An Egomaniac And A Drunken Bastard

Explosion Prone Director Returns To Music Videos, Annoys Anyone With Taste And Refinement

Nashville (CP) Reporters were summoned to the offices of Show Dog/ Universal Music in the country music capital this week for a press conference. This included real reporters, as well as entertainment reporters and a subset of that latter group: country music entertainment reporters, who brought cowboy hats and boots to the mix. The real reporters, outnumbered by knuckle dragging slow witted entertainment reporters, wondered what this was all about. It turned out that the studio is the label for country singer Toby Keith, who ended up being one half of the two obnoxious irritants we were all here to see.

A spokesman came out on stage, calling for the attention of all. “Ladies and gentlemen, Show Dog/ Universal has gathered you all here for a big announcement about our founder Toby Keith, who by the way is backstage waiting.” The real reporters glanced at each other, wondering why, in a world with so many serious news stories, we had been subjected to covering an announcement by a country music singing slob who looked like he was hit by an ugly stick. Were we all on the outs with our editors? (editor: you damned well know why you’re on the outs with me, you smirking punk)

The spokesman carried on. “Mr. Keith has a new album in the works, which he’ll be speaking about, and he’s kicking it all off with news about a music video... and the director of that video, who’s here today. Ladies and gentlemen, give a big welcome to Toby Keith and Michael Bay!”

The two men came out on stage. Keith was dressed much as you’d expect- jeans, cowboy boots, denim shirt, and cowboy hat, a dumb grin plastered over his bearded face, waving to the crowd. Bay was, as always, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a blazer, with his hair in its usual slightly dishevelled look, three or four days of stubble on his face. A full length mirror was quickly brought out on stage, placed beside the podium, and Bay took a look at himself, grinning and winking at himself. The egomaniacal movie director, given to endless amounts of explosions in films, actually started out in the music video genre. Was this a sign that the hack was going away at last, even with the many films he had in the works (editor: stop making fun of Michael Bay! He’s a great auteur!)

“Welcome to Nashville!” Keith called out, still smiling in that dumb way. This reporter couldn’t stop looking at his beat up hat, wondering idly if Keith was wearing it to hide a receding hairline in the same fashion that Garth Brooks did (editor: Hey! Don’t make fun of Garth!). “You know, I’m a real big fan of this man’s work as a director. I don’t know why he hasn’t gotten Oscars for every single film he’s ever made.”

Bay shrugged. “It must be one big conspiracy. Or the Academy voters aren’t fans of explosions, hot babes waxing cars, and more explosions.”

Keith shook his head. “How can anyone not be fans of that? Which is what brings us to what we’re all here for. See, I’ve done a lot of music videos with me bein’ in the middle of big parties with girls half my age and actin’ like I’m still in college... but I’ve never done a video that needed any Michael Bay explosions.”

Bay smiled. “And trust me, I know explosions.” This reporter sighed, wishing one of those pyrotechnic monstrosities would backfire on set and rid the world of Michael Bay once and for all.... (editor: I already told you, stop making fun of Michael Bay!) This reporter sighed again, wishing his editor would stop being such a cranky crank with horrible tastes in movies and music.

Keith nodded. “Absolutely! Which brings me to this announcement. My next album is going to be called Taking Out The Chicks. Now that might come across at first like the usual country music guys and gals down at the bar after drivin’ their pickup trucks and hangin’ out and gettin’ lucky, but that’s not what it’s meant to be. The whole album is fifteen songs of me takin’ shots at the Dixie Chicks.”

The feud goes back over twelve years, after the lead singer of the Dixie Chicks, Natalie Maines, made remarks during a concert deriding George W. Bush, as well as personal clashes between Keith and the Chicks. They’ve characterized him as ignorant, while he spent time posting doctored images of Maines with the late Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein at his concerts. Apparently after all this time the singer persists in his loathing of the trio.

Bay carried on. “Toby asked if I’d direct the first video off the album, for his song Ignorant This! Great title, by the way, Toby. And so it’s going to be a ten minute short movie, with Toby singing, pool parties with scantily clad young women running around, a few dozen explosions, and three women who we’ve cast who look rather like the Dixie Chicks. For the purposes of the video, they’re going to be the villains of the whole piece. You’ll know they’re the villains by the way they sneer.”

Entertainment reporters were abuzz. Country music reporters let out an unanimous “yeeeeeehaaaaw!” Real reporters collectively sighed in dismay and wished they could be anywhere else but covering a press conference held by a drunken hillbilly and an egomaniac. (editor: hey! Stop making fun of Michael Bay! And Toby Keith’s a great singer, so don’t insult him!) This reporter, shackled with an editor with horrific movie and music tastes... (editor: I am going to have you drawn and quartered, I swear to God!)

“Does it occur to you that the Dixie Chicks might not like being cast as the villains in a Michael Bay music video?” another reporter asked.

Bay looked confused. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Keith shrugged. “Look, they don’t have much of no sense of humour. While I do. Nothin’ I love more than havin’ a good time and goin’ out to a party and gettin’ hammered and havin’ a laugh. So what if I’m spendin’ a whole album pickin’ a fight with them? Country music loves me, and that’s all that matters.”

Bay smiled. “So we’re gonna be busy for a couple of weeks gettin’ this video together, having fun with pool parties and drinking and having hot babes wax cars and go swiming, and of course explosions. You’ll love what we’ve got in store! Trust me, I know what I’m doing!” This reporter watched Bay and Keith step off stage, seriously doubting Bay had ever in his life known what he was doing... (editor: damn you to hell, you smirking bastard!)

As a post script, the Dixie Chicks- Natalie Maines, Martie Maguire, and Emily Robison- took questions from reporters on the matter at hand. “That’s fine with us,” Maines confirmed.

“Yes, we’ve got a song coming up on the next album meant just for Toby,” Maguire added.

Robison finished up by saying, “We’re calling it Legend Of The Drunken Bastard.”

I Would Rather See The Flying Lizards

The Super Bowl is tomorrow. I for one would rather have wisdom teeth yanked than subject myself to that. Nonetheless, I have a post about the occasion. NFL fans may feel free to call for my head on a platter at their leisure.

Millions Expected To Watch Bloated Pointless Game; One Time Player Wishes He Was There

Santa Clara (CP) For those of you who have been living under a rock for the last couple of weeks, this is Super Bowl weekend in the city of Santa Clara, California, a short drive from San Francisco. The game, to be played at Levi’s Stadium (yet another example of the sheer tackiness that is corporate branding), pits the Carolina Panthers against the Denver Broncos. This game is also the fiftieth edition of the championship game; this year the NFL has suspended the tradition of using Roman numerals to identify the specific game (being one of the few organizations left on the planet to still use Roman numerals).

Fans are already pouring into the area in advance of Sunday’s game. They are a mix of Panthers and Broncos fans, but also fans from nearly every team in the NFL (with few sightings of Cleveland Browns fans being an exception). A raucous, drunken crowd, they seem nonetheless happy to be in attendance, with team jerseys and faces painted in garish ways. To this reporter, who finds football pointless and tedious, it is a mystery as to why it appeals to so many. Just as much of a mystery as to why this reporter’s editor dispatched him on this assignment (editor: one of these days, you rat, you’re going to get what’s coming to you! I still haven’t forgotten that you laughed at my mother-in-law’s funeral!)

This year the game is being broadcast by CBS, with pre-game analysis having already started three weeks ago. On Super Bowl Sunday itself, the pre-game program will start early, go hours, and eventually there’ll be a game. Along with lots of commercials, a halftime show featuring Coldplay, Beyonce, and Bruno Mars, and a national anthem sung by Lady Gaga. Well, at least they didn’t bring in Roseanne Barr for the national anthem. The game itself will seem to go on forever, prove to be boring, and apparently be the swan song of Denver quarterback Peyton Manning, if you pay attention to the endless sports columnists who seem to know he’ll be retiring even before the game. Well, in fairness, Manning does look pretty long in the tooth, to use an old expression.

This reporter, doomed by a cranky editor to cover the festivities (editor: it’s because you hate football that I sent you, you ****ing jerk! It’s called punishment, because I hate you! Oh, do I hate you!) has been spending time digging up stories. Apparently the League has taken steps to prevent another blackout as happened at the game in 2013. In the opinion of this reporter, another blackout would be just the thing to liven things up. Or, since we’re in California, how about a nicely timed earthquake? (editor: keep at it and I’ll drop you into the San Andreas Fault during a quake) This reporter sighed, wishing to remind his grouch of an editor that she does not have the time to come to California during a quake anyway to drag this reporter off and dump him into some open spot during an earthquake anyway.

As is always the case with these games, spectacle is a big thing, and the stadium has been prepped and cleared by the crews who have been working here for weeks to get things ready. There’ll be fireworks, cheerleaders, massive production values on the halftime show. All of this will, of course, delay the game well past its scheduled start time, and given the creative way the League has of stretching out the game, it will last hours past its assumed end time.

Though he’s not involved in the broadcast this year, legendary player and broadcaster Terry Bradshaw is here to take in the game this year, and this reporter cornered him and had some questions to ask. “It’s all very simple,” the affable Bradshaw told this reporter in response to one question. “Everybody knows this game is as boring as all get out. I mean, if you just had the game, it would put everyone to sleep. That’s why the League’s worked with advertisers for years, and with grocers and liquor outlets and the networks, all on a program of getting people either drunk or overstuffed with greasy food or distracted by lots of spectacle during the game, just so they don’t notice how boring it all is. Wait, you’re not going to quote me on that, are you?”

Lady Gaga seems an unlikely choice to do the national anthem before the game. “They asked me to do the halftime show,” she admitted to this reporter earlier this week, for once not looking like the garish over the top chameleon performer she seems to be in her stage persona. “I don’t really know why.... I mean, I don’t really care for football.” This reporter nodded, surprised to have something in common with Lady Gaga. “The League didn’t really seem to go for my ideas for a halftime show though. Apparently post-modern Impressionism, flying lizards, fluorescent colours, and clothing made of meat puzzled them.”

This reporter found himself dazed just trying to imagine that. (editor: dazed? What’s that mean? Have you been drinking?) Lady Gaga shrugged and carried on. “So I get to do the anthem instead. I’ll just leave it to Coldplay and Beyonce and Bruno to have themselves a wardrobe malfunction moment at just the wrong time. Preferably all of them at once, because wouldn’t that just totally upstage the last time this game had a wardrobe malfunction?”

A post script to the story: last week while this reporter was in Las Vegas covering another story, a chance came up to speak to a former football legend, minor actor, infamous suspect, and convicted felon. The Lovelock Correctional Center is a prison in rural Nevada, and it is presently home to O.J. Simpson, convicted on robbery and kidnapping charges after a 2007 Las Vegas sports memorabilia debacle. The subject of the so called “trial of the century” in the murders of his ex-wife and another man (side note: shouldn’t the Nuremberg Trials be the trial of the century?) is looking worn down and old these days; prison clearly hasn’t done Simpson any favours.

Simpson sat down at a table across from this reporter in a visitor’s room. He was evasive with answers on many things- including the murder case, the kidnapping case, and his acting days, only saying, “Naked Gun would have never been half the movie it was without me. I don’t get why I wasn’t given top billing in the whole movie, but hey, studios are ****ing fickle.”

The subject of the Super Bowl came up, and Simpson seemed to brighten up at the mention of the game. “Man, I’d love to go out and see that. I tried to get the warden to let me out. I mean, just one day, right? And if you can’t trust O.J. Simpson, who can you trust? But the warden said no way. So I’m stuck here having to watch the game with all the other convicts in here. Damn, what I wouldn’t give.... hell, I’d commit murder to get to see the game live.” He paused, as if realizing what he’d just said, and his voice grew tense. “Hey, don’t you go quoting me on that, you hear?” Guards started closing in as Simpson’s voice rose. “Don’t you quote me! I'll kill you!” Guards were restraining Simpson by now, dragging him away. “If you quote me on that, I’ll cut you, mother****er!”

Simpson was gone, pulled out of the room, still hollering at the top of his lungs. Clearly his temper hadn’t gotten any better down through the years. This reporter made a mental note to have his life insurance adjusted. Between a convicted felon and a grouchy editor... (editor: one more word out of you and I’ll help the Juice finish you off)

The Devil May Be In The Details

Prince Of Darkness Refuses To Mortgage Presidential Hopeful’s Soul

Las Vegas (AP) Reporters were summoned to Sin City this weekend for a press conference by an unknown speaker, but one promised to be about the American presidential election. Reporters gathered in the Bellagio Hotel and Casino, speculating among themselves as to what this might be all about. Some suggested that there might be a new candidate throwing their hat in the ring, but Las Vegas rates as an odd location to kick off an attempt at the nomination- for either party.

A Bellagio spokeswoman came up on stage in an auditorium, calling for the attention of the gathered press. “Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. The Bellagio is pleased to welcome you all for this press conference. The individual in question asked to introduce himself. And without further ado, here he is.”

The spokeswoman stepped off stage, while someone emerged from the other side of the stage. Reporters recognized him, though he appeared to be younger than his current age. The man looked like the actor Al Pacino.

He strode up to the podium, smiling in a way that seemed to make everyone uncomfortable. The man was dressed in a black suit with red tie, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The smile persisted as he gazed out at the crowd.

Finally, a reporter spoke up. “Are you... are you Al Pacino?”

The man shook his head. “No, but he’s played me before in a movie, so taking this form seemed... appropriate.” His voice, low and gritty, solidified the impression he gave of making people uneasy. “I’ve gone by many names down through the millennia. Azazel. Sammael. The Lord Of Pride. Beelzebub. Satan. Voland. Baphomet. Old Scratch. The Dark Lord. Lucifer. The Prince Of Darkness. Old Hob. Mephistopheles. Old Nick. Diabolos. Oh, most people think of me as the Devil.”

Reporters shifted in their seats, clearly uneasy. The Devil laughed, the sound making this reporter feel the distinct impression that someone was walking over his grave. “Relax, ladies and gentlemen, I’m not here for any of you. This is, after all, a conventional press conference. I simply have some remarks in regards to a single candidate in this country’s presidential elections.”

He removed his sunglasses, and instead of conventional eyes, his eyes had red pupils surrounded by black. “I could have invited all of you down to Hell for this press conference, but it does tend to be a one way trip. So Las Vegas seemed a suitable compromise. After all, there’s a doorway to Hell beneath the city already. Oh, come on, don’t look so surprised.”

The Devil sighed and smiled again. The reporters continued to feel uneasy. “Ladies and gentlemen, it was suggested recently by a columnist that one of your Republican candidates would be willing to sell his soul for the White House. I have come here to refute that claim. Not because the writer was wrong- in fact, the candidate did make that offer to me several months ago. Simply put, the candidate has already previously sold off parts of his soul to me. There’s no soul left.”

He paused for a moment. The reporters waited, wondering who it might be. Then he spoke. “He sold his soul to me several times to avoid corporate bankruptcy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m referring to Donald Trump.”

The blowhard real estate developer turned wannabe presidential Republican candidate has been all over the news in recent months, from his kick off to a Republican candidacy by insulting Mexico, to dragging the Democrats, fellow Republicans, Muslims, African-Americans, and anyone who doesn’t agree with him through the mud. All while promoting himself endlessly as the only person who’s up to the job of being President of the United States. All while having absolutely no political experience whatsoever. Trump has been managing his campaign, firing off vitriol in tweets and interviews, all from a sickbed as he recovers from the literal beatdown he got from rival candidate and former wrestler Hulk Hogan, along with Hogan’s campaign manager Ric Flair. While he might still be in a body cast, Trump refuses to let go of his ambitions to get in the White House and obliterate America’s reputation just by being himself.

“You’re telling us Donald Trump sold his soul to you?” one reporter asked, trying not to sound timid.

The Devil nodded. “Yes, well, the man’s got a serious ego problem. Thinks the world of himself, doesn’t seem to realize how many people are laughing at that hideous hairpiece, and believes he’s destined for greatness. I mean, look at the way he talks about himself. He uses phrases like tremendous, outstanding, spectacular, the best... I don’t have to be a psychologist to know a guy who talks like that is desperately trying to overcompensate for some serious shortcomings, both in terms of character and physically if you know what I mean. I’m sure any of his ex-wives could verify that. If you ask me, and you are asking me, the man’s an asshole.” This reporter found himself wondering if the editors would run with this headline for the story: THE DEVIL CALLS DONALD TRUMP AN ASSHOLE. Nonetheless, the Dark Lord carried on.

“As it turns out, the first time he found his little empire in financial difficulties, that precious little ego of his wouldn’t let himself actually fall into bankruptcy. So he reached out, made some calls, and, well, long story short, signed away a portion of his soul to me to bail him out. So I did. And then it happened again, and again, and again, and well... this latest time, as it turns out, there’s no soul left. He was all tapped out.”

The Devil smiled again. “He came to me, back before those wrestlers put him in the body cast, asking for a guarantee that he’d be President. Offered up every last trace of his soul for eight years in the White House. I double-checked my records, but sure enough... I have full possession of his soul. He begged to remortgage the whole deal. I said no. You know, I really don’t like it when people beg things of me. I mean honestly, where’s their dignity?”

This reporter doubted Donald Trump ever had any bit of dignity, and then asked, “So what happens now?”

The Devil shrugged. “Well, perhaps it’s possible that your Republican party will be dumb enough to let him have the nomination. I wouldn’t put anything past them these days. I don’t see him winning the White House though. Not enough stupid people to make that happen. So, someday he’ll kick the bucket, probably in some way that attracts lots of attention, because for a man who craves attention as much as he does, even his death will demand it. Or maybe he’ll just blow a proverbial gasket while screaming at someone. Either way, then he’ll belong to me, for eternity.”

“I mean no disrespect by saying this,” this reporter spoke up. “But aren’t you concerned that he could try something in, well, the afterlife... like staging a hostile takeover of Hell while your back is turned?”

The Devil stared at this reporter, smiled, and shook his head. “Look, you’re looking at the guy who’s got the souls of Hitler, Attila, Pol Pot, Genghis Khan, Stalin, Saddam Hussein, Mao, Nixon, Bin Laden, and that kid Spanky from The Little Rascals in his keeping. Rest assured, I have plenty of experience keeping megalomaniacs crushed beneath my feet and weeping bitter tears. Besides, I’ve already got my eternal punishment for The Donald ready and waiting.”

“And what’s that?” another reporter asked.

The Devil smirked. “Two things. First, since he’s such a glutton for attention, we’ll be stranding him in a dark room where he’s all alone, with no mirrors and no company. Second, we’ll be keeping that roadkill he calls his hair just out of reach for all eternity. Take away the two things he loves more than life itself, and he breaks. Egomaniacs always break within three days of their arrival when we make use of the Tantalus Initiative.”

The Prince of Darkness took his leave. The mood in the room gradually improved with his absence. The story has something of a post script, with the response of the candidate himself. Trump issued an angry statement by phone to his favourite personal propaganda venue, FOX News, in typical Trumpese. “This is absolute rubbish! Disgusting! This is something that Obama and Christie and Clinton and Carson and Sanders and Cruz and O’Malley and Rubio and Pacino all got together on to drag me through the mud! Disgusting! Everyone knows I’m the greatest candidate ever! I don’t need help to take over the White House! Everyone knows I’m outstanding and stupendous and the best and the most qualified. My presidency is going to be amazing! So this whole slander on my spectacular reputation is disgusting and terrible. I have not sold my soul to anyone, and if I’m lying, may lightning strike... ummm... let me get back to you on that. Vote Trump in 2016!"

In a related story, Trump Tower was, starting five minutes after the mogul’s statement, struck by lightning five hundred ninety three times over six hours.

All Hail The Mighty Groundhog

It is Groundhog Day tomorrow. And so as is always the case, I have an image blog for the occasion. Enjoy, and whether or not you want to admit it, we're still in for another six weeks of winter. Or sixteen.