Disco:Very Reveals Endings to Recent Oscar-Nominated Films You Were Never Planning on Seeing Anyway

LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
Japan loses the war because they did not know "The Secret"

AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
Earth gains more self-confidence after J. Alexander provides free makeover

UNITED 93
Crisis averted when passenger Faith Popcorn identifies terrorism as the new cultural zeitgeist

BABEL
Four more narrative threads are interwoven into the story, all of them involving LonelyGirl15

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
The yellow VW bus is a penis symbol

Monkey See, Monkey Do, Monkey Throw Down and Work Some Sweat

If a thousand monkeys type at a thousand typewriters for one thousand years, and those monkeys are not typing but are, instead, recording a much sought-after LP of greasy groove-thang instrumentals, and the monkeys are from, perhaps, Turkey, and they live by the credo "Give the drummer some!", plus they decide to vogue one of their own hairy bruthas on the album's cover, rather than the actual composer Mustafa Ozkent, and they like to rock the Wah-Wah and the Hammond, will they produce Shakespeare? No, but Finders Keepers will find a way to track down the original master tapes from 1972 and release it anyway.

Bloggers Against Drunk And Sober Societies

Nyquil wasn't made for those days like today, when allergies have got your head so swollen you feel like a balloon with a pulse. No, it was made for those days like today, when you have mind-numbing allergies but you also want to experience the full sonic threshold of Rhys Chatham's epic long player Die Donnergotter at the same time. Take a few spoonfuls of that green elixir, pop that baby onto the headphones and let the almost 22-minute ride steer you to new heights of alcholic epiphany. Trust me--this is one time you'll want to drive drunk.

Manifest Destiny

Chico Mann's lo-fi drum machine screams Shuggie Otis, but his saucy slinky rhythms spell F to the E to the L to the A (or, at the very least, harken back to his day job with Antibalas). Groove workout Soul Freedom is like a late-night transmission from some mysterious African shortwave station, while Piensalo fronts a primitive bedroom-recording innocence not seen since Daniel Johnston tried to purge the devil from his own heart. The new album is titled Manifest Tone, Volume 1, and I'll be a broken man if there's not more volumes where that came from.

Mission Acceptable

For those regular readers who are furious, burning with rage, frothing with anger that I long ago forbid you from sending me link after link after fucking link to Mr. Show clips on You Tube--clips which I already own, clips I have watched over and over until my eyeballs are nine months pregnant with laughter semen--can I make it up to you by offering a link to the hilarious new VH-1 sketch comedy show Acceptable TV? Can I help it if some Public Relations suckface named Jon Creech keeps sending me solicitations about these television clients he reps, just because I'm a raw and radical take-no-prisoners blogger and he's some 9-to-five suit-and-tie Corporate Corpuscle hawking his latest test-marketed edgy hipster laff fest? Does he think I'm some finger-on-the-pulse 16-year-old who will shit his diapers to be tossed an e-mail promo bone, blabbing about this show to all my friends on My Space, thankful to him for placing me so ahead of the pop culture curve? The joke's on him: he doesn't realize I'm a bitter, vile-spewing 42-year-old hater with thinning hair and an ulcer who is only using him as a means to net more free web goodies! Thank goodness this show (which begins airing March 23rd) is actually worth watching, otherwise I might say something about him I'd later regret.

Brain Slaw

Travelling through France many eons ago, my sickly obsession with record sleeve graphics motivated me into buying a 7" EP from a French band of whom I'd never heard. Imagine my surprise when the EP turned out to be pretty bleepity-blankety punk rock cool. Flash the fuck forward 10 years later and imagine my wet and wiley wee-wee thrills when I stumble upon said band's website and the spastic joyride that is Pom Pom Ass. Imagine, furthermore, that I pee freely while excitedly watching the accompanying music video. All of this adds up to one plodding, dumb-ass pogo dance through Lobotomyland. This song puts me in rolling-backward-eyeball, forehead-slapping heaven.

Are You There, Me? It's Me, Me.

I'm back from the 2007 SXSW film festival. Actually, I returned a bit earlier than today but needed some "personal" time to process the following observations made while in attendance:

1. The woman at the trade show booth for Music Supervisor looked disturbingly like my Aunt Gracie. I kept expecting her to scold me for not waiting an hour after eating before I went swimming in her pool, followed by backhanded racial insults slyly directed towards my mother.

2. Pegging your pants to a diameter smaller than that of your ankles is The New Flared Corduroy Loose Fit Jeans (previously known as The New Black). Also, there were a shocking amount of attendees who resembled Harry Knowles in both girth and hair style. I weep for a generation. Especially if they all start reviewing movies on-line.

3. While I applaud the practice set forth by the Alamo Drafthouse Cinemas--that is, bringing food directly to your seat while you enjoy a movie--I would recommend that, while watching a midnight horror flick involving a man whose eyes are being pulled from its sockets by a Satan worshiper, it's best not to be eating Creme Brulee.

4. Although everyone else was in line to obtain the autograph of director John Sayles during a special festival appearance, I was in line to demand he pay back the six hours of my life he owes me for sitting through Casa De Los Babys, Lone Star and Sunshine State.

5. While everyone else at the Austin Airport was gawking as Peter Buck walked by, I was demanding he pay me back the $60 I paid for the past four REM albums. The punchline is: I downloaded them all for free.

6. The ultimate in nerd overload is to attend a sold-out screening of the new typeface documentary Helvetica, where you will find interactive dorks and graphic design junkies of all shapes and sizes. The punchline is: I was the eighth one in line.

These Arms Are Fakes

Earlier today, some clients from out of town who have been pampered all month by yours truly left more than a couple of frantic voice mails on my cell urging me to put pressure on the local police department to patrol their hotel more frequently after one of the clients found his car had been burglarized. "Sure thing", I felt like replying, "Let me call Sherrif Taylor and Barney Fife so we can eradicate crime in this town all together! After we catch those varmits, maybe Aunt Bee can bake us a huckleberry pie!" It's this kind of work-related turmoil that makes me happy to skip town for a few days and hang at the 2007 SXSW Film Festival. Yes, this means you won't hear from me for a while. And yes, I'll be coming home right as the music festivities start, which means I'll be missing a list of bands as long as your right arm. If you have a missing stump for a right arm, the list will be much shorter and will only feature Pete Townsend with a mohawk. You heard me: the man is often seen sporting a mohawk. I hope I die before he gets old.

A Social Contract With Ann Coulter

1. WHEREAS this agreement applies to the tenuous relationship between Ms. Ann Coulter and the American Public; and

2. WHEREAS this agreement in principle, signed in conformity with the provisions of Chapter 7 of the Agreement on Internal Bigotry (AIB), aims to reduce barriers to communication and is intended to allow both parties to have access to trading insults in all American jurisdictions; and

3. WHEREAS this is a provisional agreement which will be taken forward to each regulatory body for ratification and approval by March 7th, 2007; and

4. WHEREAS parties agree that the situational insults are defined and agreed upon by both parties; and

5. WHEREAS Ann Coulter is free to use the term "Faggot" however and whenever she sees fit, pertaining to politicians and anyone disagreeable with her political views, for the immediate benefit of increasing her book sales, speaking engagement fees and providing sought-after Right-Wing zealot street cred.

6. THEREFORE, the American Public is allowed to forever more return insults towards Ann Coulter, allowing Ms. Coulter to be labeled by the American Public, en masse, as follows:

a) Cunt

b) Stupid Cunt

c) Ugly Cunt

d) Horse-Face Cunt

e) Stupid Bitch Cunt

f) Fuck-Pig Cunt

g) He-Woman Cunt

h) Butt-Ugly Cunt-Face Cunt

i) Indeterminate-Gender Cunt

j) Fucking Dumb-Ass Cunt

k) Anal Cunt (with deepest apologies to the band Anal Cunt)

l) Androgynous Butch-Cunt

m) Transsexual Hatchet Job Cunt

n) Cuntzilla, Queen Of The Cunt People

o) Bitchy McCunt Cunt

p) Coulter-Cunt, The Ugliest Cunt of Cuntville

q) Count Cuntula

r) You Is One Ugly-Ass Man-Cunt

s) The Cunt Ann Coulter, An Adams-Apple Sporting, Freakishly Tall Overtly-Masculine, Never-Been-Linked-Romantically-With-A-Man Asexual Cunt Hole

t) Ms. Cunt

RESOLVED that under this paragraph, signatories are formally committed to implement the agreement.

Signed On This Day of March 7th, In The Year Of Our Lord, 2007

The Silent Scream

A punk rock friend of mine exclusively listens to punk rock and lives the punk rock lifestyle (regularly dining on triple-patty burgers washed down with thick shakes, paid mostly with a collection of spare change). He tried, in vain, to rape my ears with the strains of the FM Knives but I was too busy absorbing the squishy pansy-ass feelings of Sufjan Stevens and eating vegetarian nut roast with a side of lemon-drizzled radicchio while wearing sweatshop-free loungewear from American Apparel. Eventually, my hearing went "boi-i-i-innnng!" and punk rock seduced my heart through the likes of Automatic.

In a related story, I recently asked a punk rock acquaintance to brainwash the tastebuds of the windmills of my mind. Rest assured, he is punk rock but I don't know him well enough to be aware of his dining habits. My assumption is that, being a punk rock, he eats grease and lard and antler parts and sniffs glue for dessert like all the punk rocks do. But never you mind--the main thrust of my story is this: he tells me listen to The Carbonas--which is well and good--but why didn't he set me up on a blind date with Les Breastfeeders instead? Yes, that name is perfection itself, but the music has impregnated me with the sperm of shout yelling on Ostrogoth-À-Gogo and Viens Avec Moi, and why would I ever want to abort such a precious gift?