From the Green Room: Stephen Hawking's Warning

Stephen Hawking, the man generally considered to be the smartest human on the planet, has decided that aliens do indeed exist.  Of course, anybody who lives in Arizona would say they already know that, but Professor Hawking is not referring to the border-jumping, Home Depot-hanging, hard-working illegals currently being rounded up at will by local sheriff’s departments. He’s talking about the flying saucer-driving, anal-probing, green-antennaed space people who want to be taken to our leader. 

On his new Discovery channel series, Hawking has stated it is almost a mathematical impossibility for there not to be other life forms in the universe besides us. As there are more than 100 billion galaxies, each containing hundreds of millions of stars, Earth is most assuredly not the only place that’s inhabited.  I won’t use the word “life,” since I’m not sure you can justify the existence of it in a civilization that lists among its accomplishments cheese in a can, and MTV’s “Jersey Shore.”

Although he admits that a lot of the extra-terrestrial beings would be microbe-sized, he warns that there may be advanced life-forms that are nomadic in nature, looking to conquer and colonize. They could be two-legged herbivores, yellow, lizard-like, flying predators, or fluorescent aquatic animals that live in the oceans of one of the moons orbiting Jupiter. 

I would be afraid, if it weren’t for the fact that this revelation of Dr. Hawking’s comes conveniently when the Avatar DVD hits the shelves.  Coincidence? Who’s to say? I wasn’t going to purchase a copy, as it’s not offered in 3D, but now I’m thinking I probably should, if only to familiarize myself with the ways of the space people, should they show up here any time soon. I don’t know if they would be of the eight-foot, blue feline variety like on the planet Pandora, but it can’t hurt to be prepared.

I just hope that when they get here, they aren’t too attached to the whole anal probe thing.


From the Green Room: Oh, Kate Gosselin

Kate Gosselin has revealed that she hasn’t had sex in over a year.  The other night, on Jimmy Kimmel, the recently ousted “star” of “Dancing With The Stars” confessed she hasn’t done the nasty in over 15 months.

I’m shocked.

The woman who single-handedly destroyed all that Viagra has done over the past ten years is not getting any?  Surely you jest. What man would not be turned on by a lady who, clad in a furry pimp hat, screamed to her children, “Come and get your popcorn!” like she was Chicken Little? Who nagged her hubby like a hellacious harridan for the entire five seasons of their reality series on TLC?  The terpsichorean-challenged babe who, on “Dancing With The Stars,” made every number look like her partner was trying to help her ride out an epileptic fit?  You mean to tell me that shrill, single mom with eight kids…is NOT sexually appealing?

Kate isn’t exactly what one would consider a MILF: Mom I’d Like To...Friend-itate (to use the Dietl vernacular).  She’s more like a MOWFILTPAP: Mom Over Whose Face I’d Like To Put A Pillow. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fan of her ex-husband, who threw her over for the third grade teacher.  To paraphrase Chris Rock, “I don’t condone it…but I understand.” Kate seems to be the reason behind the “til death do us part” section of the marriage vows.  Within 20 minutes of wedding that woman, I’d probably be quoting Corinthians 15:55: “O Death, where is thy sting?”

Kimmel suggested one way for Kate to improve her situation would be to go on “The Bachelorette,” but she said she was too devoted to “her children and her career.”  Which, I kinda thought, were the same thing.  Her Kids ARE the reason for her celebrity. She’s only famous because she spit out a six pack of rugrats to add to the two she’d already foist upon our unsuspecting world.  A tabloid cover recently called Kate’s life a “train wreck.”  I beg to differ. 

I would actually like to watch a train wreck.


From the Green Room: The Earth is Our Mother

The Earth is our Mother, and we need to learn how to treat her with the love and respect she deserves.  She’s not been very happy with us lately, a fact made all the more obvious by all the recent, hideous earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and weather patterns of biblical proportions.  Mama Nature is pissed, so here are a few things we can do to cheer her up:

SAVE GAS: Constant braking can lower your cars’ MPG by over 25%.  An even, steady pressure on the accelerator is the most efficient way to conserve fuel.  If you have trouble with the concept of not stopping for traffic lights, vehicles ahead of you, or pedestrians… consider driving a Toyota.

TURN UP YOUR REFRIGERATOR: Raw fish, meats, mayonnaise…they don’t need to be all that cold.  65 degrees in the icebox should be more than enough to keep your food fresh for at least ten or twelve minutes.  If you’re going to store comestibles for longer than that, you’re just not all that hungry then, are you?  Botulism is a small price to pay to be able to leave the lights on overnight because you’re afraid of the boogeyman.

CONSIDER USING CLOTH DIAPERS: Disposable “nappies” don’t biodegrade very well.  Despite their superior ability to absorb waste and protect the sensitive skin of your baby’s bum, they virtually have a half-Life when put into a landfill.  Sure, it’s like having your baby poop in a T-Shirt, and you have to keep it around the house until wash day, but rashes are a good way to teach our children that a pure environment requires sacrifice from us all.

NEVER THROW SPENT BATTERIES IN THE TRASH: They have Mercury, a toxic heavy metal that could leak and then seep into the aquifer, tainting our water supply.  Save them for the next time you attend a public sporting event to hurl at the opposing team.

TURN DOWN THE HEAT: Not necessarily in your own home, but in those of the millions of parents, grandparents and senior centers that dot our landscape.  Let’s face it, you could have the thermostat at 96 and they would still complain about being chilly.  The ozone layer has raised the global temperature by 50 degrees. Stop whining and put on another effing sweater, Grandma.  Suck it up. The Earth is dying.  

And so are you, by the way.  

From the Green Room: Busted

The French believe the perfect woman’s breast should fit into a champagne glass.  Anmericans, however, prefer they should fill a punchbowl.  At least until recently.

Heidi Montag recently showed off her new, surgically enhanced, triple-D rack poolside at Aria in Las Vegas. I suppose that was as good a venue as any for their premiere, if only for the fact that their buoyancy qualities aid in swimming.  She has stated that she would actually like to have them enlarged to an “H” cup size.  Why a woman would want to carry around a pair of bazookas the size of the Elephant Man’s head is beyond anybody’s reasonable assumption. At least John Merrick believed his noggin was so large because it was “full of dreams.”  Heidi’s continental shelf is full of saline. 

Kate Hudson’s implants, on the other hand, would barely fill a hand.  She, too, should have debuted her new puppies poolside, seeing as how much she continues to resemble a diving board.  Subtlety should not be one of the benefits of a boob job.  I know that if I were ever to go for penis enhancement surgery, I would want the results to be noticeable.  What’s the point of going through all that trouble if people can’t tell the difference between the ‘Before’ and ‘After’?  Surely, there’s a much simpler way to procure a Vicodin prescription.

There’s no doubt, going smaller is the new trend. The Itty Bitty Committee now reigns supreme.  In fact, some celebrities have even opted to have their fun bag augmentations removed; Jenny McCarthy, for example, virtually destroying any chance for her to shoot a “Got Milk” ad. 

Sharon Osbourne has stated that she is having her bust line reduced, and plans on giving the freshly removed sweater enhancers to her husband, Ozzy.  Which single-handedly answers the question, “What do you give an ancient, confused, drug-addled, ex-rocker for Fathers Day?”  Boob Bookends. 

Hooters.  Who knew they could be such a handful?


From the Greenroom: Cheaters

Forget the earthquakes and the volcanoes and violent weather patterns. Pay no mind to reports of Pakistan’s nuclear capabilities. The only evidence you need to know that the earth is doomed is that Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee and Jamie Jungers are going to host a reality series.

Being famous for being famous has long been a show business tradition.  You don’t have to be talented, perform a service, or even hold a job to be a celebrity and make millions, and for that Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie and Heidi Montag should drop to their collective knees to give thanks to their God.  (Yes, ladies, that IS something else you can do when you’re in that position.)

But now, to achieve pop-culture icon status, all one needs to do is have sex with a real celebrity.  Make the beast with two backs with someone who is already famous, and you will catch superstardom like it was a venereal disease.  You just have to make sure he is married, likes the dirty talk, and doesn’t lock his cell phone after “sexting.”

They will host the series “Cheaters,” I suppose only because the name “Deadliest Catch” was already taken (which is a damn shame, seeing as how both programs have some kind of crab in common).  But if you’re going to do a show called “Cheaters,” having the two more famous ones in recent history take the helm is not a bad idea.  Especially “Bombshell,” she of the full body tattoos that make her look like Jackson Pollack’s baby bib.  She could be her own walking billboard to help promote the show: have some needle wielding biker scrawl on her in Olde English lettering: “Cheaters: 11 PM, Wednesdays on Channel 15.” That’s assuming there’s two square inches anywhere on that bug-laden body that are still ink-free.. Jungers, on the other hand, is a Vegas cocktail waitress who lived the dream. If she hadn’t had sex with Tiger, nobody besides the odd drunk Shriner at a convention at the Bellagio would even know who the hell she is.    Nevertheless, she will share hosting duties for a nationally syndicated television show.

What kind of message does this send to the young people of America?  Don’t graduate college and begin a journey of paying dues, working long, hard hours to work your way up to the place where you can finally achieve your dream.  Just give a little “hand release” to a nationally known figure, make sure he’s married, and if you can, get it on videotape.  You’ll have a network deal before your 21st birthday.  

If you need me I’ll be outside Antonio Banderas’s hotel room.  I’ll be the one with the full body tattoo.