he is also to receive a co-writing credit.
When the song was first released to radio stations and online by Sony Corp.’s Sony Music Entertainment, Mr. Jackson was listed as the only writer. Critics and Mr. Anka himself quickly complained that the song was indistinguishable from one the men wrote together 26 years ago.
“This Is It” is to be featured on the soundtrack to the coming documentary that features the late superstar, but its genesis was actually in 1983 when it was written for a duets album that Mr. Anka was recording.
The song was then titled “I Never Heard,” and Messrs. Jackson and Anka are credited as co-authors on an early 1990s version recorded by a singer named Safire.
Jesus, these people need professional help, and I don’t just mean psychiatric help. Is Murray from Flight Of The Conchords somehow pulling the strings behind the scenes? Based on their track record so far, I wouldn’t trust the Jacksons to babysit a box of dead toddlers.
Somewhere, in heavehel somewhere, MJ is watching all this in disgust and slapping his forehead. With a little boy’s penis. Because I had to.
Heavy drinking David Hasselhoff had to be cooled off in a basement after he got shitfaced at Simon Cowell’s 50th birthday party and decked a doctor who had been called out to deal with him. All that’s missing from this story is guns. Guns and maybe a car chase.
Staff at the five-star St Martins Lane Hotel manhandled the star to the basement while [Dr Paul] Ettlinger – said to have a bruised forehead – called for an ambulance.
Hasselhoff was taken to London’s £1,000-a-night Capio Nightingale Hospital, where he spent two nights in a private suite before he was discharged yesterday.
The bender began at the weekend when the US actor joined about 400 A-listers at X Factor supremo Simon Cowell’s posh birthday party.
He got smashed and was escorted out of a side door and back to the hotel.
A source close to the star said: “David is very hard to handle when he drinks, often very emotional and aggressive.
“On this occasion he became so drunk he wet his hotel bed – ruining two mattresses – and was becoming a real pain for staff.
“His assistant Joe Townley was so concerned he called out a doctor.
“David was furious and lashed out at him – but mistakenly hit the doctor.
“They decided they had no option but to lock him in the basement until an ambulance arrived.”
I can only hope and pray that when I hit his age, I’m still as much of a laugh riot as the Hoff is. He’s like the drunken stepfather I never had.
The Pixies played through the whole of Doolittle (plus B Sides) at the Academy last night (the second of four dates the venue) in honour of the classic album’s 20th birthday. It was fucking tight. The place was as packed as I’ve ever seen it, the lighting and visuals were awesome, and the songs sounded as good as they ever have. The band may be awkwardly middle-aged, but they still feel the music and they can still belt out a tune.
Obvious highlights from Doolittle were “Debaser”, “Wave of Mutiliation”, “Monkey Gone To Heaven”, “Hey” and, of course, “Here Comes Your Man”. “U-Mass” made an appearance in the encore and the band closed the show out with “Where Is My Mind?”, which was just as good as you could have hoped it would be. The whole show was over within 80 minutes, but they still managed to cram in about 19 or 20 songs (onstage banter was kept to a minimum, and most of it came in the form of garbled gibberish from bass player Kim Deal). Rad night, awesome gig.
I videoed all of “Where Is My Mind” to stick up here, but the sound quality is seriously shit so I’m not going to. There’s slim pickings from the clips on YouTube, but here’s the best I could find. It might be worth popping a Dramamine first.
Well here’s a feelgood flick we can all look forward to: Human Centipede, the heart-warming story of a doctor who stitches people together ass-to-mouth to create a giant, um, human centipede. General hilarity ensues.
Outside the more outré work of Takashi Miike and David Cronenberg, you won’t have seen anything quite like Dutch avant-garde artist Tom Six’s totally bizarre off-the-wall oddity. Internationally respected Siamese twin surgeon Dr. Josef Heiter has a demented vision for mankind’s future existence. He wants to remove human beings’ kneecaps so they have to exist on all fours and then surgically graft them mouth-to-anus to form a centipede chain. When two stranded female Americans arrive at his luxury home-cum-hospital looking for help, his long-gestating plan swiftly moves into chilling action with a shocking force. Kidnapping a third Japanese male tourist, he begins the tissue matches, teeth removal, and buttock moulding to create his triplet creature… The First Sequence in Six’s intended trilogy features truly unforgettable imagery, clinically dazzling direction, and a so-far-round-the-bend mad doctor performance from German superstar Dieter Laser you’ll scream. Behold the grotesque New Flesh. If you dare!
Perhaps the boat has been pushed out a little too far this time.
You’ll probably want to wait an hour or two after eating before you watch the clips below.
“Risque” is the wrong word to describe Rammstein’s latest music video. The correct word would simply be “porn”.
Pussy is the first single from their up-coming seventh studio album “Liebe Ist Für Alle Da”, scheduled for release on 16 October.
Every now and then a German vision for a new world order turns out to be ok – and if it means we get to live in an anarchic blur of masturbation, domination, rug-munching and pop-shots, you can slap me in lederhosen and call me Fritz.
I think Pussy’s chorus conveys the band’s message best:
You have a pussy
I have a dick[aaah]
So what’s the problem?
Let’s do it quick.
Deeeeeep.
Watch the full, uncensored music video here. And yes it’s nsfw. What part of “porn” didn’t you understand?
I concur wholeheartedly with Esquire’s November 2009 take on this. Senfuckingsational. If my penis had a heart, it would be crying tears right now. And I’d need more tissues.
Here’s the video proof:
Jebus. Sweet Jebus. I’m having a mild meltdown right now.
It’s been a long weekend, and as vitriolic as I feel about it, I just don’t have the energy to open a big enough can of “STFU” on the pea-brained fuckwit who wrote this piece of shit.
Although even more distressing (and depressing) than the “article” itself are the braindead and deluded comments that follow it. Thankfully the lunacy is punctuated by a solid number of lucid, considered observations which remind us that there are reasonable, rational, educated people still living in South Africa, but come on. Get with the program.
I’m not going to publish any substantial extracts from this nonsense here, as I don’t want to give “Craig” another platform from which to voice his stupidity, but let’s start with two simple items:
1) “If we did evolve into the creatures we are today, why is it that we can find no intermediary species (the missing link)?”
This is one of the creationists’ favourite curve balls. It is also the litmus test for whether or not a person has any kind of handle on how natural selection works – difficulties in grasping the idea stem predominantly from an inability to conceptualise the enormous differences in scale between geological time and human time.
But to the point at hand: each of us is a living representative of an intermediate species, as was each one of our ancestors stretching all the way back to the primordial ooze from whence we came. It is a humbling thought that every person who reads these words could, theoretically, trace their lineage back to the same, single biological entity. And that every single one of our forebears, without exception, survived to reproductive age and gave birth to viable offspring which went on to do the same. Countless bloodlines (in the loosest sense) have terminated during the course of Earth’s history, yet every single person alive today can lay claim to an unbroken family tree that is billions of years long and has survived against the most ridiculous odds. It makes a national lottery look like a coin toss. Isn’t that just special?
Kirk Cameron from Growing Pains is one of the douchiest buttfucks punting the “where’s the intermediate species?” bullcrap around. Here he is talking ass to King Idiotface himself, Bill O’Reilly.
If you really want to see evolution in action, look at dogs, pigeons, horses, grapes, cabbages, cows, roses, chickens and pretty much anything else that humans have bred the fuck out of. Great Danes and Chiauhahas both belong to the same species (canis familiaris), but they have been altered, by man, over the course of only a few millenia from wolves (canis lupus). Nature does exactly the same thing, except that blind survival is the driving force behind variation, not human initiative. And nature has had a few billion years’ headstart.
2) “The question we have to ask is what caused the big bang?”
Common argument, simply dismissed. Requiring a creator as a necessary condition for the existence of “something” (or the absence of nothing) triggers an infinite regression. What came before God? Well, my dears: I’m afaid it’s turtles all the way down.
A well-known scientist (some say it was Bertrand Russell) once gave a public lecture on astronomy. He described how the earth orbits around the sun and how the sun, in turn, orbits around the center of a vast collection of stars called our galaxy. At the end of the lecture, a little old lady at the back of the room got up and said: “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.” The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on?” “You’re very clever, young man, very clever”, said the old lady. “But it’s turtles all the way down!”
Science has not – so far- been able to provide an answer to what preceded the Big Bang, but the absence of an answer does not prove the existence of anything at all. Deal with it.
I’ve developed a huge bee in my bonnet about this shit over the past few years, and I’ll probably vent more about it from time to time. Before you get on my case about this, remember that it is precisely irrational mumbojumbo like this that drives people to strap bombs to their chests, obstruct critical medical progress, allow HIV to proliferate and shoot abortionists.
But for now, I simply ask you to remember this one, final truth:
Nowhere in the Bible does it say that Jesus was not a raptor.
Freddy Kruger will be returning to the big screen yet again courtesy of Michael Bay, but this time Jackie Earle Haley (Rorshach in last year’s Watchmen) will be replacing Robert Englund as Edward Scissorhands’ slightly misunderstood older brother.
Here’s the trailer:
Dare I suggest this looks like it could be alright?
I’ll probably watch it regardless. Much as I hate giving Michael Bay one more reason to keep working.
