Tag Archives: IMDb

The Dreadful Truth About Mila Kunis

I will admit it, I have become something of a dashboard junkie, as they say on WordPress.com, home to close to 700,000 blogs, most of which are more popular than mine.  Well, maybe I’m not a complete junkie.  Making that claim would diminish the pain and suffering of those who are true addicts struggling one day at a time through Dashboards Anonymous.

A screenshot of the search portion of my dashboard as of this morning, showing part of the sick-fuck searches that have landed people on my blog. Of course, I am as thrilled as the Marquis de Sade unwrapping a new torture rack for Christmas that I am attracting such perverted detritus to my blog.

The dashboard is a customizable page, elegantly laid out, easy to use, which controls the blog, its format, etcetera, but also shows all sorts of esoteric stats.  What is astounding is that somehow someone pulled up my page twice yesterday searching for “triple cunted hooker.”  What the hell is that?  I note that my friend Lara Harris surfaced twice as well, which might be a reason she’s not replying to emails or texts, and she’s always responsive.  She’s probably furious she ended up in a blog entitled Gay Old Loony Douchebags on Steroids, I suppose.  I’m unmaking friends with this already, sigh.  Well, we’ve known each other for 30 years, I’m sure we’ll survive a goosing online.

I am also pleased about the “older men fucking twinks,” which must refer to the insert in the Gay Old Loony post of the image of the girly twink from Glee, Chris Colfer, even though I myself don’t have a taste for twinks.

I will admit that I am almost completely caught up with episodes of Glee.  At one point, it embarrassed me as a gay barely closeted homophobe just how gay that show is.  Gay and lesbian. At first I fast-forwarded over the musical numbers, but everyone kept saying, “But that’s the whole point!”  just like that, with the exclamation point.  And their voices would go up when they said it.  So now I watch the fakakta musical numbers.  Well, some of them: not the show tunes, not the duets, and not most of the ballads.  I’ve found the musical numbers are the best opportunity to go and do something else in the kitchen or bathroom while something anodyne splashes around in the background.  I really just want to see Jane Lynch and that blond bimbo, Heather Morris, who has all the best lines.  Dumb people are almost as fun to write as schizophrenics.

Heather Morris, who plays the supremely funny dumb-and-dumber character Brittany on Glee. You can tell she's probably a natural blonde because her name is Heather, and only people who are blond themselves name their daughters Heather because, well, heather is the color of wheat unless it's muddy and you'd look very foolish if your daughter were named Heather and she were a redhead.

A few of the  cast members from Glee work out at Gold’s Gym Hollywood, where if you don’t already know from the aforementioned Gay Old Loony post, I also practice the strenuous art of gravitational-pull-on-the-flesh defiance.  I have seen Matthew Morrison there, and I have to say, dude is fucking fit, in seriously great shape.  I believe that the pneumatically lipped Chord Overstreet also works out there, and might be trained by nutritionist-slash-trainer-to-the-stars Bernardo Coppola, who once told me that he is a second cousin to the illustrious filmmakers-slash-vintners; however, I am told by a reliable source whose last name rhymes with “subtle” that this may be a misrepresentation of the truth.  I’m saying I think Overstreet works out there because Bernardo was training a blond kid with Angelina lips yesterday who I swear was Overstreet, but the kid was wearing a red baseball cap pulled so far down over his head that he looked more like a teenaged duck from the Cartoon Network.

Trainer to TV nobility Bernardo Coppola, who despite his claims is probably not related to Sofia. I have no further comments to this image because I think it speaks for itself, and for Gold's Gym Hollywood in general.

I’m not very good with celebrity sightings, see.  They usually have to come up and introduce themselves before I recognize them.  For instance, apparently I almost collided with Sarah Silverman on the street in Weho the other day, and almost colliding with anyone on the street in LA is as rare as a solar eclipse, but I didn’t notice.  My friend had to point it out.  And I love Sarah Silverman, I would like to do shots of tequila with her and smoke cigarettes out on the patio of a Mexican restaurant under a heat lamp with her.

Sarah Silverman incognito once again. Is it any wonder I missed her on the street after nearly bumping into her? I wonder if she dyes her mustache with Just For Men medium brown as well.

So it looks like this is turning into some warped celebrity blog in order to drive up readership, which is fine because I’m a star-fucker like anyone else; I drop names more than my abominable landlady Susan Blais sheds tenants, all in the effort to make the person I’m speaking to be awestruck, regardless of the fact I don’t recognize most celebs when I see them.   Vogue editor Anna Wintour has understood that celebrities on the cover get more women to buy her insipid door jam of a magazine.  I shall do the same to trap innocent, depraved keyword searchers in the Web of Killough.

So, big apologies to Mila Kunis, who I’m sure isn’t addicted to crack — the original title of this post was going to be, “Mila Kunis on Crack.”  Had it been “Mila Kunis’s Crack,” I would get even more hits from my lovable coterie of pervs.  Mila, you have the misfortune of being in fourth position on the IMDb Starmeter this week, and now that I have written the last few sentences, I will pick up a few readers interested in your vagina.

What can I say? The internet is god.

Post Scriptum: I usually don’t follow anything Charlie Sheen, even though you think I would because his sort of behavior makes me wince-chuckle in a sort of there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-go-I way, but this latest rant of his was priceless.  What a douche, what a brat, what a scramble-brains.  I’ll bet he gets into serious fantasy roleplay when he’s high and smothered in hookers.  He just doesn’t know when the fantasy begins and when it ends any more.  Bless his black heart.

Wait, before I go, one more picture.  This one of me with Amanda Seyfried’s breasts, which always get me more hits (thanks, boys):

James Killough and Amanda Seyfried

If I put myself (James Killough, needs to be mentioned, sorry) together with Amanda Seyfriend and her breasts like this comp, we become married in the interweb, together forever. I need to have better pictures of me for Google image search, which is why I'm being so bizarrely random with this.

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Who The F*ck Is Brooklyn Decker?

I don’t know why I couldn’t bring myself to spell out fuck in the title.  I feel like an old-fashioned wuss.  I’ll never forget what my mum said after I gave an (extremely) drunk toast at my sister’s civil wedding in New York (as opposed to the ten-day one in India), “You said fuck nine times in your speech.  But you’re so intelligent.”  As if saying the word fuck is equated with stupidity.  And this is coming from an Australian woman; I think her own mother taught me the word to begin with when I was five or six.  But Grandma Iris taught me how to say it proper Aussie-like, in a cluster, as in “shit-fuck-piss.”  Slippery slide into American middle class mores, there, mum.  The fact that some friend of the family’s whose name I can never remember still comes up to me at cocktail parties and tells me, ten years later, how that was the best wedding speech ever is irrelevant.  I’m still a foulmouthed dummy.

I will never really know who Brooklyn Decker is because I will never see "Just Go For It," despite the fact that I really like Jennifer Aniston. This new piece of studio boardroom-generated dreck is presumably why Brooklyn has shot to number two on the IMDb Starmeter, just below the demonically inseminated Natalie Portman. Brooklyn is on the right. Apparently she plays the sweet, giddy blonde (formerly incarnated by the prototype sweet, giddy blonde, Goldie Hawn, in a previous version of the film) opposite Jennifer's savvy-sassy modern woman blonde, originally played by Ingrid Bergman, who was never blond despite being Swedish.

Yes, I’m still crapping on about the IMDb Starmeter.  Why, you ask, as you keep one eye on my blog while you prepare to download a movie from Vuze and contribute to the further decline of the movie business? (Go ahead, download.  I’ve got my fiddle ready to play when Bel Air burns.)  Well, one reason is that discussion about the Starmeter, which measures search hits of celebs on the IMDb, sort of segues from the whole intention of this blog to begin with: to increase my visibility online and drive customers to my web design and content shop, Pure Film Creative.  The other related reason is that my experiment worked yesterday: By slanderously, or as my mother might say unintelligently, slapping on that headline about Natalie Portman bearing the devil’s child, hits to my blog soared.  Sorry, Nats (I know people call you that because I used to bang one of your posse from Harvard — damned kinky bugger, I might add), but I work fucking hard on this blog and need readers, even if it’s at your expense.

So Brooklyn Decker is now number two on the Starmeter, which everyone pretends not to care about, and in fact it is kinda boring after the first three days of tinkering with it, but in reality almost everyone really wants to be as popular as possible.  You can graduate us from high school, but never take the high school out of us.

Another pic of Brooklyn Decker I downloaded from the IMDb. I can't seem to find any pix of her breasts, which would bring more hits to my blog. She looks like my former landlady, Linda Hertsgaard, whom I miss so much these days when I'm being persecuted by the execrable Susan Blais.

What do you think happened to make Brooklyn Decker, who doesn’t look like she was ever unpopular, so popular outside of the Sports Illustrated crowd?  Do you think that women ran out of this Adam Sandler/Jennifer Aniston rom com remake of a Walter Matthau/Ingrid Bergman original and dove to their computers and madly looked up Brooklyn Decker on the IMDb, shooting her to number two, sandwiched between two Academy Award nominees for best actress, bride-of-Satan Natalie Portman and Jennifer Lawrence from “Winter’s Bone“?  Or do you think her publicist, listed on the IMDb as Jesse Stowell, had some oompa-loompas in India or somewhere compulsively click on Brooklyn’s name until she reached the stratosphere of Starmeter-dom?  Frankly, the latter prospect sounds exhausting and ludicrous, but you never know.  People really do take this shit seriously.  I mean, look at me, scribbling over a thousand words a night sometimes trying to raise my internet presence, ten years too late.

Okay, I've sort of found a pic of Brooklyn Decker's breasts. Call them demi-breasts. Is that brown re-growth under the "blond" hair? Tsk, tsk, so disappointing.

Speaking of which, do you know what the going rate for an internet article is? One cent a word.  One cent.  To give you an idea of where we are with this, a decent traditional print magazine pays between a buck and two PER WORD.  If you’re famous, more.  That’s one hundred times more, minimum.  Oh Gaddafies of internet content, hear me: if the average web article is 450 words, one cent is less than minimum wage.  The savagery of this iniquity is almost enough to make me regret I didn’t joined the Writer’s Guild before my eligibility ran out (they never told me I only had three years after the release of my one and only feature film to be released in the US to pay the exorbitant joining fee).  I’m sure the Guild will shut down the entire internet at some point to rectify this, ‘cuz that’s the power of film, baby.

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Natalie Portman Carrying Satan’s Child

The title of this is an experiment.  It seems that when I write about hookers and celebrities the hits to this blog spike.  I figured that if I threw the devil in the mix I might attract Mel Gibson’s crowd as well. Yesterday’s backhanded self-help blog, which I tried to masquerade as vitriol flung at my (in my opinion) psycho landlady, Susan Blais, has the lowest rating ever. Clearly nobody out there wants to hear about how I’m pulling myself up by my bootstraps and soldiering on.  Hmpf.  All they care about is Amanda Seyfried’s boobs.

The obdurately angelic Natalie Portman. And they complain that there are no movie stars like there used to be. Just look at that swan's neck, wouldya? If Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier of Monaco, can you blame Natalie for doing one better and shacking up with the Prince of Darkness?

The reason I’m picking on Natalie is she is number one today on the IMDb Starmeter, which is a ranking of who has the most hits on the IMDb public page, as opposed to the IMDbPro page.  So by making this about her, I’m hoping for more hits to my blog when scandalized Googlers, who always suspected there was something fishy about that Portman girl, just way too nice, tune in here to get the real story about her hooking up with The Horned One.

Now, we people in The Biz are not supposed to care about our IMDb ranking, it’s decidedly not cool.  At most we use IMDBPro for its industry news aggregation and because it has a reasonably up-to-date listing of who represents what actor.  But I’ve just looked mine up for this blog (honestly, I swear, I never look at it), and I’m the 265,783rd most famous person on the IMDb, which is weird because last week my ranking was 444,840.  Hmmm. I know last week’s because the Starmeter keeps a record of it, and because last week I was writing about the IMDb for an audition web content article I scribbled for InteractMedia in which I commented about my lowly status in the industry, and I looked it up then.  So this means that people have been hitting the IMDb looking for me.  But I have had no news posted about me lately, nothing to warrant a surge of close to 50% in popularity.  I’m now paranoid.  What if it is the (in my opinion) villainous Susan Blais and her minions scouring the web for information about me to add to the pyre on which she intends to burn me alive?

A screenshot of my IMDb Starmeter page in detail. Note that I was extremely unpopular over Christmas; I dipped below one million, shamefully. Normally I would feel unloved except I remember that my bike was stolen on Christmas day, so obviously someone out there, albeit some junkie, was thinking about me.

We’re not supposed to care about this because those of us who are so lowly on the Starmeter rating system know that the big kids, the real celebs, the people ranked above 20,000, don’t give a damn about the IMDb, much less their Starmeter rating.  They don’t post pictures to their profiles, those are pulled from news services, or managed personally by IMDb staff members, I’m guessing.  I learned my lesson about this shortly after they invented the Starmeter and like a total dweeb I congratulated Louise Ward on her client Channing Tatum making the number one spot, currently occupied by Natalie Portman, who may or may not be carrying the spawn of Beelzebub; after all, her career has suddenly soared due to a horror movie, of all suspicious things.  Louise kinda went, “Huh? What’s that?  Oh, that IMDb thing.”  I felt small for caring.

The truth is there are people out there, people I work with, who do care very much about their ranking, much more than I do.  I won’t say who you are. Or maybe I will because I want your hearts pounding while you hold your breath and murmur, “Sweet, Jesus, James! Don’t let them know I monitor my rating!  I’ll option your script, promise!”  When I blog more about the HATTER dramedy two years ago, I’ll even introduce you to some characters who had pictures taken purposely, professionally for their IMDb profiles — that (in my opinion) is the height of dweeb.

I remember another Starmeter rating moment when I was having lunch at the Cannes Festival with a producer of mine in 2008.  This was the peak of my rating: I was above 70,000 that week.  When I told my colleague he said, “You bitch! Mine has never gone above a hundred thousand AND I’VE JUST PRODUCED A FILM WITH ROBERT PATTINSON.”

Yes, he’s gay.

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