The 50 Best Breasts in Movie History
10/9/2007 3:08:47 PM
As our fabulous sister-blog Scanner reports, Film Threat wants you to know that October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. To help raise awareness for the American Cancer Society they’re “celebrating the best breasts to ever grace the cinema screen.”
We wholeheartedly support the cause…and these clips. Here’s #50, Mae West:
#49, Jane Russell:
And #48, Marilyn Monroe:
More mammaries to come! —N.A.
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Lisa D'Amato Comes Back with "Ace of Spades"
10/9/2007 2:01:00 PM
Lisa D’Amato may not have won Cycle 5 of America’s Next Top Model, but she’s back and apparently working on her own album. She’s looking good, and just as crazy as ever. I don’t know what she means when she sings, “I’ll pencil-whip you in the ass” – but I’m sure we’ll find out when the video is completed. Can someone be so crazy they cease being hot? Yes! And yet…and yet…I can’t turn away…
—N.A.
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My Two Cents: I Demand the Return of Underoos!
10/9/2007 12:30:00 PM
Hi there, and welcome to "My Two Cents," the NEW column where I discuss matters of important social... importance. Today's column is:
I Demand the Return of "Underoos"!
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Yes! Do we not all remember "Underoos," also known as "the underwear that's fun to wear™"? If you don't happen to remember, then please watch the following vintage commercial:
Awesome! I wore Underoos each and every day of my little kid life, not as underwear, you understand, but as a costume, so that I could go outside and battle my friends.
For me, with my own personal Underoos-wearing-experience, there was always the big question... Batman or Superman? Which to wear? Which? I have to admit, I almost always went "Superman" with it, and therefore the Batman shirt never left my dresser. I just felt like being Superman gave me that extra-added advantage that I needed. Superman was an alien from Krypton who could lift boulders over his head and shoot laser beams from his eyes. Batman was... a rich trust-funder who invented gas-powered grappling hooks and flying cars and things. Considering that I got straight "Cs" in science for my whole entire life, it seemed better to play it safe and go with "The Man of Steel."
Anyway, I digress. So here's what I'm demanding... Bring back Underoos, but in revised form, for us cool adults! Who could be against that? (There would be no need, by the way, to wear the nasty "tightie-whities"; just ditch them, as you did when you were a child, and wear your super-cool "Aquaman" shirt with jeans and sneakers.)
...I mean, if I saw some hipster girl at a club wearing the "Batgirl" navel-revealing shirt, I would probably die of happiness and marry her on the spot. And so would you, if you're being totally honest with yourself.
And it's not like we haven't had the return of a lot of retro crap thus far. Already, and possibly as a result of my incessant whining, Madison Avenue has seen it fit to bring back "Kangaroo" brand sneakers, so why not "Underoos" too?
In fact, I'm taking this one step further. I want all of you to write to Fruit of the Loom, Inc., and demand the creation of cool-ass adult "Underoos" -- especially the "Boba Fett" ones which I really really want for some reason. Here's the address. Write to them and let them know what "time" it is: ...it's time for some motherfucking Underoos, yo.
Come on! Like you can't see "Underoos" being sold at "Urban Outfitters" alongside a million other pieces of crap! I've already written demanding my "'Roos"! You can too! So go forth, my winged-money-people, and demand this now now now! ...Here's the link to demand your Underoos once again.
Nota bene: If you look carefully at the photos below, you'll notice that the "R2-D2" and "C-3PO" underwear is girl's underwear. Does that mean that R2-D2 is, like, a chick? Do I have to go back and watch all fifteen "Star Wars" movies and reassess them now for lady-like behavior on the droids' part? I certainly hope not...
--Oliver
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The Orgasalarm!
10/9/2007 12:08:43 PM
Fire, the wheel, Keith Richards…now comes an amazing new invention: the Orgasalarm. If only they existed…if only I had a car… —N.A.
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The future has arrived!
10/8/2007 11:54:21 AM
Here's what I want for my birthday. My birthday isn't actually until next August, so luckily, you guys have plenty of time to prepare:
Robo-car! I want it! Pretty cool, no? And it promises to make parallel-parking a thing of the past. I, of course, can parallel-park already, but that'll be useful for all you lady drivers who find the task of parking sideways to be the equivalent of advanced quantum physics. Ah ha ha ha! Nah, I'm just kidding! You gals are great! ...And you're so easy on the eyes, too!
Another nice thing about the car: it's electric. That's right, the car can be plugged into any standard household outlet, and once it's fully charged, can travel over eighty miles. Of course, I've had my cell phone for -- what? -- about nine years now, and I still can't remember to plug that in. But I'm sure that I'll remember to charge my car every night.
Anyway, the main awesome feature of this car is that it has the robot navigator, which can do things like sensing when you're tired based on its monitoring of your eye motions. The robot will then say something like, "You seem like you might be a little bit sleepy. ...There's a local coffee shop 500 meters to your left." I am not making any of this up.
...And on an unrelated yet related note: I have noticed that robots are always either helpful subservient drones, like the Robo-car above, or Rosie the Robot on "The Jetsons" ...or are insane destructive monsters that inevitably go berserk and destroy the world like in "The Terminator" or "The Matrix". What does it have to be either/or? ...How about a sort of in-between robot that says something like, "Well, I'm not going to help you, but I'm also not going to blacken the sky with nuclear weapons, either. Instead, I'm going to just sit here quietly and do math problems in my head. Hum de hum de hoo. Beep."
...And... you know what? That last paragraph made no fucking sense. In fact, today's entire blog made no real sense. I've had too much coffee to drink and I'm blathering. I apologize. I'm ending this now.
--Oliver
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Chris Crocker = The New RuPaul???
10/8/2007 10:00:00 AM
This little queen is like the love child of Rosanna Arquette and Carson Kressley! Actually, with cloning and all I wouldn't be surprised. Those two look like they'd be into having a Mini-Me.
The BEST part about Chrissy is the Southern accent. Do y'all remember that chick with the pink hair from The 700 Club on Christian Network??? Or is that just me?! Wait, let me see if I can find that shiz on YouTube.
OMFG! Google is amazing. That hot slut's name is Jan Crouch. I think Jan Crouch is Chris Crocker's baby mama! What do you think??? On second thought, I think Jan is hiding some peen under that pinafore of hers.
Jessica "Givin it up to Jesus" Haralson
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I Can't Stop!
10/8/2007 9:00:00 AM
Last Britney Spears viral vid! I promise. But this one features hot-ass Andy Samberg and K-Fed! Can you blame my gossip-loving self for eating this up?
ANYWAYZ, K-Fed has some parenting advice for y'alls. He's now "slightly more responsible than Britney Spears", and he's suing Fed-Ex, and he knows some parenting rules now! But don't take my word for it! K-Fed should be in those public service ads and shit.
That's right, the Fedster is a good parent. SNL teaches me everything. I kind of want him to adopt me now! You know he's getting the $$$ from Brit. I wouldn't be all uppity or anything, I'd just sit quiet and wait for the trust fund bennies to kick in.
--JGH
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Jackie Beat Brings It!
10/8/2007 8:00:00 AM
Jackie Beat for President! America's Favorite Drag Queen (tm) just released her interpretation of "Gimme More." I promise I'll stop with the Brit-Brit parodies when the Brit-Brit parodies stop being funny! This is too much:
Screw Perez! Jackie Beat is the REAL "Queen of All Media". I'd be seen at The Ivy with this hot slut in a heartbeat.
-Jessica Gold Haralson
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Best. Britney Parody. Ever!
10/5/2007 5:36:06 PM
After the vomitous-ness of the "Gimme More" video I inflicted on y'all this morning, here's a great Britney parody/cartoon/awesomesplosion, created by YouTube user Surflesblo:
I love the narrator! His voice goes down smoother than some Spicy Cheetos followed with a swig of Red Bull. OK, that's not a good comparison! More like his voice goes down smoother than Dakota Fanning's pubes. GAH! I cannot get my mind out of the gutter today.
--JGH
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Shameless Promotional Thingy: Matrimony
10/5/2007 2:12:03 PM
Howdy! So my professor and old buddy Josh Henkin's new novel is out. I'll be plugging it for him here today. Josh was my professor at Sarah Lawrence College, the finest (and most expensive) liberal arts college in the known fucking universe.
I consider plugging Josh's book here to be nothing more than minor payback for him having to spend two years reading my short stories about cowboys, ninjas, strippers, and exploding dams. Thanks, Josh!
Here's an excerpt from his new book, "Matrimony," which you can buy right here. I might mention in passing that the fictional "Graymont College" discussed here in the excerpt bears a stunning resemblence to Sarah Lawrence College, down to the naked parties, guys in dresses, pot brownies submitted as final projects, dental dams, and all the rest...
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--Excerpt from "Matrimony"--
Out! Out! Out! The first words Julian Wainwright ever spoke, according to his father, Richard Wainwright III, graduate of Yale and grand lubricator of the economic machinery, and Julian’s mother, Constance Wainwright, Wellesley graduate and spawn of a long family of Pennsylvania Republicans. Julian, the first Wainwright in four generations to be given his own Christian name. Julian’s father would have liked another Richard Wainwright, but Julian’s mother was a persistent woman and she believed a child of hers was entitled to his own identity and therefore his own name. And so, at fifteen months, in a car ride back from Martha’s Vineyard, Julian, who until then had not said a word and had given his parents every reason to think language would come slowly to him, uttered these words in rapid succession: Out! Out! Out! Not once, not twice, but repeatedly, until the words became a chant and it was obvious that for reasons all his own he didn’t want to return to New York City, to his parents’ apartment on Sutton Place.
Now, seventeen years later, he had gotten his wish. It was 1986, and he was starting his freshman year at Graymont College, a small liberal arts school in Northington, Massachusetts, an hour and a half west of Boston. An alternative school, according to the Graymont brochure, on whose cover there appeared a picture of Rousseau sitting next to a cow. Henri Rousseau? Jean-Jacques Rousseau? The students didn’t know, and they didn’t seem to care. The only thing that mattered was that they were at Graymont, where in the middle of campus stood a shanty protesting college investments in South Africa, a shanty so large it could fit practically the whole student body inside it. According to one upper-class math major, more per capita nights had been spent sleeping inside the shanty at Graymont than in any other college shanty in the United States.
At Graymont, if you wanted, you could receive comments from your professors instead of grades, and on the application for admission there was a “creative expression” section that, according to rumor, one successful applicant had completed by baking a chocolate cake. “Hash brownies!” a student said. “The guy got the dean of admissions stoned!”
Julian’s own creative expression section took the form of a short story he’d written. At thirteen, he’d met his hero, John Cheever, standing on the steps of the 92nd Street Y, and ever since then, ever since he’d gotten John Cheever’s autograph, Julian had known he was going to be a writer.
But that would come later, once classes had begun. Right now, Julian waited in his dorm room to greet his new roommate, a young man from New Jersey who had assured him over the telephone that he was bringing the largest stereo system Julian had ever seen. It was going to take the two of them to carry it up the stairs.
Julian’s roommate was right. The promised stereo system, when it was delivered, looked like an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. It was a stereo system paid for by Ronald Reagan and built by the United States Pentagon and directed at Mikhail Gorbachev and the Soviet Politburo, a stereo system that could blow the Russians out of the sky and turn them into a mushroom cloud.
Wandering about the room, trailing wire behind him, Julian’s roommate was contemplating where to put his electric guitar, his boom box, his microwave, his toaster oven; he was, Julian thought, a tangle of electricity. “This school is wild,” his roommate said. “Some of the guys on campus wear skirts.”
“They do?”
“They’re hoping to transcend the boundaries of gender. Mostly they’re just trying to get laid. There are naked parties here. People come to them without any clothes on.”
“Completely nude?”
“In the winter, I suppose, they wear shoes and socks. It gets pretty cold here.” Julian’s roommate was dark-haired and thickset, and he had brought with him piles of pressed shirts and trousers, each of them separated by a white piece of tissue paper as if they had come directly from the dry cleaner. He was hanging them up now, smoothing them out with his hand. “You think those guys pee in the shower?”
“Which guys?”
“Jared and Hartley. Bill. Stefan.” His roommate gestured to the room down the hall. “Hartley’s the kind of guy who pees in the shower.”
In the bathroom now, Julian glanced warily at the showers. There were two stalls for six guys, each with a white piece of plastic hanging down from the rod but not quite reaching the floor.
“It’s bad enough to pee in your own shower,” his roommate said. “But in a communal shower?” He looked up at Julian. “You don’t pee in the shower, do you?”
“No,” Julian said. From time to time he had. Didn’t everyone?
“I had this roommate in prep school who peed in the sink.”
“You didn’t,” Julian said.
“Swear to God. When I was using the bathroom and he needed to go, he’d just climb up on the sink and pee in it.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“All the same, I think I’ll be wearing flip-flops in here.” Again his roommate gestured to the room down the hall, as if to reassure Julian it wasn’t him he mistrusted.
“Here come the PCC-ers,” his roommate said. Through the window, Julian could see a group of students walking across the quad. They wore blue badges and nametags and held red and black satchels. They were upperclassmen, Julian’s roommate said, recent graduates of a week-long training course in reproductive health, purveyors of information about pregnancy and sexually transmitted disease, and in their satchels they carried the tools of their trade, leaflets, condoms, dental dams, and spermicide in all flavors.
Julian said, “The PCC-ers?”
“Peer Contraceptive Counseling. First night at school, they come talk to you. It’s all part of in loco parentis.”
“There are dozens of them.”
“Like flies,” his roommate said.
***
That night, as his roommate had predicted, everyone in Julian’s entryway met with four members of Peer Contraceptive Counseling, each wearing a PCC badge and nametag and holding a red and black PCC satchel. In freshman entryways across campus, upperclassmen had descended, wearing these very same badges and nametags and carrying these very same satchels.
Julian listened to a beautiful young woman named Nicole demonstrate how to use a dental dam. What exactly was a dental dam and why was Nicole wearing one? She appeared to be covered in Saran Wrap. Now Nicole’s colleagues, Brian, Ted, and Simone, were trying on dental dams as well. Several of the boys began to laugh, but the girls nodded knowingly, as if they’d spent their whole lives in the company of dental dams.
Soon it was time to taste the spermicide.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Nicole said, uncapping a tube of spermicide and squeezing a little onto her finger. She stuck her finger into her mouth, then passed the spermicide to Ted, who stuck his finger into his mouth. Everyone was eating spermicide.
“It’s fruit-flavor,” Nicole told the freshmen. “It’s supposed to be eaten.”
She asked for volunteers from the students, and when no one raised a hand she chose Julian.
Julian stood up. Was he supposed to stand up? Did you eat spermicide sitting down or standing up? Nicole was only a junior, but she seemed so much older than he was, so wise to the ways of the body and to the various flavors of spermicide and to the reasons there should be various flavors of spermicide.
“Would you like passion fruit?” Nicole asked. “Or strawberry?”
“Strawberry’s good,” Julian said.
Nicole handed him the spermicide.
“Don’t worry,” Nicole said. “It goes down smooth. It tastes like strawberry bubblegum.”
Julian squeezed some spermicide onto his finger and stuck it into his mouth.
“How does it taste?”
It tasted terrible. Like strawberry bubblegum but with extra chemicals. It had a sloppy, grainy texture. Julian nodded in approval.
The session lasted an hour and a half, and at the end of it all eighteen freshmen from Julian’s entryway were sent off with a contraceptive loot bag that included spermicide, dental dams, and condoms, miniature red and black satchels of their own taken from the larger satchels the PCC-ers carried with them. Carefully, seriously, respectfully, the girls took their satchels upstairs to their rooms, while the boys tossed the contents at one another and dissected them, and Hartley, from across the hall, filled his condoms with water and jettisoned them out the window into the courtyard, seeing if he could get them to explode.
Julian’s roommate said, “I’m telling you, that guy pees in the shower.”
“Could be,” Julian said. He went into his bedroom to unpack.
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--Oliver
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