Time in a Bottle (of CoCo Butter)

THR, Esq. has torn away any lingering threads of legitimacy from NBC's attempts to paint Conan O'Brien as the bad guy in the 'Tonight Show' fiasco (or at least I think they have; legalese makes me sleepy): despite the network's previous claims to the contrary, O'Brien's original contract specified that his program was to air at 11:35.

[THR via Movieline]

The Blindest Side

Say what you will about Jay Leno, you can't say the guy isn't blessed by good timing (scheduling timing, that is).

The man who lucked out by booking Hugh Grant on "The Tonight Show" following the latter's solicitation arrest in 1995--which forever turned the tide in the Leno-vs.-Letterman ratings battle--and scored Kanye West on the premiere episode of "The Jay Leno Show" the day after West's ass-bananas Taylor Swift-usurping at the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards has today completed somewhat of a hat trick:

On the very day that Conan O'Brien proved himself the bigger man by rejecting NBC's offer to remain the host of a bumped-to-12:05 version of "The Tonight Show" that would've accommodated Leno's merciless, self-serving quest to return to the 11:30 slot, who happens to be the lead guest on the canceled "Jay Leno Show"?

None other than Sandra Bullock, who is currently receiving acclaim for starring in a movie that made a lot of money for numbing NASCAR fans to their vague awareness of their own latent racism. Just as Leno used to be funny, Bullock once starred in Speed (which kicks ass).

Conan O'Brien Schools Jay Leno in Dignity; Comedy To Continue To Suffer as Result

Jay Leno hasn't been funny on television since he snookered the "Tonight Show" gig out from under the heels of the vastly-more-deserving David Letterman in 1992. In the years hence, Letterman has continued to rock-the-party hard (perchance a little too hard?) while Leno has stripped away every last piece of himself that used to be funny in order to cater to the George W. Bush-fetishizing, teabagging middle-Americans (who hate that goddamn nigger president SO MUCH--but not 'cause he's a nigger but 'cause he's whatever Glenn Beck says he is on the magic talkin' box) that've kept him chin-deep in vintage automobiles.

Leno chose to retire from "The Tonight Show" in 2009--a decision that he had announced five years in advance. When the moment arrived to hand the mantle to O'Brien, Leno--in all his narcissism--balked, making a deal with NBC for a new nightly show that would air before O'Brien. Now that "The Jay Leno Show" has spectacularly (and predictably) failed and with NBC proposing to keep both Leno and O'Brien via a Slap Chop bastardization of "The Tonight Show", Leno has one move to make if he has any modicum of decency and/or respect for his predecessors, his anointed successor, and the art of comedy as a whole--and that move is to actually retire.

So of course, he's not doing that, and Conan O'Brien is leaving NBC.

May Conan find a new show on Fox and crush Leno in the ratings.

[NYT via Movieline]

[UPDATE: In addition to my just being mean about Jay Leno, allow me to supplement it with some more nuanced thoughts from a top-shelf comedian (play the audio at the bottom of the linked page).]

'Pessimism vs. Optimism': A Play in One Act

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

METROVILLE, a smart guy.
MRS. METROVILLE, his wife.
MALE FRIEND, Female Friend's fiancé.
FEMALE FRIEND, vice versa.
THE CAT, Metroville's strikingly handsome cat.


SCENE 1

A patio area at a (vaguely douchetastic) sports bar in Los Angeles. Amongst the CROWD are METROVILLE, MRS. METROVILLE, MALE FRIEND and FEMALE FRIEND. On television is NBC's broadcast of a USC-Notre Dame football game at halftime: "Saturday Night Live's" SETH MYERS is performing a live mini-version of 'Weekend Update'.

METROVILLE: Wow...NBC really has nothing. Is it possible for a major broadcast network to fold entirely?

MRS. METROVILLE: Why are you so cynical?

On TV, Seth Myers partakes in a gag referencing the "balloon boy" story.

MALE FRIEND: Did you see that kid puke on two different TV shows? What was up with that?

METROVILLE: What's up with that is that the kid's dad is a psycho attention-addict and the whole thing was staged. Kid's got crazy-parent vertigo and probably some sternum bruising.

MALE FRIEND: Heard that.

FEMALE FRIEND (to Male Friend): Why are you saying that now? Is that your new thing?

MRS. METROVILLE (to Metroville): No, you were asleep while the whole "balloon boy" thing was happening, so you don't know. We were glued to the TV at work, freaking out. When the balloon landed and he turned out not to be in it...god, I could cry right now just thinking about it...it was unbelievable.

METROVILLE: No shit it was unbelievable--whole thing was horse poop from jump street.

FEMALE FRIEND: I don't know. The dad seemed pretty genuine in that first press conference.

METROVILLE: This is a dude who was on "Wife Swap" twice.

MALE FRIEND: He was on "Wipeout"?

METROVILLE: No... What?

MRS. METROVILLE: I also heard "Wipeout".

FEMALE FRIEND (to Metroville): I think you're thinking of "SuperNanny".

METROVILLE: I'm thinking of "Wife Swap", 'cause that's what I said.

MRS. METROVILLE: You mumble.

METROVILLE: You know what kind of people choose to appear on reality shows? Psycho scumbags. And the fact that this dude--the "balloon boy" dad--forced his family to participate in that garbage on two separate occasions renders it mathematically near-impossible that he'd find himself in the national spotlight--by accident--a third time. Dude set the whole thing up, I guarantee it.

MRS. METROVILLE: You're wrong.

METROVILLE: I'm right. Bet me.

MRS. METROVILLE: I'm not going to bet you. I feel bad for you that you walk around with this dark view of the world.

FEMALE FRIEND: You guys are cute.

MALE FRIEND: Kid puked twice just on the "Today Show"... Fuckin' nuts.


SCENE 2

METROVILLE is in his office at home, browsing on his computer. He comes across an article (on MSNBC.com)...and gets very excited.

He rises from his chair and skips jauntily from his office, to the living room, and finally to the bedroom...where MRS. METROVILLE is struggling to reclaim possession of a sweater from THE CAT.

MRS. METROVILLE: I hate this fucking cat.

METROVILLE: But he's so handsome.

MRS. METROVILLE: Still hate him.

METROVILLE: I love it when you talk negative.

MRS. METROVILLE: I never talk negative. I just want my goddamn sweater.

METROVILLE: Embrace it, baby: When all cards are on the table, pessimism--

Mrs. Metroville wins the fight, freeing her sweater from the cat.

METROVILLE: ...pulls us through.

MRS. METROVILLE: Save it. I beat your douchebag cat with positive thinking.

METROVILLE: Good intentions triumph over evil, love conquers all...that kind of thing?

MRS. METROVILLE: Exactly.

METROVILLE: Remember that "balloon boy" thing we were arguing about earlier today?

MRS. METROVILLE: Yeah...

METROVILLE: Guess what?

MRS. METROVILLE: What.

METROVILLE: "Charges to be filed."

MRS. METROVILLE: You're kidding!

METROVILLE: I am not! How you like that?!

MRS. METROVILLE: I don't like it at all. I think it's super-fucking sad. Guy's got a wife and three kids... This could tear the whole family apart.

METROVILLE: Yeah, okay, but... How about a high-five for me being right?

MRS. METROVILLE: No, thank you. I'm taking a bath.

Mrs. Metroville passes by Metroville (without high-fiving him) and enters the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Metroville looks at the cat.

METROVILLE: You got me, though, right?

Metroville picks up the cat and sort of makes it high-five him, getting scratched in the process.

METROVILLE: Ah, what the hell.


EPILOGUE

Later that night, METROVILLE is heading from the kitchen to his office. THE CAT approaches, rubbing against his legs.

METROVILLE: No dice, chief. We're still fighting.

Metroville's mobile phone buzzes in his pocket. He produces the phone, reading a text message...and frowns.

METROVILLE (calling OFF STAGE to Mrs. Metroville): Yankees won in the thirteenth! You gotta be fucking kidding me. I'm certainly not sad that the Angels lost, but the fuckin' Yankees? Major playoff in my favorite sport...

MRS. METROVILLE (from OFF STAGE): What about the National League?

METROVILLE: I'm talking about real baseball, not the pseudo-Canadian version with a guaranteed failed bunt in every lineup.

MRS. METROVILLE (from OFF STAGE): You're funny.

METROVILLE: I appreciate that but please do not distract me from my rant. Major playoff in my favorite sport and I want both teams to lose and neither to win. How am I supposed to enjoy that?

MRS. METROVILLE (from OFF STAGE): Maybe pessimism doesn't always pull us through, smart guy.

METROVILLE: Heard that.

Metroville goes back to work.

(THE END)

Sports Writer Unaware of Sports Fans

I need to get off the internet.

I can't, of course, because doing so might force me to directly interact with other human beings. But if I could, I might have a better chance at avoiding articles like the most recent one from "NBC sports.com contributor" Tony DeMarco wherein the author critically wounds the Boston Red Sox's chances of winning the World Series this year by brazenly asserting that the Boston Red Sox will win the World Series this year.

Way to know your readers, DeJinxo. Sports fans are by nature superstitious; Red Sox fans are by nurture quite unhealthily superstitious; ergo, you are a big jerk with a stupid mustache.

Unless, of course, your prediction turns out to be accurate (knock on wood)...in which case you will be a great guy with a stupid mustache.

Can I Be a Dick for Two Seconds Regarding the Below Caption?

(1) No, you don't.

(2) Some people do.

To the video!

NBC Affiliate's Integrity Struck, Killed by Antique Car

When WHDH-TV in Boston announced that it would be airing local news at 10 p.m. instead of Jay Leno's as-yet-undefined suckfest, it was a proud moment for the city of Boston and a nice little kick in the pants to the deeply unfunny Leno--a native of Andover, Ma.--for his refusal to retire gracefully.

Nothing lasts forever, though (save for, apparently, Jay Leno's cock-a-roach of a television career)...and in the case of WHDH's halcyon days of integrity, the total came out to 11: on Monday the station officially surrendered to its corporate overlord and acquiesced to publicly embracing the network's unkillable jester.

Adding insult to injury, WHDH owner Ed Ansin was compelled to release a humiliating statement saying that "he enjoys Leno's humor".

For god's sake, NBC--why didn't you just hang the poor bastard in the public square?

'Le-Yes, Boston?' 'Le-No, Jay.'

Jay Leno grew up in the Boston area, a fact that I--as both a native of the Boston area and a fan of things that don't suck (the 1919-2002 Boston Red Sox, the 1993-2007 Boston Celtics and the 1959-2000 New England Patriots notwithstanding)--have always found to be bothersome.

Apparently, Boston itself was always bothered by it, too. The city's NBC affiliate has announced that it will not be airing Leno's new 10 p.m. talk show that is scheduled to premiere in September.

Perhaps Jay Leno finds this passive boycott to be insulting. If so, perhaps Jay Leno might at last consider how Conan O'Brien (himself a Boston-area native) feels about Leno's bait-and-switch refusal to retire and the resultant distraction from Conan's ascendancy to the "Tonight Show" throne.

Special O'Fiction

The White House is pooping its pants about it; Fox News is emitting a comparatively much more enjoyable discharge about it; Keith Olbermann is probably regretting allowing Craig Ferguson to promote CBS about it.

All of these people (and many others) are taking issue with the fact that President Obama, while appearing on "The Tonight Show" on Thursday, compared his bowling skills to those commonly displayed at the Special Olympics...but they're doing it for the wrong reason.

This is not a sensitivity issue: Barack Obama--who is neither mentally nor physically disabled--did not disparage Special Olympics participants by equating them to himself; on the contrary, he complimented Special Olympics participants by equating them to the freaking President of the United States (deliberately, it should be noted, which is a key distinction from the last guy). He was wrong to do so, however, based on factuality: Barack Obama has gone on record (as seen in the above video) that his best bowling score is 129; by comparison, the highest bowling score of note at a recent Special Olympics event was 39--which would have given Obama a ninety-point edge.

"Special Olympics", my ass, Mr. President. You would own that shit.

Golympics!

While I appreciate athletic prowess as much as any other dedicated sports fan, my interest in the Olympic Games has always been casual, at best (perhaps with the exception of 1992, when I got to watch Larry Bird and Magic Johnson unite to pulverize team after team of shell-shocked factory workers who made their shoes). I'm not a fan of forced patriotism; I find it difficult to muster a personal interest in athletes that I've never heard of before and will likely never hear of again in a span of two weeks; and, most importantly, the vast majority of Olympic sports are all Greek to me [Ed. note: rim shot].

But that was before this year...when I became involved in a Fantasy Olympics League.

Gambling changes everything.

A little over a week ago, I had only a vague notion of who Michael Phelps--the face of not only my country's team but the entire 2008 Olympics--was; today, I could confidently engage in a detailed discussion about Germany's chances in the 25 meter rapid fire pistol (Ralf Schumann should set the table on the men's side). What inspired my drastic turnabout was surprisingly simple: the day before the games started, a group of my friends--gambling fiends, all--led by my wife, came to the arbitrary realization that the Beijing Olympics could serve as a platform for individual competition among themselves. When my wife offered me a piece of the action, I couldn't say "yes" fast enough; seeing, for the first time, the Olympic Games as a forum through which I might score more points than my friends and family members might score, I was suddenly an Olympics superfan.

Unfortunately, my fantasy team's chances got off the wrong foot twofold: not only did I draw a terrible position in the draft order, I was late to arrive to the event and my first two picks were chosen for me by committee. (I recovered as best as I could with my subsequent selections.) I have yet to even see the league scoreboard because it's at my wife's office; Monday through Wednesday, her only response to my nightly inquiries about my team's standing was, "you don't want to know". I didn't earn a single medal until Frederica Pellegrini finally got with the program and won gold in the women’s 200 meter freestyle...but by then, my chances for victory were long gone (especially since my "friend" Mikey--despite the fact that I made him my best man at my freaking wedding--refused, during the draft, to trade me Michael Phelps as a show of sympathy). Given that I had possessed minimal interest in the Olympics less than a week earlier, one might assume that I would have had no trouble accepting my failure in my Fantasy Olympics League...

One would only assume this, however, if one had never participated in fantasy sports.

Prior to Pellegrini's victory Wednesday night, I had discerned from my wife that there was one person in the league besides me who had yet to earn a medal. After my Italian lady swimmer won the gold, my enthusiasm was renewed and refocused: with first place out of reach, my goal now was to defeat Alex--the other guy with no medals at the time--for not-last place.

It wouldn't be easy, and it would be very American: my team's best remaining chance for success was U.S. female gymnast Nastia Liukin; Alex's team's best remaining chance was Liukin's teammate and closest competitor, U.S. female gymnast Shawn Johnson. This was the kind of Olympic drama that you couldn't make up...the kind that fourth-place network NBC has been desperately attempting to fabricate at every opportunity.

Having acclimated myself to the U.S. women's gymnastics team two nights earlier--when they were ultimately defeated by the 9-year-old supermonkeys of the brazenly cheating Chinese team--I was worried that I had bet on the wrong horse: Nastia Liukin appeared to be a cold-blooded snake, while Shawn Johnson--who was on par with Liukin in terms of ability--came across as a good-natured and likable (if weirdly bemuscled) chipmunk. As a result, I wanted to write the whole thing off; I wanted not to care.

Nevertheless, I found myself glued to the television at 12:30 a.m. Friday morning--three hours after what I, on the west coast, was seeing on NBC's alleged "live" feed had actually happened--living and dying with every moment of the women's gymnastics finals.

I can't say that I'm not ashamed of myself...but I definitely would be a lot more ashamed if Nastia Liukin hadn't ended up totally kicking ass.

Go, Olympics! Go, America!

But mostly...go, uneducated wagers from which nothing can be gained but a slight and fleeting ego boost, if even that!

Farewell, Lil' Russ

There were already precious few television news personalities who gave the impression that they cared more about the news than they did about simply being on television; with the sudden passing of NBC News' Washington bureau chief and "Meet the Press" moderator Tim Russert on Friday, that number has gotten even smaller.

Golden Globe Awards Canceled; Streets To Be Choked With Blood of AMPTP Negotiators

Now you've gone and done it, Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers.

It's no secret that you don't give a rat's ass about the needs of the hardworking men and women who write the films and television shows that stuff your bottomless coffers with unimaginable amounts of cash; otherwise, the Writers' Guild of America would never have been forced to go on strike to begin with--or, at the very least, the work stoppage would be over by now instead of at nine weeks and counting. You've all but spit on the reasonable demands put forth by the WGA since day one, mockingly forgoing counter-offers in the name of jousting gay porn stars and cruel sociological experiments that test the limit of how unfunny a human being can possibly be (as well as some things that aren't on NBC), growing ever more confident in your belief that television--the medium more immediately impacted by the strike--doesn't need writers, that the world will lap up whatever regurgitated gruel you serve it with a smile on its face. (As for movies, you likely figured you wouldn't have to worry about those until the end of the summer.)

You almost got away with it, too...but you failed to consider the impact of the strike on a product near and dear to the consumers of popular entertainment: awards shows. Now that the official stance of the Screen Actors' Guild to not cross WGA picket has led to the cancellation of the Golden Globe Awards ceremony, your goose is cooked.

There's a lot that the masses will do without by way of entertainment (quality, logic, any sign of effort)...but if the AMPTP thinks it can take away their "famous people getting dressed up to stand on red carpets and talk about what they're wearing" and not face repercussions, it is in for a very rude--possibly violent--awakening.

I predict that, following a series of bloody protests enacted by average citizens against the AMPTP that will cost many lives, the writers' strike will be over by next Friday.

What's with the One with the Hammer?

This post may be somewhat self-defeating, because it references an image that, despite it being readily available online, I refuse to include. I refuse to include it because it is of the cowardly shitbag who committed the massacre at Virginia Tech on Monday, killing 32 innocent people and then himself. I won't write his name or post any pictures of him (or link to his name or pictures of him) in any publicly available forum (e.g. this webpage) because to do so would be helping him to achieve exactly what he wanted to through his atrocity--to have as many human beings as possible know his name and know his face. Given that my blog is slightly below the level of a major news outlet (current readership: approx. 3), I am afforded the luxury of being able to do my small part to not give the worthless asshole what he wanted.

For our purposes, I'll refer to him as "Pussy McNutJob" and associate him with the image of Lurky (pictured), the sidekick of the main villain in "Rainbow Brite", because I figure that's a reasonable equivalent to how badass McNutJob was (with no disrespect intended towards the real Lurky).

As I mentioned, pictures of McNutJob are all over the internet; that's because earlier today NBC News in New York received a package that was mailed to them by McNutJob himself--after he committed the first two murders on Monday--that included images and videos of the creepy douche along with his senseless diatribes against the world. All the news channels have been showing these pictures over and over again, most of which feature McNutJob--sometimes in an outfit that appeared to be assembled from a Columbine Massacre Dress-Up Kit--striking ostensibly "tough" poses with one or both of the two handguns that he likely used in the killings. Mixed in in the middle, however, is a rather random shot of McNutJob holding an ordinary claw hammer with both hands over one shoulder and bearing his teeth as if preparing to strike with what he no doubt imagined looked like fury.

If you saw this picture without knowing who McNutJob was or what he had done...you would be hard-pressed not to find it laughable.

The image says everything about what a weakling McNutJob was: his pose is awkward, his expression forced and unconvincing, and his insubstantial physical form in sparse surroundings tell the story of a completely powerless individual. Take the firearm out of his hands and he's nothing.

With that in mind, I don't understand how anyone couldn't see what happened at Virginia Tech on Monday as an excellent case for strengthening gun control in America. The only people who need guns in any kind of a "positive" sense (though it's hard to think of deadly weapons as positive) are police officers, active members of the military and maybe civilians who live in areas where they are at risk of being attacked by dangerous animals (not, for example, deer or quail). Everyone else who owns a gun (or guns) has one because he wants one.

People who find themselves in the latter category but argue that they need their guns ought to examine who's in their company with that belief. Pussy McNutJob needed his guns to finally assert himself at the very end of his short and meaningless life. He doesn't deserve to be known now, and the 32 people who were gunned down at Virgina Tech on Monday certainly didn't deserve to lose their lives at his hands. Guns don't represent strength or security; on the contrary, they merely provide the intellectually and emotionally weak with temporary undeserved power--stolen power, really--over those who, as displayed by very actions taken against them, are immeasurably superior to them and will remain so forever. The men and women who died on a college campus in Blacksburg, Virginia, earlier this week never needed guns to make their presence known in the world--and they never will.

UPDATE 1: Asian cinema master "Ronnie" has offered me his theory that Pussy McNutJob, with his "hammer pose", may have been attempting to recreate this moment from the 2003 South Korean film Oldboy:Taken out of context, I think that--if McNutJob was indeed trying to copy this particular image--it makes his efforts even more pathetic.

UPDATE 2 (04/19/07): Legitimate news outlets are down with Ronnie's theory (good eye, Ronnie), which means that I have scooped them all. Take that, news!

Elderly Man Loses Job Due to Slow News Week

It wasn't very long ago when old women who spoke of "ho's" were embraced by America to the point of oversaturation...now a senior citizen of the less fair sex has been fired for doing the same thing.

One has to wonder: Is this a case of sexism in the workplace, or did Don Imus simply miss his window?

Zach Braff Now Making Charlie Sheen Money

Just last night, I was driving down Vine Street when I passed a billboard promoting NBC's Thursday night comedy lineup and it occurred to me that Zach Braff seems to think that he's way more famous than he actually is. Given that he stars in a TV show no one watches and has appeared in two feature films that no one saw, he is probably best known for listening to music.

Apparently, though, Braff's powerful self-delusion has taken hold of ABC TV Studio, who has handed him a $350,000-per-episode contract for a seventh season of "Scrubs". The deal makes Braff one of the highest-paid male actors in television, putting him in the ranks of "Two and a Half Men" star Charlie Sheen--with whom there is no way this is going to sit well. (Sure, neither of their shows is funny, but at least people actually watch the latter.)

While this is all good news for Braff, his agent, his real estate agent, his preferred car dealer, and the entirely hypothetical fanbase of "Scrubs", now that the actor has a no doubt reinvigorated commitment to his television career, there is one group of people greatly in danger of being left out in the cold:

Fans of movies where Zach Braff looks mopey while the Shins play.

'The Barry Gibb Talk Show' One Step Closer to Becoming Kind of a Reality

Now that the need to replace Conan O'Brien as the host of "Late Night" (when he leaves to finally end Jay Leno's reign of terror at "The Tonight Show") is a scant two years away, NBC seems to have realized that maybe they should begin exploring options other than Carson Daly (the Melba toast of television personalities, only not nearly as funny).

First to join the list of contenders? Jimmy Fallon. He's in talks to enter into a "holding deal" with NBC, which would lock him up with the network for any future television productions, be it a sitcom, a sketch show, or--ta-da!--a late night talk show.

Say what you will about Jimmy Fallon--that he cracked up in almost every sketch he appeared in on "Saturday Night Live", that he soiled the greatest moment any Red Sox fan will ever experience in his or her life, or Taxi--I personally feel that he would make an admirable successor to Conan O'Brien, if only for one reason:

He's not Carson Daly.

[Thanks to "Ronnie" for the tip.]

Now 'The Today Show' Will Never Win the Super Bowl

Former NFL running back Tiki Barber (y'know--the Barber twin who didn't win a Super Bowl) is set to become an NBC television personality, a hiring that is scheduled to be formally announced by NBC in a press conference on Tuesday. Barber, who will begin his new job in April, will be a news correspondent for “The Today Show” and is expected to have a role in the NBC’s Sunday night football broadcasts.

Personally, I think this is a very risky signing for NBC, particularly with regards to "Today". Barber has said that rather than being another ex-athlete who sits on a panel and pontificates about the game he used to play, he wants to be a "do-it-all" broadcaster...specifically citing "Today" co-host Matt Lauer as the type of broadcasting personality he hopes to become.

How can the network not see the writing on the wall? He might be all smiles and "no regrets" on the surface, but you just know that to retire after one of the best seasons of his career without a Super Bowl ring is just eating Tiki up inside. It might not happen right away, but sooner or later that repressed rage is going to fry some circuits in Barber's brain, leading to an altogether deadly Single White Female situation between him and Lauer, the unwitting object of Tiki's misdirected obsession. I don't see this turning out well for anybody...particularly Meredith Viera, whom Tiki might very well end up killing with a shoe. Tune in this spring!