Inglorious Bastards

Hollywood has been all poopy-pants over the announcement that Quentin Tarantino plans to remake the ultra-violent film Inglorious Bastards. For weeks, casting rumors have swirled like bong hits: each one longer and weirder than the preceeding. Allow me to explain:

Hit 1: Brad Pitt, starring. Delicious, noxious fumes invade your lungs and brain, excite you, entice you, demand more.

Hit 2: Simon Pegg, arty, cool. You’re feeling it, calming, but still craving.

Hit 3: B.J. Novak, random. You’re stoned now, for sure, and want to discuss the importance of Dawson’s Creek as it reflected your life and how the planetary alignments affected you during high school. (What?)

Hit 4: Nastassja Kinski, who? You can’t even remember your name anymore.

And, finally, Hit 5: Eli Roth. This hit hurts. You want to throw up now. You should have stopped before. You over-indulged and now you’re paying for it.

Really, QT, Eli Roth? Who wants to see that douchebag act? He better die first, and spectacularly.

Magnum Pee-Eww…

It was announced today that Tom Selleck, he of Hawaiian shirt and bush mustache, will be joining the “cast” of the nine thousandth season of Dancing With The Stars. This news astounds us on two separate levels. First, the genius behind these schlock reality shows that know how desperately we little people want nothing more than to see fallen stars humiliate themselves week after week. And secondly, the sheer desperation these celebrities reek of. How much more money do you need, Tom Selleck? Huh, how much? Is this really what you want to do, a shimmy-sequined samba with country-crossover Julianne Hough? Aren’t you a Republican? Don’t you like guns? Just saying…