Winter for Hitler

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

There was some terribly sad news last Wednesday: Sarah Palin announced she isn’t running for president.  The fact that the final gong on that tuneless, talentless cabaret act was utterly muffled by the untimely demise of a truly great man, Steve Jobs, was the definition of poetic justice, and will set the tone for the Moosehead MILF’s rapid slip into obscurity.  However, I shall miss Tina Fey’s impersonations.  Fuck, she was funny.

Hopefully this picture will soon be a still from Celebrity The Price is Right.

Joe McGinniss’s article in the Daily Beast had a decent paragraph that summed up just how dangerous this whole episode was:

Our Idiot Weather

BAKER STREET | REVIEW

 by Eric J Baker

As you read these words, I am either dead, in jail, or lying in a Bangkok hotel room minus a kidney.

Wait… that was last weekend. Right now, I’m either laughing at the Weather Channel people for making a big deal out of nothing, or I’m sitting in the dark with the power off and wondering what the hell I’m going to eat for the next three days, or I’m being washed away by the deluge of Hurricane Irene, lamenting for the final time that I passed on a threesome with those two blonde chicks in 1991. But fuck if I’m going to lead this story with a boring satellite photo of a storm called “Irene.” This Irene is Irene Hoek, a playmate from the Euro edition of Playboy:

A hot shirtless babe. Sorry, Str8s call them 'topless.' But that word reminds us of a drunk, horny, unlucky bottom in West Hollywood on a Saturday night after the bars have closed.

If I had created Eve instead of letting God do it, you can bet she would have looked a lot like this. Then I would have stabbed Adam in the neck with an ice pick and set about wrecking Eden properly. My apologies, by the way, to the vast majority of our readers who do not find such images appealing. It’s just that I and the apparently one other straight man who follow this blog found Tuttle’s lead photo from Wednesday to be a bit jarring, so I was promised a bunny as compensation for my pain and suffering and I’m cashing in. Besides, I might be drowning right now, and you wouldn’t deny a drowning man one last piece of eye candy, would you?

Morons Talking Loudly

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

As a friend from out of town noted the other day after a simple lunch at Gingergrass in Silverlake, “We’ve spent hundreds of dollars dining out at expensive restaurants in LA, all of them mediocre.  The best food here is in the cheaper places.”  Which is very true.  One of the best-kept Mexi Cali open secrets in this town is the unpretentious La Esquinita on Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park.  It is not only embarrassingly cheap—to the point where you feel like you should maybe offer them a bit more for the delicious bounty they have served you—everything is made absolutely fresh right after you order it.  Regrettably, this includes the fat-bitch chips and salsa.

Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the polka-dotted toenails of the President of the United States of America, Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, the Honorable Ms. Sarah Louise Palin.

I say ‘regrettably’ not just because the chips are served in true Mexican style, or warm and coated with oil, accompanied by a choice of several homemade salsas, but because they make a very loud noise when you bite into them, at least twice the loudness of ordinary bagged chips from a store.  And this only added percussion to the braying of a moron seated at the center table of the small restaurant one lunchtime last week.

Do Republicans Dream of Electric Elephants?

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

Michele Bachmann seems to have done well in the Republican debates.  It’s very early days yet, of course, but her populist extremism is something to marvel at.  Especially her extremism towards gheys and lesbotrons.

Rutger Hauer as the replicant in "Blade Runner," which was adapted from a short story called "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?"

I was raised in a Republican household.  Most of my family is still Republican, despite my mother’s conversion to the Democrats following her split with Dad.  When I say a Republican household, it doesn’t just mean that they vote straight down the line conservative.  They are REPUBLICANS, all caps.  When we lived in Rome, my father was head of Republicans Abroad.  Before he left the advertising agency he worked for, he had worked on Margaret Thatcher’s campaign, and went on to do the Republican campaign of 1979, which swept Reagan and Company into power.  Ironically, the slogan he helped develop for them was “Vote Republican For A Change,” the same concept that helped get Obama elected twenty-eight years later.

I’m Too Sexy For My Car

BAKER STREET

 by Eric J Baker

Welcome to Pure Film Creative or, as I like to think of it, Tiger Beat for intellectuals (and perverts; you know which one you are).

Regular readers of these pages will often find us opining on who is sexy (Ashton Kutcher, Duran Duran, Mary Elizabeth Winstead) and who is not (Killough’s former landlady Susan Blais, Russell Crowe, pre-Raphaelite painters). It’s easy to do when you’re talking about movie stars and fashionable pop bands, since good looks are a prerequisite for such roles in society. With political figures, the distinction is murkier. Much like the sewage most of them crawled from.

What's not sexy about an Aussie thug in a tub with a stogie, a brew and phone he's about to brain the hotel maid with?

I don’t find ugly liars attractive, but I seem to be in the minority. Last week, before the shocking truth exploded, I wrote on PFC that Anthony Weiner couldn’t have e-mailed his cock-bulge photo to a 22-year-old woman because he’s not that dumb. What I thought, but didn’t write was, “Who the fuck wants to see Anthony Weiner’s dick, anyway?”

Pumping Ayn

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

Reading Ayn Rand is like sitting in Vulcan’s forge watching him hammer a divine weapon, but boy is it hot and sticky down there, damn is he ugly, and fuck if it isn’t noisy.

In an article today in The Daily Beast, Michael Tomansky lauded a liberal religious group for giving the Republicans a taste of their own demagogy with an attack ad on their principles, using their love of Ayn Rand as its demagogic bludgeon of choice.

Gary Cooper and Patricia Neal as the architect Howard Roark and his adulterous lover, Dominique Francon, in King Vidor's "The Fountainhead." Rand's women are never faithful, always looking for a more alpha male, like insatiable gay bottom bitches.

I am probably completely off-mark with this SAT-ish analogy, but it can be said that Ayn Rand is to capitalism what Karl Marx is to communism.  Both are religion-hating reactionaries, except it would seem to me that Marx was somewhat less unhinged, even though that Jewfro of his could have used a trim.  I am a mildly unhinged religion-hating reactionary, but I don’t have Marx’s hair, and better teeth than Rand — well, most people do.

Michele Bachmann Has A Big Dick

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

Sarah Palin for President!

That’s the outlandish claim our own James Killough made on this very blog just a few days ago. As a man who is deeply concerned for America’s future and its position in the new global economy, I find his viewpoint disturbing and irresponsible at best, and I hope to restore rational thinking to these pages immediately. That’s why I’m endorsing Michele Bachmann.

This image of "Harry Potter" star Daniel Radcliff naked hanging out with a horse, which is distinct from being hung like a horse, is completely gratuitous and bears no relationship to this article.

My reasons are twofold. First, I want to top Killough when it comes to showing poor judgment. We’re competitive in that way. Second, my grandmother used to say, “Fortune favors the bold, Eric.” I wasn’t listening because her dentures kept falling out (which is upsetting and confusing to a four-year-old child), but I’ve since learned what she meant: People who take risks are successful. And what’s riskier than electing a raving lunatic madwoman president?

Why I’m Voting For Sarah Palin

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

I’m kidding.  Sheesh.  Relax.  I don’t vote, for two reasons: 1) the American political process bores me because it’s usually much the same of the same old shit, although the Obama/Hillary run-off did get my attention; 2) as long as the Electoral College is in place and disasters like the 2000 election can happen as a result, I don’t believe we live in a true democracy.

She's not just the ringmaster, not just the clown show, not just the big cat act. She's the whole frickin' circus.

“But what about your civic duty, James?” you ask, wrapping your toga tightly around you in a snit.  To which I reply, “My civic duty is my non-vote of protest.”  And I feel I have more effect writing these words than ruining a perfectly crisp morning in November by standing in line for hours waiting to cast my drop in the bucket.  As long as I live, I will never let America rest on its self-satisfied, jingoistic laurels, never let it get away with unjustified warmongering, or large-scale financial corruption.  To do so would be un-American.

The Tired, Lame Religiosity Of Some Conservative Catholic Homo Bloggers (Who Are Also Bottom Bitches)

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

Before I start eviscerating my evil twitty twin Andrew Sullivan, I wanted to point out something I buried at the end of a previous post, thinking that everyone slogged through the overstuffed, slow-cooked Belgian meal that my posts are and devoured every word, clinked on every link.

Lest you think I have been slacking and leaving all the PFC blogging work to Tuttle and Baker, I have started a serialized fiction piece called Render The Savage on Diane Pernet’s site, A Shaded View on Fashion.  The first chapter is here, the second here.  I also post links to the left of this column.  I’m having great fun with Savage.  If it rings true in some places, I’m denying everything so you can make up your own mind.

My publisher Diane Pernet is some sort of fabulous, ain't she? And she has this raspy whisper voice that makes every conversation seem like it's in church.

And I always have great fun taking potshots at Sullivan.  The title of this post is a reworking of one of his, The Tired, Lame Bigotry of Some Homosexuals, in which he bemoans a Hunky Jesus contest held in San Francisco over Easter. I thought the contest was kinda funny, one of those things that are more enjoyable in real life than in video, like almost all stand-up comedy.  But what makes me chuckle most is this quote from Sullivan:

“You want to grow some balls? Hold a Hunky Mohammed Contest on Ramadan. And, by the way, thanks for doing your bit to empower every religious right prejudice about gays.”

Oh, Miss Thing! You got yourself into a lather of this one, haven’t you?  What sort of noodle-brained, banana split logic is that?