You ever just sit around and think about Anderson Cooper? I did recently when I saw the shocking news that the CNN anchor turns out to be…GAY! Who saw that one coming? Later on, following his first announcement, Andy also came out as a body double for Casper the ghost, revealed that he was skinny, and turned folks on to the fact that he does not now, nor ever will, dye his hair white. Hot damn! Slow news day, anyone?
Anderson Cooper is a gay homosexual man
In related news, a rash of other celebrities have come out with their own startling revelations:
Rush Limbaugh came out as a fat, deaf, drug-addicted hypocritical asshole who looks like a blubbery Mister Potato-Head.
Larry King came out as a mummy and as “in all honesty dead for quite a while now.”
George Burns came out as NOT dead, just really needing to take a break from all the touring and chain cigar-smoking.
Tom Cruise came out as a gay, couch-jumping, big-toothed nut-job/compulsive giggler. (Please don’t kill me, Tom Cruise. I have a kid.)
George Bush came out as Curious George, the Retarded Warmongering Monkey.
Snooki came out as an alcoholic, rage-prone slut with a brain the size and consistency of a wasabi pea.
Barack Obama came out as African… African-American, that is — motherfucker!
Can’t wait to hear more shocking news. Which reminds me, I think I’ll use this opportunity to come out as a whiskey-drinking mother-humpin’ redneck with scant tolerance for bigoted, Nazi-loving donkey-humpers. Kill the haters before they hate again! Hot damn!
What do you guys reckon? Heard any other juicy celeb revelations? Let me know in the comments section. I’m always looking for a scoop.
“Yeah, I’m gay. What are you gonna do about it? Oh, you’re gonna suck my nuts about it? Well, that’s cool enough for school.”
You ever just sit around and think about Father’s Day? I didn’t get a chance to until this morning, seeing as how yesterday I decided to spend the whole waking day and sleeping night with my son.
So today, in honor of dads everywhere, I’m offering up a copy of Lisa Duggan’s lovely “Parent Du Jour” interview of yours truly. See the interview in its more glorious original form on Lisa’s great, ParentDuJour.com, a site serving up one mom and one dad every day, 365 days of the year.
No friend to a raccoon
From “A DAD A DAY” by Lisa Duggan
AGE:Can’t recall… thirty-something?
HOMETOWN:Nowhereville, in the Deep, Dark South.
ON THE WEB:Clayton Diggs
NUMBER OF CHILDREN:One, though sometimes that one seems like a damn army.
DAY JOB:Unemployed / Getting hammered / Blogger slash writer
“Clayton Diggs currently has several books of fiction in the works, soon to be available for general consumption for Kindle, Nook, and on Audible.com. His writing, like his blogs, shows flashes of the dulled rapier wit that has made Southern humor famous throughout the land. At this moment, Clayton isn’t available for comment because he just blasted another damned raccoon and is trying to skin it. If you’re following him on Twitter, you know this to be true. If you’re savvy on skinning raccoons, please do send him a message, or tweet him on Twitter. He’s getting kind of desperate, and when he’s desperate he takes to drinking, and when he takes to drinking, he often ends up in jail, and even though the sheriff is his cousin and will release him in the morning, it’s still not an experience he’s real keen on.”
Clayton Diggs, The Parent Du Jour, Father’s Day
FAVORITE CHILDREN’S BOOK What children’s book is a favorite in your house and why? What book has made a great impact on you or your kids? Was there/ is there a story that was passed down from generation to generation?
Is the Bartender’s Bible a children’s book? I’m almost kidding.
But junior does love the hell out of the iPad version of the Three Little Pigs. When the damn wolf falls into the pot of boiling water, the boy giggles like a simple fool. It’s cute, but kind of creepy too. Just the other day he boiled a big pot of water in my chimney and then kind of casually suggested I try using the front door less and the chimney more.A story passed down from generation to generation? Well, I do tell junior about how his uncle Remus blew his damn self up with a homemade still, which isn’t so much a lesson about not doing illegal shit as it is a lesson about how you really shouldn’t smoke around highly flammable stuff. Man, we do miss that old boy, though. RIP, you idiot.
HOW DO YOU COMBINE WORK AND FAMILY?
I’ve got the boy four days of the week. Since I mostly just fix stuff around the property or diddle and fiddle around on the computer, I get to hang out with him the whole time I’ve got him, which is awesome. He’s a year and like eight months now, so he can walk and keep me company when I’m hammering in a fence post or he can pass me shotgun shells while I’m blasting a raccoon off the damn porch.
HOW HAS PARENTING CHANGED YOU AS AN INDIVIDUAL?
I think it’s made me drink more. When I’m really blitzed I tend to forget about all the ways that I feel totally inadequate as a dad.
WHAT IS YOUR WORST PARENTING MOMENT?
Man, that’s a tough question. I guess it’s most every time when I imagine some stupid shit I did that could have gotten my kid maimed or killed. It’s amazing how many of those there are. Like, you leave a loaded bear trap just a little too close to the edge of the kitchen counter, you know?
WHAT IS YOUR BEST PARENTING MOMENT?
All the times I didn’t get the kid maimed or killed. We’ve got a pretty good streak going, and that’s cool.
“I’m so cute it hurts. I’m so damn sweet I make you seem like a bull’s scrotum. Yeehah!”
And here, as a gift to hardworking dads everywhere, is The Charlize Theron Butt Poll 3. Remember: be honest. It’s the only path to personal growth.
“Help me! It happens that I might be a bit too delicious. Tobey Maguire’s mouth tastes like Leo DiCaprio’s anus.”
(Editor’s note: clicking on links might lead to insanely amusing schlitz. Or just informative schlitz. Depends on the link)
You ever sit around and just think about how the Emperor might well have no clothes? I did yesterday after I actually saw much-hyped alien horror flic Prometheus. Let me tell you something straight-up: the Emperor has NO @#$% CLOTHES!
Here’s what online aggregate-smart-machine Rottentomatoes had to say about Prometheus by way of critical consensus:
“Ridley Scott’s ambitious quasi-prequel to Alien may not answer all of its big questions, but it’s redeemed by its haunting visual grandeur and compelling performances — particularly Michael Fassbender as a fastidious android.”
May not answer ALL of it big questions? Alien, whaaaaaaaaaat? Alien, pleeeease! Not only weren’t there any answers, there weren’t any big questions either! The Emperor has no clothes! What the hell is wrong with you people?
Prometheus Reviewed, Charlize Theron’s Butt
How to put this… wait, I’ve got it: Prometheus is one of the stupidest, most overhyped, most boring pieces of crap ever to disgrace the silver screen. People who should be turned to alien slime puddles, though not necessarily in this order, include:
The film editor: Prometheus features some of the clumsiest single cuts ever seen in a non-amateur work. Also, the editor decided to yada yada Charlize Theron’s blonde-on-black sex scene with the ship’s captain.
The casting director: What was it, special discount day at the racial-ethnic potpourri Walmart? White, Asian, Black, Blonde, Irish Stepchild, Southern, Swedish, and more. Dude, this is an alien pic, not a @#$!ing Beneton commercial. You’re a moron.
The script writers: The script is wooden, nonsensical. “Faith” pops up now and again but feels like a last-minute addition, and not the central issue the writers intended, or should have intended, it to be. Oh, and if Charlize Theron angrily says “Jesus!” or “OMG!” just one more damn time, I’m gonna hurl green slime.
Noomi Rapace and Logan Marshall-Green: If there were any less sexual chemistry between these two, they’d be brother and sister. Well, that holds true so long as they don’t live in the Deep South.
Ridley Scott: The buck stops here. Sir Ridley, you’ve made a festering alien turd of a movie, dressed up in $130 million bucks of special effects and marketing hype. If you’re the Emperor, you most certainly are buck naked as the day you were born. Shrinkage!
Everyone else involved in the making of the film: You should all be ashamed. Go back to your home planet: Stupid Hyped Crappia.
Don’t see Prometheus. Just don’t. Not even on DVD. It’ll be two hours you can never get back from the vacuum of space, much as you’d like to. If you want good alien horror, you’d be better off painting yourself green, drinking a pint of turpentine, and swallowing a lit match before running around the neighborhood (naturally, I’m describing my Saturday nights). Shame on you, Ridley Scott, and shame on the film critics of the world for not seeing through this thin, under-realized pile of alien feces. Shame on you for taking the fees.
The Emperor has no clothes! Hell… you know what? It’s worse than that. The clothes have no Emperor. Hot damn!
Did you see Prometheus? Share your thoughts in the comments section. Also, be sure to take the Charlize Theron Butt Poll 2.
“Yes, my butt is smoking. Tobey Maguire’s mouth tastes like Leo DiCaprio’s scrotum.”
In case you’ve been living in an outer-space cave for the last few weeks, here’s what this month’s sort-of-Alien-prequel, $130 million dollar blockbuster is about:
Charlize Theron, wearing a grey, overly manly Star Trek getup, plays the badass Corporate Leader of the space-exploration vessel Prometheus, emotes The Matrix’s Morpheus in her smugness, and says crap to her crew like: “My job is to make sure you do yours.”
Wait, Char…what’s the job? Is it spanking your fine behind with a light-saber? Sign me up! Hot damn! I’m sorry. I’m not!
Anyway, between harsh quips from hottie Theron and mounting sexual tension between laconic android-thing Michael Fassbender (the creepiest looking pederast-candidate in Hollywood) and female crewmate Noomi Rapace (Sweden’s Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) – prompting audiences to wonder about android genital design – Prometheus makes its inevitable way toward some planet where the slimy origins of humanity are thought to be hanging out, shooting the slime, so to speak.
It’s no surprise, of course, when the expedition goes horribly, slimily wrong. The only thing no one can explain to me though is why, when the Prometheus exploratory crew sees a weird cobra like creature slithering out of a slimy tree trunk thing, one of them decides it’s time to try and make friends with the local slime-life.
Promethean 1: “Look, it’s an adorable cobra slime-thing. It’s so cute how it’s hissing at me and bobbing its head menacingly.”
Promethean 2: “Um. Dude, I don’t thing that’s a good idea.”
Promethean 1: “Coochie-coochie-coo…”
Alien slime spore cobra, lunging, attaching itself to Promethean 1’s face: “Stupid human douchebag, now I’m going to eat your nuts.”
Promethean 1: “Aaaaaaargh! My nuts! It burns.”
Promethean 2: “Um. Dude, party foul. Now humanity is doomed to destruction. Total party foul. Um.”
You’ll never guess what happens next! The so clever Prometheus crew brings the slime monsters on board their floating space-home to see if they’ll make decent roommates. General disagreement ensues about what constitutes good roomie behavior. The humans, you see, feel that it’s rude of the slime monsters to invade a human body cavity and then rupture it from the inside like a bloody piñata. The slime monsters, for their part, politely insist that turning humans into exploding blood bombs of screaming misery is perfectly okay, kind of akin to borrowing a glass and milk from the communal space-fridge now and then. We can only hope they all find a way to make friends by the end of the pic, you know? It’s all about good-roomie communication!
Despite the fact that we’ve seen this exact space/horror thing a thousand times before, I’ve read that Prometheus serves up on a slimy platter a few surprises, such as the scene in which a woman performs a damn C-section on herself inside some kind of plastic auto-surgery tube. The surgery wound is closed up with big-ass metal staples and the slime-monster baby is gripped tight in a vise. Aww…how cute is that?
“It’s not exactly a traditional fetus,” says humanoid robot-thing Michael Fassbender (he’s chosen “Lawrence of Arabia”’s Peter O’Toole as his role model – for real). That is so funny! LOL! ROTFLMVAO! (Roll On The Floor Laugh My Vomiting Ass OFF!)
So yeah, I can’t wait to see this adorable sendup of MTV’s the Real World. It’s like the Real World, but in outer space. It’s The Real World, Aliens and Their Dumb Human Food.
Well, amigos, that’s it for this week. I’ll write another bit when I’ve seen Prometheus. Hmmm… why do I feel like I already have? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to down a couple Mint Juleps with my new, friendly, slime-monster neighbors. That shouldn’t be problem, right? I mean, how bad can it be to become an exploding blood bomb of human misery? Hey, you’ve gotta make nice with the neighbors, you know!
“Give me your fiery know-how, you gorgeous Promethean slime-monster, you!”
(Editor’s warning: clicking on links might lead you to some insanely funny shit. Or just to some informative shit. Depends on the link)
You ever just sit around and think about Mr. Rogers? I did recently when someone passed me a link to PBS Digital Studio’s autotuned video of Mr. Rogers singing “Garden of Your Mind.” Have you seen this thing? If not, put down whatever you’re doing and check it out. It’s an almost supernatural trip down memory lane, featuring some of Mr. Roger’s greatest moments, set to a tripped-out, synthed-up dance beat. I actually thought I must have downed a couple ‘ludes when I first saw it. Mr. Rogers, meet Bourbon and Xanax; Bourbon and Xanax, meet Mr. Rogers. Hot damn!
Remember Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood from when you were a damn rugrat? You probably remember him much the same way I do: walking into his little house, putting on his sneakers, slipping into a red cardigan, talking so slow and earnest you felt compelled to throw the bottle of moonshine your uncle Remus gave you for your tenth birthday at the TV, watching it shatter the screen, realizing you weren’t at all sober, then getting chased around the barnyard by your uncle who was getting chased around by your dad who was wielding a stick and screaming, “Remus, if you give my boy just one more bottle of ‘shine, so help me God I’m gonna hog-clip your nuts.” Man, it brings a tear to my eye.
Fred McFeely Rogers was born on March 20th, 1928, in Latrobe PA, just in time for the Great Depression and just a tad late to get his rocks off with some flapper hussy. Might account for why he never in all his years took a drink of liquor or had a smoke – don’t worry about it, Fred-o…nobody’s perfect.
Anyway, over the 75 years he was alive, he put on just about every kind of cardigan you can think of: he was an educator, a Presbyterian minister, a songwriter, and an author. Oh, and I forgot to mention, he was also a television host. He also testified before those fat assholes in Congress on behalf of funding for children’s television and public television in general (he actually pretty much saved both), was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom (the highest civilian honor available in the US, and pretty much equivalent to getting a cozy BJ from the Commander in Chief), a Peabody Award, and he was inducted into the Television Hall of Fame. Hot damn! Fuck you, Mr. Rogers! You’re making us all look bad! I’m sorry. I’m not! I am!
I’m sure you’ve heard all that before, but here’s some stuff about the most-eerily-calm-man-not-on-life-support you may not have known:
Koko the gorilla loved him so much that when he showed up at her place she’d hug him and take his shoes off. Rumor has it that after the cameras were off she may have taken off a lot more.
Even fucking criminals loved Mr. Rogers. Once, when his old Impala was stolen from the street near the TV station where he worked, he filed a police report that got picked up by every newspaper and radio show for a million miles. Less than two days later, his car popped up in the exact spot from where it had been taken, with a note taped to the dashboard, reading: “If we’d known it was yours, we never would have taken it. Also, we heard you were a tattooed navy sniper. If this is true, please don’t maim, torture, and kill us. We want to be your neighbors. Won’t you please, for the love of all that is holy, pretty-please be our neighbor?”
He composed all the songs on the show himself. All of them. He could play a mean jazz piano, whiskey or no whiskey. He wrote over 200 songs, including “Garden of Your Mind”, “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood”, and “No, I’m Not Gay. I Just Speak Slowly.”
He was color-blind. He couldn’t see the color blue – so when his wife, Sara, would give him blue balls, she was able to convince him that it was just his imagination. He was also color-blind when it came to folks in general. When he was a kid, his family adopted a black foster child. I have no idea how to make fun of that.
His dear old momma hand-knit every one of the cardigans he wore on his how. I have no idea how to make fun of that.
Mr. Rogers gets autotuned in “Garden of Your Mind”
What I found especially cool and interesting about Fred, apart from all the stuff just mentioned, is that he hated TV. He plain old hated it, but thought it might make a hell of a good medium for educating children, if handled properly, so he got involved in TV to make sure the job got done right. And just about right was how the old boy did just about everything. He took home over 40 honorary degrees in his life. Congress grew a big fat chubby in the presence of his divine good-heartedness. Presidents fawned over him.
But I think, as do folks who knew him well, that it wasn’t the big stuff that meant the most to Fred Rogers. It was the intelligence, kindness, and awareness he was able to bring to the lives of his many, many fans across several generations, kids and adults alike. And I think he was right about the potential for TV, and video in general, to reach out across time and space and touch our hearts and minds. My own son, just a year and a half old, already loves watching old Fred, and, unlike with so much other hog-shit that’s on TV, I’ve got no problems with my boy doing so whenever he damn well pleases.
Fred McFeely Rogers died of stomach cancer in 2003, at the age of 75, in Pittsburgh, PA. But, thanks to the communicative medium to which he brought so much integrity, his presence is still very much with us through the immortal power of memory as brought to life on a screen of any size. In “Garden of Your Mind” he asks a potent question, and provides an even more forceful answer: “Did you ever grown anything, in the garden of your mind? …all you have to do is think.”
I’m thinking, Fred. I’m thinking you were a hell of a fine human being. You made the collective mind-garden of humankind a more fertile soil for the development of all that is good, kind, and intelligent in our race. You were one of a damn kind. You sure will be missed.
I raise my glass of milk to you, Sir. I truly do.
“I’m so fucking nice I make you look like an asshole. But I love you.”