8Bit Knocked My Sister Up. REJOICE!

First off, I would've posted this info a few days ago but a power surger fucked my motherboard and I've been disconnected from the online world since Wednesday. I actually read a book and jerked off using only my imagination!
Anyhoo, I get off work and head to my locker to grab my backpack and clock out, check my phone and see a text message from my sister in my inbox and open it. It reads: "Be sure to tell the Dead Kennedy he can come on Saturday. Oh, and I'm pregnant!"
My instincts allow me to do one thing. Yell, "HOLY SHIT!" at the top of my lungs resulting in my fellow employees rushing to the break room to see if I am alright. Oh yes, I am.
I'm gonna be an uncle but more important, 8Bit is gonna be a dad. And A. Bitch (Chris, this was to be her pen name when she was gonna write for the zine so don't get raw) is gonna be a mom. Black Nathan has already said he will write a plea to 8Bit to not allow myself or my father to turn the kid into a Yanks or Sox fan. I could really care less right now since I'm so stoked to be an uncle. Even more stoked that my family will be welcoming another life into the clan.
This rules even more than A-Rod getting drilled in the wrist by the Red Sox today.
I wish the kid and the parents all the best and can only promise one thing for the still developing fetus:
1. You will not share my sister's musical taste. 8Bit will probably back me on this. The Indigo Girls fucking suck. We're gonna pump some Flogging Molly and Dropkick Murphys via headphone over my sis's gut!
Congratulations to two of the most important people in my life. Now when the grandparents start beefing on who gets to lavish attention on the kid the most, I'm stepping back. It's gonna be like the wedding trip and the near arm-wrestling challenge duels over who was picking up the bill except a child is involved this time. To quote Will Smith, "Shit just got real."

Oh, Lord, No! The Children Will Never Get to Experience the SUCK in Person!

There are times when you know Hollywood is really bankrupt for ideas. Don't look to latching onto the manga craze, graphic novel hype or even the horror remake train for signs of the creative apocalypse. Shit those two dushbags (see earlier Clemens post for clarification) who churn out the (Blank) Movie debacles every few months don't even begin to scratch the surface.
Nope, my friends, it's ABBA. Yes, that ABBA. And while I would like to blame Sweden as a whole for this one, my undying love for the Hellacopters precludes that. So, awhile back these Eurovision pop star contest winners (think 70's disco American Idol) penned a musical called "Mamma Mia!" and the coked up pre-Patrick Bateman's of the world ate it up. And then Robert Palmer happened and ABBA faded away only to (fuck, I'm just speculating here because I step back from this whole piece I realize the utter ridiculousness of it all) ride the nostalgia wave when Ace of Base taught a new generation that Swedish dance music sucked balls.
Now, we have a cinematic adaptation of the musical on the horizon and it looks like The Killers have finally gotten their wish: disco shall roar back. Wow.
You have to realize how fucking long and insane of a process it is to not just get a film made but to get off the ground at all, no matter what the existing fanbase or rights statuses are. Pitch meetings, director meetings, screenwriter meetings, script drafts, approvals, re-writes, casting, territorial pissings, more re-writes, casting shuffles, pre-marketing hype, and scores of other tasks before there is even a fucking start date for principal photography. Let's forget about post, and filming...a motherfucking ABBA musical got through all that bureaucratic bullshit with a massive budget over...fuck...I dunno, ANYTHING!
It's not like an error this egregious hasn't happened before. Remember Xanadu? If you didn't have an older sister obsessed with Olivia Newton John after Grease then I will refresh. OLJ as a Greek muse sent to inspire Swan from the Warriors at a roller disco, with Gene Kelly presumably making a pre-death cash grab for this estate set to some of the most horrendous 80's music known to man. Hey, if you're a sadist there's a deluxe DVD of the fucker out there now. Just knowing that haunts my dreams.
Still, we get a silver lining in this tomb filled with shit.
From the UK Telegraph:
In an interview with the Sunday Telegraph Bjorn Ulvaeus and Benny Andersson, who wrote most of the group’s hits, said there was nothing that could entice them back on stage.
“We will never appear on stage again,” says Ulvaeus. “There is simply no motivation to re-group. Money is not a factor and we would like people to remember us as we were."
I'd like to remeber that Lester Bangs never wore an ABBA shirt. Oh, and "Waterloo."

Happy 4th of July from Please Kill Yourself

On the Eve Before July 4th, THIS Will Make You Proud to Be an American

Look, I've got nothing against middle-aged cross-dressing pop stars. I, for one, think Gary Glitter doing a tour with Hannah Montana would be nothing short of exhilirating. But, Boy George? Really, people? Has our nostalgia for the shitty pop anthemns of our youth led us to actually caring about experiencing "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?" with similar, disaffected, mired in mid-life crisis, losers? Thankfully, good ol' Uncle Sam stepped in to save you all from blowing 100 bucks at the local mid-level venue.
From CNN.com
The Culture Club singer, whose given name is George O'Dowd, has canceled his summer plans after U.S. authorities denied him a visa to enter the country.
O'Dowd, 47, had planned to officially kick off his 25-city tour in Aspen, Colo., on July 10, and was to throw in a free concert at the New York City Department of Sanitation's Family Day in August. He worked for the department in 2006 while performing court-ordered community service in a drug case.
That didn't appear possible, though, when last week O'Dowd's managers issued a statement saying he had been refused a visa because he's awaiting trial in London on charges that he falsely imprisoned a man. The Sun newspaper reported in April that a 28-year-old man claimed he was chained and threatened at O'Dowd's London flat, where he had gone to work as a photo model.
America! FUCK YEAH! Wait, what the fuck was that? He chained some dude up in a (assumedly) S & M torture dungeon? Whoah! Maybe he and Gary need to hit the road together instead! The chronicles of that debauchery would be epic. And maybe, just for old times sake, Boy George could stop by to fuck Gavin Rossdale in front of Gwen Steffani while "Holla Back Girl" is playing in the background. Sweet titty fucking christ, I think I just wrote David Lynch's next movie! Shit. I just gotta figure out how to wedge in a midget and a Kyle MacLachlan ass shot in there.
Seriously, if there is anyone who was from the UK, came to prominence in the 80's and like crossing genders I could give two shits about if they toured again, it would be Genesis P. Orridge. That shit needs to happen.

Jay Debauchery Finally Has Career Ambitions

Yeah, I've delivered pizzas, booked shows, worked security, tended bar, ran a deli, served food to ungratefull fat fucks, schlepped beer up and down stairways, occasionally have been paid to write, sold snacks at a swim club, sold books and cd's to Euro-trash douchebags along with scores of other meaningless, menial jobs. I like to think if I had saved every piece of apparrel from my jobs I'd have a nice little bulletin board like Wanye Campbell.
But, now, I have realized what I truly want to commit my life to. Help me reach this dream, brothers and sisters!

Maybe It's Time for the Roidcket to Give Up the Ghost

Yeesh, what a clusterfuck this has become for Roger Clemens. He uses all his celebrity, professional respect and political connects to maintain his status as the greatest pitcher of his generation, sure fire first ballot hall of famer and a respectable family man and he ends up grasping nothing but air.
First there was the whole Grimsley debacle, then the Mitchell Report, and then his bro-mantic relationship with McNamee became forever tarnished. Then it all died down for a bit only to have the story about his prediliction for tween country singers fire it all up again. And now this.
From ESPN.com
Tests of syringes and other steroid paraphernalia that trainer Brian McNamee submitted to federal agents will test positive for Roger Clemens' DNA, according to a brief filed in court by McNamee's lawyers.
Do you think Rusty Hardin gives refunds? You have to believe that Clemens went to the old blow-hard with the utmost confidence that he could get him off the hook. However, the client calls the shots and I'm starting to wonder if Hardin hadn't tried to talk 22 off the ledge. Maybe if Clemens had listened to him or pulled a Pettitte this shit would've been glossed over real quick. I wonder if this is now the most dramatic thing Suzyn Waldman has EVAH seen?
This has gone from a "just fucking admit it and take your lickings you fucking dolt" to a hysterically absurd near farce of stupidity to watching a man's life crumble before your eyes.
If it were anyone else but Clemens, I might feel the slight twang of sympathy but, fuck him. What's really interesting is how sports stars can commit the most horrible acts and boucne back, more or less, unscathed. You think O.J. Simpsons has been sans pussy since he killed his ex-wife? Michael Vick is sure to play in the NFL again, Julio Lugo still has employment after beating his wife and odds are that Shawn Chacone will end up getting signed post All-Star break after choke-slamming his boss.
But, you let another guy stick something in your ass to save your rapidly waning career and you are instantly a pariah. It's funny how we want purity from our atheletes only on the field. Just think about how many racist motherfuckers are in the Hall of Fame to date (Jeff Kent probably won't make it, but let's not rule anything out, oh, and Bonds? That's a negatory, Ghost Writer) and ask yourself if Clemens really deserves the Pete Rose treatment.
Well, just like Rose, the Roidcket did it to himself. Tried to blame everyone else (even his fucking wife for christsakes!) but himself and figured his legendary stature in the game would carry him through the fire. Didn't work out that way, did it, sport? Maybe you should've listened to your momma and never "gotten in a pissing contest with a skunk."
Enjoy the Mark McGwire Sad Seclusion Lifestyle, dickhead.

Despite ESPN's Efforts, Stephen A. Smith is Still Heckled

I only look forward to the NBA draft because of the Stephen A. Smith Heckling Society of Gentlemen. ESPN broke my heart this year when they announced that THE MOST IMPORTANT BLACKBERRY COLUMNIST would be reduced to lesser activities. I worried the hecklers wouldn't turn out and I would deprived of another 10 minutes wasted on YouTube. Oh, I was wrong.
This is not as brilliant as last years video but Kenny Smith, the O.J. Mayo line and Stephen A. Smith's letter to ESPN made cinematic magic happen. Enjoy.