I don't know if you guys have heard or not, but Don "Ralph Ferley" Knotts passed away last Friday at age 81. Another victim has been claimed by The Curse of Three's Company. At this rate, it doesn't look like the Three's Company Reunion Movie is ever going to happen. I admit that this is a very slow-working Curse. The first to go was Audra "Helen Roper" Lindley in 1997. Then, Norman "Stanley Roper" Fell passed in 1988. The most surprising was when John "Jack Tripper" Ritter died unexpectedly in 2003. And now, Ferley is dead. Is there any point to making a reunion movie now? How else will we teach our children about the wonder that is Three's Company if we don't? No, I think we should move full-steam ahead, get this reunion movie done as best we can, while still honoring the dearly departed cast members. Obviously, Richard "Larry Dallas" Kline will have to step in to the lead role. His comedy is not as physical as Ritter's, but he's capable enough to create sexual tension and to misinterpret things that he's overheard. The cover story for his being thrust into the spotlight is already written: Jack Tripper left his swinging San Diego pad in 1984 to move in with Vicki Bradford and begin another ill-fated Three's Company spinoff called Three's a Crowd. So let's figure that Larry had to move in to cover his buddy's rent. I seem to recall that Joyce "Janet Wood" DeWitt also got married, and something else happened to Priscilla "Terri Aulden" Barnes which caused them to all vacate the apartment, but I don't remember the exact details, and it's easy enough to gloss over the details of these supporting characters. So Larry moves in, and the sexual tension is real high because he never made any bones about wanting to fuck Jack's roommates while Tripper was always more reserved. I think that Suzanne "Chrissy Snow" Somers should also come back somehow and replace Terri. I know Joyce DeWitt refuses to work with Somers again, but I figure if you throw enough money at her, she'll acquiesce. If all else fails, just tell her "it's what John Ritter would have wanted," she'll be bawling and begging to come back to set in no time. As for the landlord, I can see no other option than to have Ann "Lana Shields" Wedgeworth take on that role. A lot of people don't remember her, but she was a MILF that wanted to get into Jack's pants for a season in 1980. Larry lusted after her but was constantly rebuffed, so that whole conflict is practically written already. I suppose a new landlord could be cast, but since no one will do better than Fell or Knotts, why bother? If you want to cast someone new, let's bring Pat "Dwayne Schneider" Harrington's character from One Day at a Time in as the building's superintendant. Lord know we won't be dragging Mackenzie Phillips out of her cryogenic chamber to do a reunion show for that piece of trash. So it looks like this could work. All is not lost. The cast is dwindling, though, so we need to act fast. If Richard Kline kicks the bucket, then we're going to be totally fucked here. There's no way we can replace Jack Tripper with that goddamned Jenilee "Cindy Snow" Harrison, I'll tell you that.
I Believe That Children Are Our Future Part 2: Judgement Day
I got such a great response to my last blog that featured helpful child rearing tips, that I figured, "What the hell, I'll do another blog using the same shtick. It's not like I've got a bunch of fresh, new ideas on the back burner or anything. The people that read my blog are mostly morons and layabouts that should no more breed than they should try to open child-proof medicine bottles. They'll happily gobble up whatever trite nonsense I happen to regurgitate and if my vomitous spew actually happens to endanger any children, well I wash my hands of the whole business and I'm happy to let twenty-four hour news channels sort it out." It seems that a common malady around the homes of single parents with young children is keeping one's child stimulated and exercised while still getting your household chores and gainful employment completed. Some neglectful parents have even resorted to paid daycare facilities--pointless, since television is free and does just as well--which means that they miss part of the most fulfilling aspect of child raising, which is filling their heads with all kinds of erroneous and purposefully misleading information. The problem here is that the children have the expendable energy while the adults have the obligations; the thing to do is switch the roles around and kill two proverbial birds with one hand in the bush. Dress your child up in coveralls made of sponge and let them run around the house, cleaning and disinfecting all of the surfaces that they normally funk up with their sticky fingers and gummy little mouths. Have your child perform your dayjob for you: if you're like most single parents in America, you work on some precision-timed fast food grill or a computer-scanned retail job which could be performed by children and most primates anyway. Make this obvious change and you'll find your little ones are all tuckered out by bedtime while you get to engage in more adult pursuits, like daytime television. Don't worry about letting your precious little angels near kitchens and around kitchen utensils, be they Hardee's or the one at home. I'm a strong proponent of the Teach Your Kids to Cook & You Will Have a Lifelong Private Chef Program which helps teach children that cooking is fun, educational, and--except in the case of outdoor grilling--women's work. Now they say that children can handle small knives and some oven baking at age seven, but my motto is "if they're old enough to fart, they're old enough to use the Cuisinart." Children are young adults, not idiots. They can handle most deep-fry and bouillabaisse recipes by age two. By three, they should be able to fillet and bake breads and cookies. By five, your child should already be adept at making souffles and preparing sushi. Don't think your child is somehow defective if they are a little slower to learn certain cooking techniques than others. Your child is totally normal! Totally, stupidly, normal. Any parent will tell you that the number one problem with kids is that they are constantly moving. When they should be sitting down to eat, when they should be laying down to sleep, when they should be knocked out and receiving appendectomies, kids are always prone to jumping up and running around the room. And that wouldn't be such a terrible thing if they didn't smack their heads into walls and rub their goopy little boogers on every surface. This past week I have studied one of these so-called children that I've been writing about (finally got to meet one!), and I think one of the best things a caring parent can use to restrain their rambunctuous child is a pillow with one of those decorative pillowcases that open at the middle. I have learned, through personal trial and error, that you can slip a small child's arms into the pillow so that the pillow rests on their back and holds their puny arms out straight as if they have been crucified, and then leave them alone for hours or even days at a time! The pillow becomes a device which keeps them completely immobile and safe, at least from their own high-speed stupidity. A child becomes nothing more than a helpless tortoise, laid on its back, flailing its free limbs with no effect, gasping for air and waiting for inevitable death. Uh, well that metaphor only works up until the last part. Your child shouldn't die just by being restrained by a pillow for a little while. At least mine didn't. You should probably check up on him/her every twelve hours or so to make sure they're okay. The pillow also becomes a multi-tasker because it can also be used to hasten your child's nap time. Simply lay the child down and hold the pillow over their face until they slip off into asphyxiated dream land. The trick is to know how long to hold the pillow to knock a child out, without causing brain damage or, even worse, face damage. I use the old "pounds per minute" technique that's been handed down in back alley abortion clinics for decades: figure about two seconds per pound, half that if the child has weak or only one lung, and double it if the child can hold his/her breath for longer than ten seconds. Do a little simple math and you'll soon be given the powers of the legendary Sandman, who as far as I can tell was a skinny Robert Smith-looking guy that floated around in a gas mask and spoke cryptically to emo chicks.
What was the last thing John F. Kennedy said to his wife?
Editor's Note: Reggie is on vacation this week, so we're publishing Reggie's Riotous Re-runs instead of new blogs. Please enjoy this hysterical classic blog which originally ran on November 25, 1963!
"If Connolly farts one more time, I'm going to barf."
"A swing by the book depository and a view of a parking lot. This is a swell parade for the U.S. President."
"Come on, Jackie, just hold it for a minute." "When we get back to Washington, remind me to sign that bill that gives Texas back to the Mexicans."
"After this, no more riding in open cars. This wind is totally fucking up my hair."
"I've got something caught in my throat." "If that moron Dulles could see me now." "When this shit is over, let's go screw on that grassy knoll over there."
"What a fine showing of patriotic American people. Too bad that most of them are going to Purgatory."
"I really regret that whole Bay of Pigs debacle."
"I told you, Jackie, I lost in poker to Bobby. It's just for one night. He is your brother-in-law, for crying out loud."
"If you wear a pillbox hat one more time, I swear I'm blacking both your eyes."
"That assassin looks just like your cousin Wilbur."
"What they say about Texas is true: it's filled with nothing but steers and queers."
"Jackie, this might not be the best time to tell you this, but I've been sleeping with other women."
There's a trend in Hollywood that happens whenever the heroin supply has become too diluted: having run out of fresh ideas, producers and directors remake their favorite films from yesteryear to update the content. We saw it recently with King Kong and When a Stranger Calls, and word is that remakes of The Hills Have Eyes and Friday the 13th are in the works. Personally, I think this is a great idea. These ancient movies could use a little tidying up now that motion picture technology is at its pinnacle. To that end, here are five movies that I think are in desperate need of a remake:
A gore-filled satire on media critique and the entertainment industry in general, this movie is a cult-classic that is ready to burst into the mainstream. Imagine well-known young actresses like Lindsay Lohan and Jennifer Love-Hewitt being beheaded and their mouths made to be used a urinals. Plus, with a little computer-generated action, we could really see blood fly as womens' eyeballs are detached from their retinas. I'm thinking Ewan MacGregor as the sadistic Sardu, and maybe Wee Man from Jackass as his midget henchman, Ralphus. For a long while, I've thought that this movie would make a great musical, perhaps the talented Mel Brooks would like to help out here? Lord knows he's got a bone to pick with film critics.
This cinematic masterpiece was heralded for its supposedly ground-breaking special effects, and yet it contained no computer-generated dinosaurs or space ships! We can remedy this oversight now with current technology. And the woman that plays Rose Bukater should really have bigger cans. This is actually a carefully considered casting decision that should really help the scene where Jack Dawson holds her to the bow of the ship in what is arguably the most romantic scene in the film. Imagine if Rose has her arms outstretched to the wind and displays a pair of double-D sweater puppies? There should also be pirates thrown in here somehow. This movie is also a great candidate for being remade with an all-black cast.
Originally about a Vietnam War veteran that returns to Vietnam to rescue hostages, this film could get a well-deserved shot in the arm if it were updated so that John Rambo becomes a veteran of 1992's Operation: Desert Storm instead. Still reeling from the effects of battle fatigue and secret nerve gases released by Hussein,John Rambo is called upon to once again return to Iraq and liberate any soldiers that don't want to occupy the country any more. You'll marvel as Rambo fires explosive arrow after explosive arrow into already disheveled structures and shakes down innocent Iraqi businessmen for information on soldiers' whereabouts. The movie takes a strange turn when Iraqi citizens actually applaud Rambo for his decisive leadership and bloodthirst, but the real twist is at the end when every U.S. solider wants to return home from Iraq and there aren't enough cargo helicopters available to take them.
If you ask me, an updated version of Jesus' travels as told in the New Testament could use a new update at least every ten years. I mean, this movie is full of hippies and freaks that were already stylistically irrelevant when the movie first came out. I see this is a hip-hop story now, with Jesus Christ busting crazy rhymes and the Apostles serving as back up dancers. Think of this as 8 Mile meets an ABC after school special. The rap battle between Jesus and Judas towards the end of the movie should be something legendary, and the lyrics should be written by professional rappers. Like, maybe Kid N' Play could do it. They're obviously not very busy.
A movie which consistently ranks at the top of Worst Movies Ever Made lists, I can think of no better film task than to remake this film and attempt to bestow upon it the glory that the late Ed Wood intended. I'm talking gigantic Independence Day style saucers blasting the bejeezus out of Washington D.C. I'm talking 28 Days Later style running zombies that scare you into pissing yourself. All dialogue can remain precisely the same as the original. Let's let the fascinating and gripping story, and not the fame of Ed Wood's cross dressing, be the legacy of this maligned work of art.
A cruel shaft of sun poured through my greasy window and stabbed me directly in the eyelids; this was my signal to wake up. I opened my eyes to a squint and surveyed my surroundings: I had passed out drunk in my disheveled office. That son-of-a-bitch God let me live another accursed day. I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and spat a heavy wad of snot flecked with blood at it. It hung lazily, threatening to splatter on my face at any time. I watched it for a while and welcomed the prospect. The insides of my mouth felt like they had been painted with baby shit. I grabbed the bottle of burbon in my desk and took a swig for better oral hygiene. Tasting that eye-opener, I grabbed a stubbed stogie from my overflowing ashtray and lit it. The acrid smell of twice-smoked cigarette filled the air and briefly interrupted the wafting stench of whatever was rotting under the piles of paper around me. However, the burning tobacco could not extinguish the smell emanating from my clammy, haggard body. I hadn't showered in eight days, and today I was not going to break the streak. Taking another slug of burbon, I heaved my creaking body out of the chair and ambled over to the dust-streaked window. Peering out onto the sidewalk below, I observed many well-dressed people rushing about to their various jobs and commitments. "Buncha tools," I muttered aloud, and took another sip of caramel-colored liquid from my bottle. A sharp pain in my mouth told me that the shattered bicuspid I earned three nights ago from a bouncer at the White Starling was about to come out. I wasn't going to help it along any more than to ingest more germicidical liquor. Uzo would probably do the trick. I grabbed my ratty trenchcoat and headed out the door. On the street, I become well aware of the horror I wreak. People stare, wide-eyed, and turn their noses up at me. Mothers hold their children closer and keep a hand on their purses. I laugh, a gurgling, phlegm-tinted laugh that expels spittle from my lips and tongue in every direction. Tools. Every last one of them. I am ashamed to even share the same planet with these drones. I make my own fate, staring danger and cirrhosis in the face every moment of my life. Keep your safe journeys, wrought with mediocrity. I am the captain of my ship. Reaching my destination, I took off my trenchcoat and revealed my blood-stained sash and filthy uniform. I was exactly on time, as always. My life is disposable but I take my job seriously. Without it, I would be even more untethered to society than I already am. And if I don't stand in the crosswalk and hold my sign rigidly, how will the children get to their grade school safely? I stood there and waved the children across the street while impassively staring at the driver of a Chrysler LeBaron. Two hours in the morning, two hours in the afternoon. Then it's off to my fermented, bottled mistress for the rest of the evening. Please, God, let this be my final day.
Something amazing just happened to me that I had to share. I was playing Windows Solitaire during work hours, something I am prone to do on a Friday, and the most incredible thing happened. The program was dealing cards as normal and I watched them digitally stack up, trying to anticipate which cards would be face up so I could begin to plan my strategy. When the face cards were placed, I was shocked to find that all four Aces had been laid out right there in the first deal. But that's not the amazing thing that happened! I double-clicked all the aces so they could go to their houses at the top left of the screen, and then those piles revealed all four Kings! I already had two Queens and a Jack showing, so I combined all the necessary cards and played the rest of the game. Suffice to say, with my Kings already in place, it was decided in my favor rather quickly. I am walking on a cloud right now. I feel like I could conquer the world, as if those four initial Aces started the rest of my charmed life. Would that every endeavor I engaged began with four Aces...but now is not the time for regret. Now is the time to rejoice! The rest of my life will be nothing but four Aces that reveal four Kings. No more two of Spades, no more lonely eight of Hearts, but Aces and Kings from here on out. I can feel it. The fates have shined down on me and given me the necessary fortitude to say, "Yes, I can finish a game of Solitaire in less than two minutes, and therefore maybe I can pay off my credit cards and get my cable hooked back up and possibly repair my failed marriage." Wait, "possibly"? Scratch that. Make it definitely. I feel sorry for people who never have such fortune in their lives. It must be a dreary existence, to go around all cynical and thinking that life will never be sweet or that you will never taste victory. I know because I was one of those people, until I was dealt four Aces in Windows solitaire. Now, I finally understand the phrase "never say 'never'," which heretofore confused me because it kind of cancels itself out. Like, how can you tell me to never say "never" when it's the first word in the phrase? That makes no sense. But now I know that the first use of "never" is synonymous with "don't ever" and the second instance is more like "it won't happen." So really, the phrase is more like "don't ever say 'it won't happen'." And never will I say that again! It's a new era for Reggie, folks. The "Four Aces That Revealed Four Kings" era. From this day forward, every move I make will have the fortune of four consecutive Aces shining down on it. It will happen because I know it can happen and I can will it to happen. Maybe I could turn this whole thing into a lucrative self-help cult.
I'm not racist. I'm a card-carrying member of the ACLU, for crying out loud. I have a healthy mix of friends of all skin-colors and creeds, and though we don't see eye-to-eye on every matter, I enjoy and respect their points of view. I donate to several anti-bigotry groups, and I've stood in protest outside many courthouses where the proceedings could be deemend racially corrupt. I know I'm not perfect, but I have done my best to eschew the racist programming instilled in me by my forefathers and systemic racial injustice. That's why it is so hard for me to admit that I am having an Asian do my taxes, and I like it. I didn't pick the Asian tax accountant. I walked into HR Block and told them I wanted to file my taxes through them and they set me up with her. Ms. Lee is her name. And God help me, as I walked over to her desk, an impulse came from the depths of my terrible soul: YES! Somewhere in my subconscious came the notion that this woman would be good at math. I tried to suppress it, but all I had in my mind were images of Asian boys and girls raising their hands eagerly in algebra class, deftly answering every question correctly before returning to their demure solitude. I admire Asian cultures for their uniformity of purpose and advanced abstract reasoning. If I can briefly turn their cultural boon into my own, why not? You're probably thinking, "Reggie, you racist con of a bitch, not all Asians are good at math." That may be true, but Ms. Lee is great with numbers. She doesn't even have a calculator. I sat down and handed her my receipts and she was able to give me a rough estimate on my refund within twenty seconds. And she did it all in her head! I was stunned. Part of me feels like I am getting away with something, like i'm exploiting Ms. Lee and Asians everywhere for their mathematical fortitude. I was sure to be very obsequious with her, and audibly marveled every time she added numbers of more than three digits together. Did I mention she did this all in her head? I'd ask to check her work, but I wouldn't know what the hell I was looking at. More of a literary person, myself. At this point, I have resigned myself to the fact that by secretly enjoying that an Asian is doing my taxes, I am a confirmed racist. However, it's not like I am making fun of her or anything. In fact, I commend Ms. Lee and Asians everywhere who are able to use their natural math prowess to help the greater good. If more people embrace this, then maybe complacency will weed out the need to exhalt our Hispanic gardners, or our Irish contractors, or our Jewish accountants. Especially the last one. I mean, everyone knows that Jews make the best lawyers.
Washington D.C., North America -- At a hastily-convened press conference given late last night, President Bush surprised many by announcing that he was appointing a new White House press secretary, Ray Benzino, rap artist and one time co-founder of the seminal hip-hop magazine, The Source. Besides working within the structure of Source magazine, Benzino has no experience working with the press, which puzzled many of the reporters on hand. "I just want to say that Ray Ray is a decent, hardworking man." commented President Bush to the small crowd, "I've wanted to fit him in somewhere in my administration, but he was so goldurn busy with his magazine and such." Ray Benzino and Dave Mays, founder of Source magazine, were recently ousted from their publication by the magazine's executive board. "That freed up some of his time, and we're sure glad to bring him aboard, by golly." Wasting no time, Benzino immediately took the podium and began fielding questions. Dressed in a velour hooded sweatshirt and a pair of women's sunglasses, he was a surprisingly imposing figure and clearly intimidated some reporters. "We already won the war in Iraq. That's already in the history books." offered Benzino, completely unsolicited, "Y'all need to get your heads out of your assholes and see what's up in the streets. The streets know we won the war in Iraq." When asked what kind of rapport he intended to keep with the press, Benzino said, "Y'all are a bunch of snakes. So I'll deal with y'all like a snake handler." Benzino then clenched a meaty fist, which made a reporter from The Nation in the front row faint dead away. "There are going to be some changes," continued Benzino, scanning the room intently, his eyes flickering behind the rosy hue of his glasses, "first of all, question period is done. All you get are strictly answers. And the bottom line is that you all don't understand the White House. You can never understand the White House. Everything is fine at the White House. You worry about yours and I'll worry about mine." Benzino sneered at the crowd and continued, "If any of you writes something about me, I'm coming to your [expletive] house. I'm going to ring your [expletiive] doorbell. And if you don't make me a mother[expletive] turkey sandwich and a glass of [expletive] milk, then there's going to be trouble." Benzino then removed the microphone from its stand and ceremoniously dropped it on the ground, creating loud feedback which pierced the room's eerie atmosphere. Benzino threw his hood up and trudged off the stage, trailing Bush and some advisors throwing gang signs behind him.
