To Hell With The Movies
Brad Pitt Fart For Real
I’m not going to them anymore. I’m not watching until they become more realistic. I’m not watching because they’re all full of shit. I’ll only go back to the movies when actors really screw each other. What we get now is partial views of actors lunging and moaning. I know I can get sex in porn, but porns are monosyllabic and have lame plots. I want real stories, and I want believable sex, AND I WANT FRONTAL NUDITY. I’m sick and tired of seeing women from the neck up, or in gauzy shots when they get out of bed after a night of torrid love. OK, they’re beginning to show breasts, but I want the whole damn thing. And that goes for guys too. No more wearing jockey shorts when they get out of the sack. No more carefully folded sheets or blankets obscuring their private parts. I want realism. If George Clooney gets laid, I want to see his dick. And I want to see Angela Jolie’s pudendum. And I want to hear Brad Pitt fart. And I want to see beautiful actors taking a dump. Until they do all that, I’m not gonna watch their phony shit anymore.
I want to see male actors actually cry. Right now, practically none can, and they try to hide the fact by lowering their heads, shaking their shoulders, and moaning. That doesn’t cut it. I want to see real male tears and that probably will eliminate nine of 10 working male actors today.
I want people to look like family. Actors playing brothers or sisters look like they belong on different continents in the world. I want real brothers and real sisters. If we can’t have that, lets do away with all families in all movie plots.
I want real fights. Right now, actors clobber the shit out of each other and in the next scene, all they’re sporting is a tiny band aid strategically placed on their foreheads that doesn’t interfere with their natural beauty. When people fight, they lose teeth, they bleed quarts, and bones breaks. To get that, I have to watch the NFL,but that only lasts five months.
I demand real sex, real defecation, real blood, and broken teeth and legs 12 months a year.
Until I get it, I say to hell with the movies.
Walter Cronkite Was A Horny Dog
That’s the way it should always be…
I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead…but what the hell, they’re dead so they ain’t gonna know about it. Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about the dead lately – dead celebrities that is. I have known quite a few of them in my desultory career in TV.
Lemme tell you, they put their legs in their pants or panties one leg at a time. They also defecate, urinate, suffer from piles and pick their noses just like the rest of us.
Today, I’m writing about a dead person that all of America loved, Walter Cronkite, the anchor on CBS News. For thirty odd years he was king and was America’s favorite newscaster by far. He seemed so cal m, so rational, so avuncular and he always told us the unvarnished truth on the six o’clock news.
That may be true, but the dude sure had an eye for the ladies. I witnessed this firsthand at my first TV job. I was Walter’s P.A. (production assistant). I got the job because I was a ski racer. I wasn’t a very good one, but CBS was broadcasting The Winter Olympics in Squaw Valley and in those days nobody knew much about winter sports so I was hired to coach Walter when he announced Alpine events.
Now, he’s a nice enough guy and when he’s in front of a camera he’s the ultimate pro, but when he wasn’t staring into the lens at The Olympics he was staring at other things. He was one of the horniest guys I have ever met. At Squaw Valley stretch pants were just coming in and Walter couldn’t keep his eyes off the female skiers, especially when they bent down to take off or put on their skis. The rehearsals would stop when that happened.
In addition to being totally mesmerized by women he put the make on every comely chick that came within 15 feet of him. Part of my job became finding the man to get him ready for the telecast and I usually found him in a hotel room with some hottie. But he was a pro. He’d rearrange his clothing, brush his hair and smooth out his blazer. It was the old reliable, avuncular, caring Walter Cronkite in front of the camera.
Walter’s sign off was well known. He’d look straight into camera and say solemnly, “And that’s the way it is – ” And then he’d give the date. He’d been doing that closing for a decade. All of America was familiar with it. But at the Women’s Downhill, Cronkite veered from his usual closing. The picture on camera was a pan of the glorious peaks at Squaw Valley and Cronkite said, “Today I’m changing my closing. Instead of that’s the way it is – let me say “That’s the way it should always be…”
The world TV audience thought Walter was referring to the magnificent pan of snow capped mountains, but he was only looking at the monitor with one eye. The other was on a comely young thing in stretch pants, who was bending over and taking off her skis. Right after the sign-off he whipped off his headset and started a conversation with the lady. I knew next morning my first duty would be knocking on various hotel doors until I finally found him.
And that’s the way it was for the entire Olympics…
But Cronkite was a good guy and wherever he is now, I hope there are lots and lots of hot chicks in stretch pants. “Because that’s the way it should always be.”