Baby, I Wanna Fuck You So Bad That I'm Going To Kill You!!!

This is hardly a new song.

I've been watching a lot of AMC this week. Actually, I watch that channel a lot, period. It's mostly white noise as I'm writing. There are very few movies in their rotation that I haven't seen at least once, if not, many times. For a guy with basic cable, that and Turner Classic Movies are the best I can do.

So of course, the week leading up to Halloween is packed full of horror movies. Not a bad thing at all. I mean sure, they're going to be censored and all, but "bleeps" and dialog drops don't even phase me anymore. Trust me, I know what "fuck" sounds and looks like when somebody says it - it's my favorite fuckin' word after all...

But something occurred to me just now, and it all boils down to "fuck." In word and deed. Censorship - more to the point, what we in the United States of Advertising choose to censor and not to censor - says some pretty crazy shit about our culture. Apparently, showing the eating of entrails; shoving pencils into throats; eviscerations, guttings and decapatations is all kosher. Show some tits, or say the "f word" and our society will fall fuckin' apart at the seams.

I'm not judging horror films, or film violence in general. Hey man, I fucking LOVE film violence! Love, love, love it! Real violence, not so much - BUT THAT'S BESIDE THE GODDAM POINT, ISN'T IT???

And I love cursing.

And I adore nudity. The one thing that's great in real life, AND in film. There should be more of it. Well, except for about 90% of confirmed nudists. Those people give me the fucking creeps - and fuck is it with all the "Chili Cookoffs"??? But I digress...

Let's just agree that I'm not talking about porn here, ok? I'm not that fucking shallow. I mean I am that shallow, but I'm just not talking about porn right now.

And I am a fully functioning adult, and cinema fan, who's seen pretty much fuckin' everything when it comes to film, and managed to get through this life without imitating anything in a movie - even as a kid. Good, bad, and unholy - I feel that I'm far from unique when I can say in all sincerity, "That's just the movies."

Two thirds of the above, "questionable items," are, by and large, censored pretty much across the board in this Great Land of Ours. [Unless you pay for your tits and "fuck."] And it doesn't take a fucking media analyst to determine which two. Strides have been made in the cursing and violence departments - and don't get me wrong, I am grateful. However, nudity remains elusive.

A lot of it has to do with the FCC's decision that showing it on TV means that we endorse it as a society. The "Parenting of (Adult) America," I guess. But then it says something really fucked up about our governmental parents. If nothing else, it's pretty obvious nobody's getting laid over there. I don't know why. If current shenanigans in The House of Representatives are any barometer, I have to believe that Washington D.C. (home of the Free Communication Censors) is just fucking crawling with hookers.

I'd say "whores," but that I have a lot of friends in "the industry." II'd like to be back in myself. Do you understand how much swag one can... It's un-cool.

So, what we're to infer by these practices is that, as a society, all shades of fucked-the-fuck-up violence is cool, cursing's fine, as long as it's between midnight and four o' clock in the morning, but one nip slip and Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake have to go on an "apology tour," as if they'd just worn swastikas and read "The Communist Manifesto" while having anal sex ...on Sesame Street.

Meanwhile, in a substantial portion of the rest of the globe, most people were going "Yawn... so?"

I'm not a parent, but I think I'd be a little more upset with my kid seeing decapitations than I would them seeing full frontal nudity. At least I can explain full frontal and say, "Trust me, what you're feeling is a very, very good thing. When you're older..."

I can say that about drug usage in movies too! Not that I'd want to have that conversation as the result of my kid watching a Cheech and Chong picture, mind you. If anybody's going to expose any child of mine to either of those, it's going to be ME goddam it!

You can't fucking say that about eviscerating a co-ed, now can you?

Fuck me! Where the fuck did this paternal side come from? That must be tabled.

But then again, I was raised in a polar opposite environment. By the time I'd hit puberty, I'd seen Porky's almost as many times as I'd seen Star Wars. Stripes too. Oh man! PJ Soles full frontal in the shower! I didn't know what the hell to do with them, but I sure as fuck knew I liked girls.

And cursing! It's a talent, really. Learning to lead a double-life started early. A toe-headed, cherubic exterior, a mouth like a sailor and a contempt for pretty much everything authoritarian was practiced on the playground and embellished with "fuck" as many times as I could work it in. If the powers that be knew what I was REALLY thinking about them, they'd have put me in that special class with the kids who burn shit.

I still proofread my stuff to make sure there's just enough cursing, for the record. Now, I see it not only as a talent, but as an art form, too! It really is! That's right kids! Get a degree in Communications, and you can back any daffy shit that comes out of your fucking pie-hole with RESEARCH!

In the Vinehamner home, violence was definitely off the menu. Nudity and cursing weren't a problem when it came to comedy. But they were pretty strict about that stuff when it came to heavy adult drama. I think it had more to do with the "heavy adult drama" thing than it did with tits, ass and fuck. In word and deed.

We had the first Beta Max on our block, so my parents' friends would come over. A lot. This was when VHS movies were completely unbuyable because they cost a hundred bucks a pop. You know - the stone age. I also had to walk uphill, both ways, to and from school and my lunch was rancid meatloaf in a bucket. We used to sing for nickels in front of the local Five and Dime to earn enough money to buy combs for my sister, Marie's beautiful hair. But I lost my voice doing it. And it turned out that she had sold her hair to a wigmaker to pay for my voice lessons. O cruel fate!

...so the Beta Max was a big thing amongst my dad's friends. A lot of times, it was a whole bunch of people, kids and adults, crammed into our living room to watch bootleg copies of Star Wars and Bugsy Malone. But every so often, it was "Adults Night."

No kids to play with, just, "Go to your room," and "Because I said so, that's why!"

And it wasn't even racy shit - my parents weren't cool enough to be 70's swingers. It was usually shit like It's Alive, Alien and even One Flew Cuckoos Nest. If it wasn't for the fact that we didn't have ONE bootleg copy of a cartoon (except for Fritz the Cat) I'd say that it was because of a real understanding of what's "good" and "bad" media for kids at certain ages. As it stands, I think, with regards to violence, it was that I was so skittish with horror as a little kid, they had to stay up with me for a week after I'd watched The Mole People.

This incidentally, is how I became a big comic book reader. Pretty much the same story telling method as movies, but something  that I could read that wasn't a dreaded "words book" while banished to my room. The Star Wars wallpaper only got my imagination so far.

My brother and I would have to do GI crawls across the foyer floor, just to make it to the kitchen for water.

What the hell do you think you're doing???

Gettin' water.

Get back in your room!

But...

I'll get you your damn water!

This is about the time that the alien would burst out of John Hurt's chest or Nicholson would go on a particularly "salty" rant.

Aw goddammit!!! Room! Now!

But I guess there's fallout when anything goes when it comes to being cool with cursing and T&A, too. It's just that the fallout isn't as bad as, say, letting a media that tells your kid that violence is ok, but that sex is verbotten and unspeakable, babysit your child and wondering why the only outlet for their emotions appears to be blood and...

Wait, I got confused. You see, I was writing a letter to my local PTA and, well, shit happens.

The most that happened to me was getting sent to the Principal's office when a girl kicked me in the nads. The playground monitor came over because I was grabbing my crotch and cursing like a sailor. "You goddam bitch!!! My balls!!!" (it's a bloody good thing I hadn't discovered "cunt" or "fucktard" yet!) and so on. Forget the fact that the little sucubus had field-goal'ed my cobbles before the fuckers had even fucking dropped!!! I'd said dirty words!!! Oh the ignominy my mother most have felt during that phone call.

What happened?

Your son has quite a mouth on him, Mrs. Vinehamner. He said pretty much anything you could imagine in an R-rated movie. He seems to be fixated on girls a little too much for a kid his age, too, but we're mainly worried about the cursing.

Oh lord. Did he curse at a teacher?

Well, no. A playground monitor heard him saying things like well, "shit," and, "bitch."

Why?

A little girl kicked him in the testicles. But we're mainly worried about the cursing...

This wasn't the first time my mouth got friendly with a bar of soap. This I assure you.

I wonder what the fuck ever happened to Pe'le... I hope her trucker husband gave her syphillis and they had to amputate her labia.

The REAL California's Gold is an Ex-Marine with a Pair of Elephant-Trunk Sized Guns [or: "Meditations on The Zen of Huell Howser, part the first."]

To quote my good friend, Drago, "Huell Howser is like the comfort food of television."

I'll cop to it - I'm a dark personality. That isn't to say I'm a depressing or negative person. I kind of pride myself in being a really nice guy who wears a black t-shirt, even I'm not wearing a black t-shirt.

It's just that as a rule - and especially when it comes to entertainment - I gravitate toward the alternative, some might say more sinister, side of things. I like movies that don't end in a nice, tight fucking bow. I like music that you're supposed to wear black jeans when you listen to it. I think that Jeff Dunham should be hit with a big mallot - by, not Gallagher, but his imposter brother - for each and every stage he's shuffled his stupid puppets on where the great Bill Hicks (God rest his soul) stood.

So given the choice between, say, Steely Dan or The Velvet Underground - the fuck you think my CD buying money's going to fucking go???

But this is not really a hardline way of being for me, either. I'm a big Twix bar - sure, I'm a little hardened, but there's a bit of gooey sweetness in there too.

Case in point: my unabashed love of Huell Howser. I'd say "California's Gold with Huell Howser," but that's just one show. Sure, all the other shows are pretty much the same, but there's a difference in Huell's mind, and that's what counts, isn't it? Sure, if it's "Visiting with Huell Howser," "California's Neighborhoods with Huell Hoswer," or even fucking "California's Green," it's all pretty much going someplace in California (most likely in Los Angeles), but to Huell, that fuckin' show, fuckever it is, is a horse of a different color. And you better recognize!

Let's be clear, too. I'm not watching the show(s) looking down my nose, giggling at him going, "Tee-hee-hee! Look at the bumpkin!" I really, really, REALLY fucking love Huell Howser's show(s). I get and appreciate what the cat is doing. I can't make a joke like:

"Ahr latest adventure [Everything's an "adventure" with Huell - a point of view one really has to admire!] is Jeannie's Clam Shack in beautiful, scenic Pismo Beach, California. "World-Famous" for thayr chowder, made daily, by Jeannie hersaylf. But the only clam Ah was interested in was between Jeannie's laygs. She appeared to not have experienced the touch of a man in a very long tahm, and Ah was only willing to oblahg. Ah gave her a 24-karat bar of California's Gold!

We started in the kitchen, where Jeannie and Ah made the kahnd of chowder you don't serve to the tourists. Cameron waited in the dahning room, getting footage of local yokels. Ah don't thank they knew what Ah meant when I yelled out, "HOT SOUP COMIN' THROUGH!!!" However, Ah couldn't help thankin' that Cameron dee-id.

You gettin' this Cam'run! Don't worry, you wee-ill. But you'll be getting California's Silver!"

...without having watched A LOT of footage. And I couldn't watch that many hours of anything if I didn't find it entertaining. I mean, I'm willing to commit to a bit and everything, but I don't have enough time to get the things done that I want done. Huell's my "me time." True story. One of my favorite things to do is park it on the couch with some "California's Gold" of my own, preferably a sativa, and get down to the fact that somebody out there doesn't think the whole picture is as bleak (yet still, strangely wonderful - for the record) as I see it.

I shall break now. But welcome to the tip of a very, very large, Titanic-sinking iceberg.

I SHILLS WHAT I LOVES!!!

The excellent bevvy of the Huell Howser stable of shows can be seen weekdays on Southern California PBS at 7:30 p.m., and it is repeated at 12:30 a.m. Those in The City of Angles can time it such that you can avoid That Fucker Jimmy Fallon's Corporate TV Clusterfuck by watching Huell and Comics Unleashed: with Byron Allen. But that's another passion for another day.

There's also an hour block of the show(s) on Sundays at 7:00 p.m. Come witness one of the few positive-angled shows that brings a smile to the face of The Clown Prince of Doom and Gloom.

[Just made that up. Not a bad schtick, when you put it that way!]

Those on the East Coast will have to check Huell out on Youtube.

Well - Those Candles Won't Exactly Blow THEMSELVES Out, You Know!!!

Kink is a tough thing to judge. After all, one person's shit is another's shinola. And then some people want you to rub the shit on the shinola; stuff it in their mouth; and punch them in the gut while you ram a rusty flashlight up their ass. I have a term for it - Thursday Night.

The inherent danger in casting aspersions is simply - where in the bloody fuck is the line? And for some people a bloody fuck is, well, Thursday Night.

I really try not to judge. I'm not a conservative guy at all. And I respect innovation, ingenuity and imagination in a partner. And sturdy furniture. 

But sometimes, an idea just seems so goddam left field to me that I feel I should just hang up the handcuffs, park it on the porch with a glass of Fresca, and let the kids use the sand box. Although, if this is a generational thing, you know what? Give me 50cc's of Geritol shot into the vein on my cock, immediately, for I'm apparently in a wheelchair headed for the abyss.

But I wasn't writing about my cock. At least, not today.

Try rolling the following words together in your head for a couple minutes: cake farts. Cake. Farts.That's right. Cake. Fucking. Farts. I wonder if that's what Mr. Reese was thinking when he coined the phrase, "Two great tastes..."

But I'll get back to cake farts in a second.

I really used to think it was all kind of a matter of taste. That whole "as-long-as-nobody-gets-hurt-who-doesn't-want-to-be-hurt" thing. For some, doing it from the side is a wild time. For others, it involves a transvestite and a Little Bo Peep costume, but enough about Marv Albert. I didn't really think there was such a thing as a threshold. Something that I find so deviant - nay, fucking repugnant - I actually wish they still had those "special" hospitals to lock up the "socially unfit."

But those joints are where the Puritans locked up gay folks and girls who liked to be on top.

Then I worked in a comic book store in LA for a couple years. Pasadena, more specifically. It was actually a good shop, but the thing that finally pushed me to my limit was a section we called "The Cage"; the material therein; and especially the consumers of the aforementioned material.

It sounds kind of weird to say, but Oh sweet God do I wish we had porno! Porno, I can live with. Humans, with other humans, doing normal (or even kinky) human shit - whatever. As long as you don't try to show me rape, snuff or scat - fuckever.

But what about Furries? For the two or three people who don't know what a "Furry" is, in a nutshell, it's somebody who's sexually attracted to animals. Not in that beastiality way. They like "anthromorphs" - that is to say, animals that display human qualities. More to the point - cartoons. That's right. There's a lot of them. The person in the cubicle next to you, on any given weekend, might be hanging out in the "West Ballroom" of a Holiday Inn near an airport, getting all hot and bothered over a Donald Duck cartoon with a gaggle of like-minded pervs.

"You know, if I were that guy, I'd make Daisy get some marmalade from the fridge and we'd make some Duck a L'Orange! Hold her down! Hold her down! She ain't waddlin' off to nowhere! I'd tie up his nephews and make them watch while I she shits in my mouth..."

My grandmother had a vivid imagination. She called that last one a "Chuck Berry." Strange, I didn't think she liked black folks very much. Life is a mystery.

I can only say one thing about those Hentai freaks (animated porno from Japan). I've said it before, and they'll have to pry it from my cold, dead vocal chords: There is little in this world more heartwarming than the story of a Catholic schoolgirl and her tentacle monster. *le sniffle*

So let's get back to cake farts. Perhaps I should establish a baseline for my own Puritanism. I, like so many people at the time, heard the legend of "2 girls, 1 cup." I thought, "Aw bullshit! I've seen some pretty weird shit. Big deal....

...OH FUCKING CHRIST!!!"

So when an old friend wants to tell me about a site he's found - as he was doing some chop-monkey work for dating sites in the Eastern Bloc - called "Cake Farts," I just don't want to know. Even if it's one of those things that you hear described, but wouldn't believe in a million years that anyone would do that to another human.

[See: "The Dirty Sanchez," "The Tony Danza," and "The Filthy Priate."]

Do I really need to mention, at this juncture, that cakefarts.com, or whateverthefuck the URL is, is a fucking fetish site???

"Is it what it sounds like?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then I don't want to know. All it's going to make me do is turn you in to Interpol. And Amnesty International."

"Bah! It's not that bad! They just..."

"I don't fucking want to know!"

"It really isn't THAT..."

"No, you bastard son of a pirate whore! No! Cake is the one thing I have left, for fuck's sake!"

"Dude, don't drag my mother into this. That's uncool."

So tonight, he's pitching me out on an idea. A good idea.

"Well, it's not cake farts, but I think it would be relatively easy to produce."

I should NOT have opened that door again.

"Did you check it out?"

"No, you goddam degenerate! I have all I need to know from the fucking title. Thanks to you, every time I pass by a 31 Flavors, I fucking shiver! And it ain't because of the ice fucking cream!!!"

"All they do is..."

"No!"

"...these chicks rub their asshole around on a cake."

"Goddam you!"

"And after a while, they fart on it."

"Oh yes. That was MUCH better than what I was thinking!!!"

But now that I'm musing on it, I do have a birthday coming up in a couple months...

The Witty Protection Program

To paraphrase Batman, "People in the entertainment industry are a superstitious and cowardly lot." Thus, I use nom de plumes, not only for myself, but for my friends, too. I change the names to protect the... um, I don't think "innocent," really applies to any of my friends... Let's just say nice people who have something to lose. Plus, I don't want people clamming up around me for fear that they might be quoted.

I'll cop to it. I say a lot of goofy shit. Sometimes, I rant like a street preacher. I'll exaggerate, embellish and even bald-faced lie just to get a laugh. Here, in a public forum, what I say is most definitely for effect. It really should go without saying, but I'm not to be taken seriously. I mean about a tenth of what I say, maybe even less sometimes.

Sometimes I might just say something because I like the way the words sound. I'm flighty that way.

I do two things well: tell stories and talk shit. And I speak the truth when I say that I set up this blog more to do the former more than the latter. The latter, well, that just kind of happens. The problem is that, well, living in this city and doing what I do, I come across a lot of famous people, and know a lot of people who know a lot of people, and so on.

The City of Angles (yes, I meant to spell it that way!) is an incestuous burg.

So, even while I'm not doing "D. Vinehamner's Celebrity Hatefest," shit will come up. And I don't want people like That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis to come after my friends and their employers.

I'll give you an example: take for instance what I just said about That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis. People Google. Now I'm not saying that That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis is so narcissitic that he'd regularly Google his own name. Actually, underneath all my shit talking, I think he'd probably be an all right cat to hang out with and I like a lot of his movies.

You know he knows his way around a bar, and even though his album sucked, I know for a fact he's at least heard of the fucking Staples Singers - and that counts for a lot. He's probably got a band room in his mansion, stocked with the best axes and sound equipment, and he probably wouldn't bust your balls for wanting to play the good guitars.

It's just that if I were a woman, and I were drinking with the man... and I were to pass out, I'd do everything I could to make sure my butthole was facing a goddam WALL!

But let's say for the sake of argument, that I've written the story of how I found out that That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis is so into posterior piracy (which I'm sure is all with chicks, by the way). And say I named names or anything else that might clue That Assfreak Bruce Willis' "people" into, not so much who I am, but who my friends are.

Best case scenario, That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis' "people" find an obscure entry in a blog (or perphaps an off-the-beaten-path magazine), and tell the site to have me rip down the entry about el hefe being a rump-ranger. [Although I'm positive that it's with chicks and chicks only - That Assfreak Bruce Willis is all man I tells ya!]

Or I'd write a retraction to the effect of: That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis isn't so much of an ass FREAK, per se. He's just like most of us - he likes it when he can get it, but a "no" isn't a deal-breaker in a relationship.

But let's also say, for the purpose of illustration, that That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis takes it personally, can't see that what I write here is tantamount to the maniacal rantings of a homeless person, and that it's probably not true and that I'm a drop in the bucket. I call it "The Tom Cruise Effect."

Now if I'd written, at some other time, about having lunch with my completely fictitious - not even remotely real in any way, shape or form - friend, Sy Rabinowitz, an assistant in the publicity department at Fox. Well, in order to get to me, "Senor Culo" might call up Sy's boss, to put the screws to Sy to cough up my name, or even worse, poor ol' Sy gets fired simply for being associated with the likes of me. And say that Assfreak Bruce Willis goes even further, tracking down MY source, getting this person fired from their gig?

Don't balk. I know some pretty frightening firing stories. It's a weird industry.

NOTE: I only used That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis as a place holder. I was really talking about Frank Stallone.