Vengeance Of The Destroyer Of Worlds

Some links before getting started today. Eve had a passage from her book Penniless Hearts. Parsnip had a mix of images at her blog. Shelly carried on with her Silly Santa story. Maria took a look at a Christmas cult classic. And Krisztina had this look at sugared cranberries.

Now then, today's post might not make a lot of sense if you haven't read this post first. And even then, it's a good idea to freshen the memory.

Producers Announce Second Version Of Peculiar Reality Show After Failure Of First Version

Los Angeles (AP) Jeff Probst and Mark Burnett, the producers of Survivor and other reality show drivel, made an announcement this week for a new program, picking up from the ashes of another reality show. Celebrity Hunt was an initiative from former producer Ryan Seacrest, currently serving a life sentence for his role in a plot for world domination undertaken by several entertainment journalism titans. The concept behind the show was to drop several washed up former celebrities on a deserted island, introduce a deadly hunter into the mix, and let nature take its course. The series never really got off the ground, however. It was reported that twenty minutes after the celebrities were dropped off on the island, all remote cameras in the vicinity were taken off line. Only one survivor, Joan Rivers, was found, floating in the Pacific Ocean and babbling about the demonic hound from hell. She never really recovered from the ordeal, passing away earlier in the year.

The remaining contestants have never been found, and the island itself was quarantined. Four members of the Kardashian family- Kim, Khloe, Kourtney, and Kris- were among their number. As were Hulk Hogan, Johnny Knoxville, Tom Arnold, Billy Ray Cyrus, Snooki, JWoww, The Situation, Jaleel White, and Michael Bolton. In the months since, not a word has been heard from any of them. Many would say that’s a good thing- a world without the Kardashians in it is much better.

Probst and Burnett appeared before the press, some of whom were real reporters, while others were entertainment reporters, and by extension, really, really stupid. Probst was spending time looking at himself in a mirror, reminding this reporter of the insufferable twit director Michael Bay. Burnett was looking smug and sanctimonious. His T-shirt read: I’m Married To Roma Downey, So I’m Right And You’re Wrong.

“It’s taken a lot of negotiation, but we’re going to be launching a new version of Celebrity Hunt,” Probst told the reporters. “It means going back to the island and finding out what really happened. Now we could send out soldiers or something like that to sort that out, but why not send out celebrities instead, have them carry cameras with them, and broadcast it to the world? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Burnett shrugged. “It’s not our fault that Seacrest dispatched Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds, onto that island to hunt the first batch of celebrities. How was he to know what would happen? I mean, the dog looks so harmless and cute, right?”

Probst nodded. “And besides, we’re not sure Fluffy really was behind whatever happened. We don’t really know what happened. All we know is that the cameras went offline and no one’s heard from anyone there since. I mean, for all we know they could be having an orgy.”

“Hey, watch what you say about that, Jeff,” Burnett told his creative partner. “I mean, I’ve got a whole lot of audience members for my religious miniseries work that would take exception to any mention of that sort of thing, you know.”

“Mark, lighten up,” Probst remarked.  “I mean come on, we’ve both produced Survivor, and that’s included naked butts of cranky players.”

“Good point,” Burnett admitted. “Anyway, so our idea, what with Seacrest being in prison... I mean, seriously, Ryan, what were you thinking, trying to take over the world? Our idea was to figure out the truth and film it with a cast of all star celebrities being dropped on that island.”

“And without further ado, let’s start bringing out our cast,” Probst told everyone. “Our first participants have a personal stake in all of this. They’re the other Kardashians, even if they’re not members of the Kardashian family. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Kylie and Kendall Jenner!”

The two youngest daughters of the Kardashian-Jenner family came out and waved to the crowd. It’s been a rough year for the two, what with the mysterious disappearance of their mother and sisters, the grisly death of their sort of brother-in-law Kanye West, who died by fallen meteor, and their father becoming more and more mentally unstable. Regardless, they have continued to make their presence known in reality show circles, continuing to film the series Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Even if the rest of the family is gone. “Hi there,” Kylie called.

“We’re glad to be in on this,” Kendall exclaimed. “We have to find out what happened to Mom and Kim and the other two. Lots of photo ops left for all of us, you know. Plus Daddy seems to have broken into the liquor cabinet and gone on a bender.”

Burnett nodded. “Our next participant also has a personal stake in the matter at hand. Her father was one of the missing contestants in the first version. She’s had a lot of controversy coming her way in the last year, but she’s ready for a new challenge. I give you Miley Cyrus!”

Miley came out on stage, wearing what looked like a rubber bikini, sticking her tongue out, and waved to people. Then she twerked against both the Jenner sisters and grinned. “Eat your heart out, Liam!” she yelled, seemingly to her former boyfriend. “I’m gonna save my daddy and come back and they’re gonna give me a Medal of Honor for my performance!”

Probst and Burnett stared at her for a long moment, as if both were wondering if they’d made a mistake. Then Probst spoke again. “Our next participant has had some legal troubles across the world as of late, and needs something to occupy his time. We’re told he’s expecting to record a song for the soundtrack album of the series. Hopefully it’ll be less grating on the nerves than the rest of his music. Ladies and gentlemen, here’s Justin Bieber!”

The mop headed cretin stepped out on stage, waving to the crowd. “Baby baby baby!” he called in that high pitched nasal drone of his. “I’m so glad to be in on this, and it’s something that’s going to make a big impact, and I’m going to get back to big album sales and everyone falling at my feet, and being the biggest star of all time. Hey! Stop snickering!"

“Justin, just stay calm,” Burnett told him. “Now then, we’ve got other players who are going to be part of it. You’ll remember our next player from such sterling television series as Baywatch. She’s really anxious to get some attention for herself, so give a big round of applause for Pamela Anderson!”

Sure enough, she stumbled out on stage, looking half dazed. This reporter wondered if Pamela had been drinking before she came out. “Hi there! What day of the week is it?”

Probst went on. “Our next participant has been trying to get his music career back off the ground again, but thought he might do well in this kind of environment. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Axl Rose!”

The former front man of Guns N’ Roses stepped out on stage, looking rumpled and hung over. “Hello, Miami!” he bellowed.

“We’re in Los Angeles, Axl,” Burnett told him.

“We are?” Rose asked.

Burnett sighed. “Rounding out our group of celebrities, he’s our main man, our touchstone actor. He’s famous all over the world for his music and his acting, taken seriously where ever he goes. You’ve seen him in such series as Knight Rider and Baywatch. You’ve seen him in drunken binge videos eating cheeseburgers. Ladies and gentlemen, David Hasselhoff!”

A groan of dismay rose up from the reporters. Hasselhoff came out on stage, waving, oblivious to their disdain. “Hello!” he called. “Of course you had to come out and see me! Nobody hassles the Hoff, after all! Not even Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds!” He smiled in that vacant, not much going on between the ears way of his. No one has ever accused David Hasselhoff of being all that smart.

Probst smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, the cast of Celebrity Hunt. These brave men and women are going to be going all out on our mysterious island figuring out what happened to the first batch of celebrities, and running for their lives from Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds.”

Hasselhoff laughed as he and the rest of the cast left the stage with Probst and Burnett. “Oh, I’m going to be eating Fluffy for breakfast!”

Post Script: Three Weeks Later

The island now being called Isla Fluffia Destroya has been quarantined once again. Authorities have denied Mark Burnett and Jeff Probst any further opportunity to send more celebrities in. Nothing has been heard of the second set of celebrities. Flashes of video were uplinked to satellite receivers before going off line. David Hasselhoff being torn to shreds by a seven pound ball of canine fury. Screams of the Jenner sisters. And a flash of canine teeth lunging at Axl Rose’s camera. Beyond that, nothing is known. Bruce Jenner has released a statement declaring that he’s drowning his sorrow in hundred year old Scotch. Justin Bieber’s manager made a cryptic remark about being glad he had full access to the singer’s accounts.

At least we’ll never have to hear another new Justin Bieber or Miley Cyrus single again.

The Final Fate Of A Dark Cabal

If you haven't read the previous blog, this is going to get really confusing. I just thought you should be warned in advance.

Secret Society Of Entertainment Reporters Take Steep Fall; Cranky Mountie Has Good Night

Los Angeles (AP). The world is in a state of shock after several famous, longstanding entertainment journalists were taken into custody by RCMP Inspector Lars Ulrich and members of the LAPD. Mary Hart, John Tesh, Leeza Gibbons, Nancy O’Dell, Carson Daly, Ryan Seacrest, Maria Menounos, Leonard Maltin, Brooke Anderson, Rob Marciano, Pat O’Brien, and Mark Steines were arrested and removed from an underground bunker beneath the Hollywood sign. They were dressed in hooded cloaks, and looked a little the worse for wear and bruised during their perp walk, charged with multiple counts of murder, conspiracy, resisting arrest, fraud, and being really annoying.

LAPD Captain Miguel Ortiz spoke to reporters outside the precinct where the suspects were being booked. “We are in the process of going through evidence gathered at the scene. This group, calling themselves the Dark Cabal of the Infernal Gossip, seemed to like to keep records. That makes our job all the easier. We are looking at a cult-like secret society, with ritual sacrifices of multiple interns over many years. They had designs on world domination as well, but their plans and schemes are at an end. They will face justice for their crimes.”

“Dark Cabal of the Infernal Gossip?” a Reuters correspondent asked.

“Yes, so let’s just assume that entertainment reporters are, in the end, really, really dumb,” Ortiz remarked. “I can tell you that Inspector Ulrich of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police took point in this matter while members of the LAPD maintained a perimeter around all access points to the bunker. It was out of consideration to the Inspector that we left the confrontation to him. He has been the primary target of this Cabal- seriously, these people wanted to kill him in the most brutal and sadistic ways possible. And given his fearsome reputation and the fact that he has saved the world on more than one occasion, we felt he could easily handle himself. The members of the Cabal tried to escape, and long story short, Inspector Ulrich taught them a few hard lessons before arresting them. In my opinion, they more than had it coming.”

At this point, Inspector Ulrich himself emerged from the building. He spotted the crowd of reporters, all of whom started calling out his name, and began to approach after a moment of hesitation. He looked out over the crowd, who seemed to hush, and spoke in a low voice. “Two questions. First, are any of you with an entertainment news outfit?” No one answered. “Second, are any of you dumb enough to mistake me for that drummer?”

“No, Inspector,” this reporter told him. “We’re all real reporters.”

“Yes,” the Reuters correspondent agreed. “We know you’re not that other Lars Ulrich.”

“Absolutely,” a third reporter said. “After all, he’s ugly and deaf, and you’re not.”

“Good. Carry on then,” the Inspector said, appearing to relax.

“Sir... does this mean that all entertainment reporters were members of this secret society?” another reporter asked.

“No,” Ulrich replied. “From what we’ve gathered, the overwhelming majority of them are merely very stupid airheads who will never win a spelling bee, seem to really think that I’m a washed up heavy metal drummer I don’t even look like, and believe that simply because they interview famous people, that makes them famous. The inner circle, however, those are the people who have made use of the vast majority in their profession as pawns in their games. Unfortunately this does not mean the end of entertainment reporters in the world, as enjoyable as that would be for me personally.”

“How did you uncover the truth?” a reporter asked.

“A lot of old fashioned police work, shaking down sources, digging up leads, that sort of thing,” Ulrich admitted. “There was one of their number, an entertainment reporter they sent after me on New Year’s Eve to keep me distracted and annoy me by telling me what she actually did for a living at the end of the night. I can admit I was surprised by her. She felt guilty about the deception, told me what she knew, came clean about being ordered to do that, and that started me on the search. Meanwhile, the LAPD had numerous cases of interns for entertainment shows going missing without a trace, dating back thirty years. We started putting the pieces together. It led us to this... Cabal. If you ask me, they ought to just execute the lot of them. Bury them in sand near a fire ant colony, cover them in barbecue sauce, and let nature take its course.”

 At this point, officers removed the first member of the Cabal from the main entrance of the precinct to a waiting police car. She had been fingerprinted, booked, and processed, and was now cuffed, being walked between officers past the press conference. She had once been on television screens across the country and beyond, thought of as a cheerful and bubbly personality. Now her expression was one of deranged madness and unhinged rage. Mary Hart, later identified as the leader of the Dark Cabal Of The Infernal Gossip, was in the midst of a barely coherent rant.

“I am your Supreme Majesty!” she howled in rage. “I am your rightful mistress! Bow down before your queen, you fools! Worship me as I am to be worshiped! The New World Order of the Dark Cabal of the Infernal Gossip is meant to rule over all of you, with the example of the barren goddess Aniston to follow! Bow down! Kneel before your mistress! For I am your mistress and ruler!”

“You’re an idiot,” Ulrich told her as the officers dragged her past.

She froze, staring at him, resisting being moved any further. “You will pay, Ulrich. You will pay with your life. I swear to you, revenge will be ours. And you will beg for death before we are done. I will hold your heart in my hands after carving it out of your chest, Ulrich. Do you hear me????” The officers dragged her to the waiting car, with the sound of her maniacal laughter the last noise we heard of her before the door was closed.

Ulrich shook his head, shrugged, and said, “And that’s the reason I hate entertainment reporters.”

And The Oscar For The Fakest Sincerity Goes To...

"And the Ogar for Most Disastrous Showing During A Hunt goes posthumously to Uthar of Grok for Uthar Gets Trampled By A Woolly Mammoth." ~ Urg, 18 421 BC

"I hate every single one of you mother****ers." ~ Vivien Leigh, 1940

"I'd like to thank the Academy for awarding me this special award for my documentary David Spade Says He's Sorry For Every Single Thing He's Ever Done. I know it was a long time coming, and I've got so much to feel sorry for. I only wish my old friend Rob Schneider could be here to see this day, but unfortunately he died in that tragic accident involving an angry crocodile while filming Deuce Bigelow Australian Gigalo." ~ David Spade, 2015

Well, the Oscars are tomorrow. Many stars will pour into the Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles. Many entertainment reporters (an infestation on the face of the Earth) will swarm all over the red carpet. Pre-ceremony red carpet coverage has already been underway for thirty six hours. The ceremony itself, while taking up four, five, or six hours, will feel like it's ninety seven hours long. I, for one, will not be watching. I'd rather go through a root canal than watch that whole self congratulatory aren't we just great? nonsense of an awards show. That said, I decided to make some predictions on what will happen tomorrow night. Some of them might come true. Some might not. If all of them do, well, then in that case, I can read the future. 

Doesn't that just blow your mind?

Pat Robertson will issue a statement beforehand condemning Hollywood in general and Ellen DeGeneres in particular for moral depravity while pleading for his followers to send yet more of their money to his private Swiss account... that is, the ministry and its... ahem, good works.

Variations on the question who are you wearing? will be asked four thousand three hundred twenty eight times on the red carpet as various actors make their way into the theatre.

Members of the Cory Monteith Fan Club will be picketing outside, demanding that their late idol be posthumously given Best Lead Actor just because they say so.

The head of the Academy will issue a statement reminding the Cory Monteith Fan Club that the only films he appeared in before he kicked the bucket were forgettable, and in twenty years, no one will remember Cory Monteith.

Joan Rivers will be camped out in exile away from the actual red carpet, complaining to an internet website about how she's not allowed to be on the red carpet anymore.

The ceremony will be forty five minutes late getting started.

Jack Nicholson will be sitting in the front row as always, wearing his sunglasses, a smile plastered on his face, despite not having had been in a film for years.

Network executives will breath a sigh of relief that this year's host is relatively safe, unlike that douchebag from last year.

Ellen DeGeneres will feature a remark in her opening monologue about the recent Arizona legislative debacle, noting with pleasure and a beaming smile that she's married to a woman. The remark will simultaneously infuriate certain Arizona state legislators, their base, the Taliban, Iranian mullahs, Pat Robertson, FOX News, the ghost of Oral Roberts, and Rush Limbaugh.

Amy Adams will remark on the work of makeup artists, noting how realistic the wig prosthetic of a bad combover looked on Christian Bale in American Hustle, adding that Bale is lucky that's not the actual condition of his head. The camera will then deliberately pan over to John Travolta, who will be looking awkward about the hairpiece on top of his head.

At least one nominee, upon hearing that they have lost, will be captured on screen uttering a curse word. Odds are it will be Leonardo DiCaprio.

Leonardo DiCaprio will not win an Oscar.

People will wonder why they have to have those interpretive dance numbers.

Ellen DeGeneres will note at least seven times that they seem to be running behind.

The orchestra will be busy forcing people who tend to run overtime in speeches off stage by starting up renditions of Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead.

Jeremy Renner will make a wisecrack about Jack Nicholson. Strangely, Jack will not respond.

Jennifer Lawrence, after the debacle of tripping on the steps, will be wearing something much more practical this year: a trouser suit. Fashion critics will be outraged and start burning her in effigy.

Bjork will have shown up for no reason, outdoing her previous record for dressing horribly at an awards show by turning up in a dress of psychedelic purple with a hubcap welded on, a rubber hose, and five vibrators hanging from strategically placed velcro straps. When asked about the dress, she will say she has a hot date later on.

Demi Moore will turn up with a date who's even younger than her last boyfriend. He says he's nineteen, and that Demi told him to say that.

Jennifer Lopez, eager to make a splash since her career flatlined, turns up in an outfit that shocks everyone: nipple tassels and an orange thong.

At his detachment in Alberta, Canada, RCMP Inspector and cranky grouch Lars Ulrich will feel grateful that for once, there are no entertainment reporters in the province.

More than one Academy voter will admit on the way inside that they did not vote for Bruce Dern as Best Actor for Nebraska, citing the fact that decades ago, he killed John Wayne in a film. "You don't just kill the Duke and think you can get away with it!" one tells reporters.

Martin Scorsese will wonder why Leonardo DiCaprio failed to win Best Actor yet again. Friends will suggest that perhaps he stop casting Leo in his films.

Ellen DeGeneres will tease Joaquin Phoenix with the question as to if he shagged the machine in Her.

The annual March Of The Dead montage will take place. Applause will greet the image of the famous. Families of producers, composers, and makeup artists who passed away in the last year will feel their grief magnified once again by hearing, who the hell is that instead of applause all around them.

Someone will ask, didn't that guy die forty years ago?

Ellen DeGeneres will be caught on camera looking at her watch, muttering about wishing she could just be at home.

Leonardo DiCaprio will bitterly ask who he has to kill to win an Oscar.

Harrison Ford will turn up on stage (to the accompaniment of the Raiders Of The Lost Ark march) to present an award, and state for the record that he is not in any way related to the drug addled mayor of Toronto, Rob "Crackhead" Ford.

Christian Bale will pass by Jack Nicholson on his way up to present an award, and be momentarily puzzled by Jack's lack of a hello.

Meryl Streep will tease George Clooney, which will lead Clooney to launch his five hundred and eighty fifth practical joke, one that will, in years to come, become legendary.

Demi Moore will scream that Jack Nicholson is dead.

Paramedics will check Jack Nicholson, confirming that he has, in fact, been dead for three hours. The March Of The Dead will be updated to include the passing of Jack Nicholson.

While paramedics remove Jack Nicholson's body, conspiracy theories will erupt on the Internet that Jack has been dead for years, and his embalmed body has been propped up in the front row at the Oscars as a tradition.

Before Best Director can be awarded, the theatre will be shaken as a sports car smashes its way into the hall, crashing into several people, killing four, including one of the last Munchkins. Justin Bieber will emerge from behind the wheel, stumbling and drunk, and stagger up on stage. While the March Of The Dead now flashes across a screen to include the four newly dead (including that no longer so cute Munchkin), Bieber will start singing Baby Baby Baby. Tommy Lee Jones will calmly walk up onto the stage and punch his lights out.

The ceremony will finish seven hours past its expected ending, and Ellen DeGeneres will apologize to morning viewers just getting up, expecting to see the morning news, the orchestra will play One For My Baby And One More For The Road, and the screen will fade to black.

The ambulance carrying the body of Jack Nicholson will crash en route to the morgue. The body will be thrown out the back and disappear. Rumours will circulate for years afterwards that Jack's a zombie.

What Do You Mean, You Unleashed A Plague Of The Undead?

"Oh no! The dead have risen and they're voting Republican!" ~  Lisa Simpson

"To eat, or not to eat brains, that is the question." ~ Zombie Shakespeare

"Fourteen score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all zombies are entitled to brains." ~ Zombie Lincoln, the Second Gettysburg Address

"Braaaaaaaiiiiinssss!" ~ Malcolm Porter, Rapid City zombie district commander, January 4th, 2021

And so we return once more to the genre of the brain eating slow-witted undead today (no, not the cast of Dancing With The Stars). The zombie. As I've shown you before, the zombie is a strange beast in the horror genre, muttering incoherently (mostly about brains) and shuffling about in large numbers in a post-apocalyptic world, while a small group of humans race to prevent themselves from being the next blue plate special at a zombie smorgasbord.

Okay. Let's say the impossible has happened. You wake up, find yourself in a world where most everyone around you has become a zombie. They're out for brains (if you're still a living breathing person, they'll be after yours, and no, it doesn't matter if you two used to play golf together). So they'll be out for you. I can't imagine that being torn apart by a horde of zombies will be a pleasant death.

What kind of world will you be facing? Well, obviously a bad one. Zombies will be the majority, and they'll get themselves organized. They might even run for elected office.

Of course, that doesn't count out the enemies of the past rising up from the grave and causing their own problems in the world, does it?

 What kind of world will our zombie counterparts carve out for themselves? When they're not carving out the inner organs of the Ludlows down the street (sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Ludlow, but you did have it coming; the pink flamingoes on the lawn really are tacky).

Zombies will, eventually, want to experience some form of culture. So inevitably there will come the rise of zombie movies. Such as Indiana Jones And The Feast Of Brains.

Obviously this idea would have to be taken out by surviving humans post haste. No more of that, thank you very much....

We can't forget the comic books that will rise up in the new zombie order....

Zombie children must be entertained too....

And tween zombies will want their Bieber for some reason. Wonderful. Is it too much to ask for a post-apocalyptic world that doesn't feature the Biebertwit?

Is there room for romance in the lives of zombies?

Well, the zombies do like their pin-up zombie girls....

And there'll also be the zombie pet problem to cope with.

Obviously religious rites will take on a whole new meaning. Communion, for instance...

We can hope it doesn't happen. We can hope that the zombiepocalypse that's foretold in sci-fi and horror never comes to pass. If it does, however, I suggest some things. First, get used to shooting zombies who used to be people. Yes, I know it goes against your nature to shoot your neighbour (at least it should), but Zombie Phil doesn't share your hesitation, and only wants to feast on your grey matter. And your intestines. Your heart too. So suck it up and start shooting. Aim for the head while you're at it. Second, if you've got a weak stomach and are sickened when you see blood, you might as well just give up and cover yourself with barbecue and honey sauce. A patrol of zombies will be along shortly to finish you off. Because if you do have a weak stomach, you're not going to last long in Zombie World.

Lastly... if zombies are chasing you, make sure the guy running with you is slower then you are.

Hey, it's about self preservation!