Clayton Diggs

4 out of 5 assholes hate Clayton

Tag: hollywood

Prometheus, Charlize Theron’s Spacey Butt, and Blood Piñatas

(Editor’s note: clicking on links might lead to insanely amusing schlitz.  Or just informative schlitz.  Depends on the link)

You ever just sit around and think about aliens? I did recently, when I heard talk of the new Ridley Scott flic, Prometheus. Haven’t seen it yet, but hot damn! it looks like a wacky ride!

And I’m not just talking about  Charlize Theron’s very fine derrière, which, despite Pulp Fiction’s Marcelus Wallace’s admonitions about asses to the contrary, has aged like a very fine wine, and not at all turned to vinegar (well, unless she hasn’t showered in a few days).

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.

LOL! ROTFLMVAO!

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!”

Mr. Rogers Gets Autotuned, Navy Snipers, and Gardens of the Mind

(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.”

Jason Alexander, the Late Late Show, and Gay Apologies

(Editor’s note: Links may lead to some insanely funny shit, or just to some informative shit. Depends on the link.)

(Second Editor’s note: Jason Alexander’s real apology, fully un-edited, appears at the bottom of this article.  Please be sure to read it.  This article is intended as satire, and is not to be taken even remotely seriously by anyone, straight, gay, or otherwise.)

You ever just sit around and think about the sport of cricket? Seinfeld alum Jason Alexander did recently when he was on The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson and here’s what went down:

Fergie: “Have you ever played cricket?  Cricket’s an amazing game.”

Jay-jay: “It’s a gay game. There’s a lot of people wearing white. People wearing helmets for no discernible reason…Everybody breaks for tea in the middle.”

Fergie:”Yeah, it’s a cross between baseball and Downton Abbey.”

Jay-Jay: “It’s the pitch. It’s the weirdest … . It’s not like a manly baseball pitch. It’s a queer, British gay pitch.”

Fergie: “Um.” (looking off camera at producer having a shit fit) “Eh, Jason, I’m not…”

Jay-Jay: “It’s the kind of pitch that almost always ends in weird gay anal exploration.”

Fergie: “Um.”

Jay-jay: “It’s the kind of pitch the guys in Brokeback Mountain would throw between queer make-out sessions and anal bead extraction.”

Fergie: “Uh, Jason, that’s not exactly accurate…”

Jay-jay: “You’re right, Fergie. Did I say Brokeback Mountain? I meant Broke-Ass Mountain! You know what I mean?  Yeah?” (extending hand for high five)

Did you guys not see this shit? The best part was where Jason Alexander stood up to demo the gay pitch, doing something that looked like a combo-tryout for the Martha Graham Dance Company and the Gay Men’s Chorus of New York. Hot damn! Gayness unleashed! Queer company! Hot damn!

The best was yet to come, though. The backlash to Jason’s gay comments, coming from GLAAD and other quarters, soon had him with his Shallow Hal vestigial tail tucked firmly between his short, chubby little legs. Here’s an excerpt from the apology he issued yesterday:

“I truly did not understand why a gay person would be particularly offended by this routine. I love queers. I have many queer, Broke-Ass Mountain friends who I love dearly, though not like that. Well, okay, just that once, but I was in college and that joint was spiked with meth.”

Jason Alexander apologizes for gay cricket

Seems he was troubled enough by the backlash to chat up some of his gay friends over Appletinis. He then realized why his comments had been so totally uncool and gay:

“At first, even [my gay friends] couldn’t quite find the offense in the bit. But as we explored it, we began to realize what was implied under the humor. I was basing my use of the word “gay” on the silly generalization that real men don’t do gentile, refined things and that my portrayal of the cricket pitch was pointedly effeminate, thereby suggesting that effeminate and gay were synonymous. I don’t believe this at all. Gay, especially when it’s named Kramer, or clad in leather, or accompanied by a riding crop, or as experienced anally by an aging, short actor, can be a truly manly and beautiful thing.

“It is not that we can’t laugh at and with each other. It is not a question of oversensitivity. The problem is that today, as I write this, young men and women whose behaviors, choices or attitudes are not deemed “man enough” or “normal” are being subjected to all kinds of abuse from verbal to physical to societal. They are being demeaned and threatened because they don’t fit the group’s idea of what a “real man” or a “real woman” are supposed to look like, act like and feel like. And that’s crap. Anal sex in general and girl-on-girl action in particular totally rock. I personally have an office equipped with stacks of tissue boxes and hand lotion that, over the weekend, has helped me get further in touch with this issue. I’ve taken, you could say, a very hands-on approach.

“For [gay] people, my building a joke upon the premise I did added to the pejorative stereotype that they are forced to deal with every day. It is at the very heart of this whole ugly world of bullying that has been getting rightful and overdue attention in the media. And with my well-intentioned comedy bit, I played right into those hurtful assumptions and diminishments. I would much rather play right into a nice, warm, lubricated asshole of manly affection and forgiveness.

“…I would like to say — I now get it. And to the extent that these jokes made anyone feel even more isolated or misunderstood or just plain hurt — please know that was not my intention, at all or ever. My intention was to gently caress the anal pleasure of brotherly understanding. Please forgive me. Please also stop writing my phone number in the bathroom stalls of gay nightclubs. Please. I can’t walk straight. I’m serious. My proctologist says it could actually kill me.”

What do you reckon? Think he’s sorry? To me it sounded like a pretty sincere apology, but word around the Boy Scouts of America campfire is that Jason’s got more planned by way of sorry. It’s rumored he might well go back on Craig Ferguson in a pink tutu, accompanied by Tom Cruise. Now that would be gay! Hot damn! I’m sorry! No I’m not. Hot damn!

(P.S. Tom Cruise: Please don’t kill me. I have a child. Pretty gay please?)

“The anus then distends, like so, in a very gay fashion.”

Jason Alexander’s full apology, uncut:

Last week, I made an appearance on the Craig Ferguson show – a wonderfully unstructured, truly spontaneous conversation show. No matter what anecdotes I think will be discussed, I have yet to find that Craig and I ever touch those subjects. Rather we head off onto one unplanned, loony topic after another. It’s great fun trying to keep up with him and I enjoy Craig immensely.

During the last appearance, we somehow wandered onto the topic of offbeat sports and he suddenly mentioned something about soccer and cricket. Now, I am not a stand-up comic. Stand up comics have volumes of time-tested material for every and all occasions. I, unfortunately, do not. However, I’ve done a far amount of public speaking and emceeing over the years so I do have a scattered bit, here and there.

Years ago, I was hosting comics in a touring show in Australia and one of the bits I did was talking about their sports versus American sports. I joked about how their rugby football made our football pale by comparison because it is a brutal, no holds barred sport played virtually without any pads, helmets or protection. And then I followed that with a bit about how, by comparison, their other big sport of cricket seemed so delicate and I used the phrase, “ a bit gay”. Well, it was all a laugh in Australia where it was seen as a joke about how little I understood cricket, which in fact is a very, very athletic sport. The routine was received well but, seeing as their isn’t much talk of cricket here in America, it hasn’t come up in years.

Until last week. When Craig mentioned cricket I thought, “oh, goody – I have a comic bit about cricket I can do. Won’t that be entertaining?”. And so I did a chunk of this old routine and again referred to cricket as kind of “gay” – talking about the all white uniforms that never seem to get soiled; the break they take for tea time with a formal tea cart rolled onto the field, etc. I also did an exaggerated demonstration of the rather unusual way they pitch the cricket ball which is very dance-like with a rather unusual and exaggerated arm gesture. Again, the routine seemed to play very well and I thought it had been a good appearance.

Shortly after that however, a few of my Twitter followers made me aware that they were both gay and offended by the joke. And truthfully, I could not understand why. I do know that humor always points to the peccadillos or absurdities or glaring generalities of some kind of group or another – short, fat, bald, blonde, ethnic, smart, dumb, rich, poor, etc. It is hard to tell any kind of joke that couldn’t be seen as offensive to someone. But I truly did not understand why a gay person would be particularly offended by this routine.

However, troubled by the reaction of some, I asked a few of my gay friends about it. And at first, even they couldn’t quite find the offense in the bit. But as we explored it, we began to realize what was implied under the humor. I was basing my use of the word “gay” on the silly generalization that real men don’t do gentile, refined things and that my portrayal of the cricket pitch was pointedly effeminate , thereby suggesting that effeminate and gay were synonymous.

But what we really got down to is quite serious. It is not that we can’t laugh at and with each other. It is not a question of oversensitivity. The problem is that today, as I write this, young men and women whose behaviors, choices or attitudes are not deemed “man enough” or “normal” are being subjected to all kinds of abuse from verbal to physical to societal. They are being demeaned and threatened because they don’t fit the group’s idea of what a “real man” or a “real woman” are supposed to look like, act like and feel like.

For these people, my building a joke upon the premise I did added to the pejorative stereotype that they are forced to deal with everyday. It is at the very heart of this whole ugly world of bullying that has been getting rightful and overdue attention in the media. And with my well-intentioned comedy bit, I played right into those hurtful assumptions and diminishments.

And the worst part is – I should know better. My daily life is filled with gay men and women, both socially and professionally. I am profoundly aware of the challenges these friends of mine face and I have openly advocated on their behalf. Plus, in my own small way, I have lived some of their experience. Growing up in the ‘70’s in a town that revered it’s school sports and athletes, I was quite the outsider listening to my musical theater albums, studying voice and dance and spending all my free time on the stage. Many of the same taunts and jeers and attitudes leveled at young gay men and women were thrown at me and on occasion I too was met with violence or the threat of violence.

So one might think that all these years later I might be able to intuit that my little cricket routine could make some person who has already been made to feel alien and outcast feel even worse or add to the conditions that create their alienation. But in this instance, I did not make the connection. I didn’t get it.

So, I would like to say – I now get it. And to the extent that these jokes made anyone feel even more isolated or misunderstood or just plain hurt – please know that was not my intention, at all or ever. I hope we will someday live in a society where we are so accepting of each other that we can all laugh at jokes like these and know that there is no malice or diminishment intended.

But we are not there yet.

So, I can only apologize and I do. In comedy, timing is everything. And when a group of people are still fighting so hard for understanding, acceptance, dignity and essential rights – the time for some kinds of laughs has not yet come. I hope my realization brings some comfort.

Thanks,

Jason

%d bloggers like this: