Jeff Girod

Putting the “pea” back into “peacock network,” NBC scheduled an episode of Fear Factor on Monday where contestants are forced to drink urine and donkey semen.

The controversial episode, titled “Hee Haw! Hee Haw!,” was less than 36 hours from airing when, in the interest of good taste—and really how could donkey semen and urine not taste delicious?—NBC executives replaced it with a Fear Factor rerun.

I realize that NBC didn’t actually televise the donkey semen/urine episode of Fear Factor, but they did film it, edit it, schedule it and even promote it with a press release that breathlessly promised, “Contestants will eat the unimaginable!” Televised or not, somewhere out there is a pathetic game show contestant with low self-esteem, bad breath and a belly full of explaining to do.

Semen … out of a beer mug … from a donkey … really. Then in case you thought you had any self respect left, and assuming everyone you’ve ever cared about hasn’t already turned off the TV or written you off as a human … Here, chase it with this glass of urine. We have no idea whose urine it is. Maybe it’s hobo urine. Maybe it’s the queen’s. Stay tuned to Fear Factor next week to find out!

I don’t know why the fact that it’s semen from a donkey makes it that more disgusting to me, but it does. Like if it were seahorse or koala semen, I’d think, “Ooh, well, won’t this be a treat to tell the grandkids.”

Is Fear Factor so hard up for ideas that they’re just having contestants eat things that fall out of other things? Why not just have them follow host Joe Rogan around, and whatever he pisses, craps, vomits, burps, sneezes, wheezes, backwashes, eye boogers, gleeks or sheds, have an NBC executive standing by to point at it and say, “There, on the linoleum, lick it.”

Look, I get it. Gross stuff like this already exists all over the Internet. Maybe you’re enjoying a refreshing glass of freshly squeezed semen right now. But network television is supposed to be held to a higher, semen-less standard. This isn’t Cinemax or the Spice Channel or, even, Fox News. This is NBC, the first TV channel to get color, and it’s been around since 1926 when Bob Hope was considered funny.

Granted, everybody stopped watching NBC on or around the time they canceled Friends and Seinfeld, and after about the 37^th season of ER. And the final straw was probably when NBC started jerking Conan O’Brien around. But holy jeez, now they’re jerking around donkeys?

This is something I’d expect to see at a Tijuana whorehouse. Not from the same network that airs To Catch a Predator. Tell me, how many of those scumbag pedophiliacs ever drank donkey semen or urine? Wait. Don’t answer.

Just last week, NBC asked presidential candidate Mitt Romney to pull a TV commercial for his campaign because viewers might assume from the NBC news footage used that its network endorses Romney. NBC wrote in a letter that the ad exploits “the journalistic credibility of NBC News.” No, whacking off a donkey into a glass and then serving it up with a silly straw exploits the creditability of NBC News.

You air somebody drinking donkey semen on TV? Just cancel every other news/health/talk show on NBC. Put Mario Lopez in charge of saying all of the sentences, because you’ve lost all integrity as an information network. 

How am I supposed to take something seriously from anybody in an NBC navy blue blazer when he or she is just as likely to say, “Coming up next, three recipes for delicious smoothies—right after Matt Lauer gets on all fours and ejaculates this wildebeest into a tumbler.”

One person drinks the semen, you all drink it, NBC. You’re no better than Snooki or a Kardashian, which, coincidentally, are the other two most popular searches on Google.

But thanks for canceling the donkey Fear Factor, NBC. You get to keep your soul for another week.

And if you’re that desperate for ratings, publicly decapitate the cast of Whitney. It would finally be the first episode worth watching.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.

Mark Wahlberg wants you to know Mark Wahlberg is tough. Mark Wahlberg is a Rambo-Terminator-Mr. T manwich, wrapped in a Steven Seagal quesadilla, slathered in Chuck Norris hot sauce.

Wahlberg told Men’s Journal that things would have been different on 9/11 if he had been aboard the American Airlines flight that crashed into the World Trade Center. “If I was on that plane with my kids,” Wahlberg said, “it wouldn’t have went down like it did. There would have been a lot of blood in that first-class cabin and then me saying, ‘OK, we’re going to land somewhere safely, don’t worry.’”

Since then, Mark has apologized publicly about 50 times—or one time for every IQ point.

In Mark’s defense, he’s a moron. He dropped out of school at age 14 and I can’t remember what I was learning in class at 14. I tried to talk to a 14-year-old once. It chased me down the street making pained, grunting noises until I threw rocks at it.

But when you say you single-handedly could have stopped a hijacking and landed a plane, potentially preventing 9/11, the deaths of 3,000 people and two wars? Nope. Nuh-uh. No takesies backsies.

I don’t care how many times you say, “I’m sorry.” You don’t get to magically make it go away with an “apology tour” of cozy TV morning shows while promoting some movie. You have to stew in your own idiot vomit stink pile for a while.  (Or for as long as this column.)

First of all, Mark, you’re 5’8”, on a good day, in heels. You know who else is 5’8”? Me, in my fifth-grade soccer team photo. Mark, you couldn’t beat up the three starting full backs in 1980s nylon shorts for the AYSO River Bandits, let alone a planeload of armed al-Qaeda terrorists.

Oh and Mark, just because you once might’ve starred in a TV pilot, does not make you an actual pilot. That’s why the actual pilot gets a front-row seat while you get a child’s booster seat.

Here’s some interesting facts about Mark Robert Michael Wahlberg, courtesy of Wikipedia: Age 40, born in Boston; and also according to Wikipedia, Mark’s a crazy delusional leprechaun who thinks everything works like movie sets with cap guns, multiple takes and terrorist extras named Kenny who also barista at Starbucks. (I may have typed that last part into Wikipedia myself. But after Mark’s 9/11 comments, nobody’s rushing to change it. Also, I replaced his Wikipedia photo with a horse’s ass, but because Mark is so tiny, I had to use a Shetland pony.)

I guess we should all go to bed thanking Mark Wahlberg. (As if we don’t already.) Google image his face and keep an 8”x10” next to your bed. Any picture will do, because luckily Mark has looked like an 11-year-old since he was 7.

There’s no telling what atrocities might have befallen us without the constant vigilance of our guardian rapper-turned-actor angel. An asteroid colliding with Earth, the “Big One” in California, the end of the world in 2012: Mark Wahlberg has helped us avoid all of these. And I’m not even talking about actual disasters. I’m describing disastrous movies potentially starring Mark Wahlberg.

Fortunately, for the sake of humanity, Mark has realized his limited range as an actor—and as a human who has to blink and talk—and only stars in movies such as The Departed and The Fighter where actual actors such as Leonardo DiCaprio and Christian Bale deliver all of the meaningful, multisyllabic dialogue.

Do I fault Mark for saying he could have single-handedly thwarted 9/11, offending the memory of real heroes—husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters? Yes, of course. Mark Wahlberg is a giant douche. (Or as big a douche as one can possibly be with doll feet and a 22-inch waist.)

But given the career trajectory of Mark’s life it’s no wonder he thinks he’s indestructible. He’s nothing short of miraculous. He was lead rapper of something called Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Why shouldn’t he think he can change history?

Mark Wahlberg shouldn’t be getting interviewed by Men’s Journal. He should be sharing a doublewide trailer with MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.

Tim Tebow has been te-bounced from the NFL playoffs, after the Denver Broncos were boat raced, 45-10, by the New England Patriots last Saturday.

The primetime game drew record TV ratings, with as many people cheering for Tebow as were rooting that a lightning bolt would smite him with a fiery case of turf toe.

Tebow has stared down a blitz of criticism all season. ESPN NFL analyst Merril Hoge said on Twitter that “it’s embarrassing to think the Broncos could win with Tebow.”

“He can’t play,” said Boomer Esiason, NFL analyst and former NFL quarterback. “What (former Broncos coach) Josh McDaniel saw in him God only knows. Maybe God does know—because the rest of us don’t.”

And ESPN columnist Rick Reilly said Tebow “might never be ready. Somebody alert the Filipino missionaries. If he doesn’t improve, he might be among them sooner than we thought.”

Harsh—since all Tebow has done is win. Tebow was a third-stringer who clawed his way up passed two cardboard cutouts to become a starting quarterback. He proceeded to win six games in a row and pull off a slew of miraculous comebacks that would’ve made Rocky Balboa yell “Yo, Adrian!” 

So what if Tebow tosses spirals with all the grace of a sopping wet loaf of Wonder Bread? Winning is winning, and before you could say, “Elway,” the Denver Broncos were back in the playoffs for the first time since orange jerseys looked cool on anyone besides Aquaman.

Still, Tebow couldn’t convince everybody. Tim Dahlberg, sports columnist for The Associated Press, wrote that Tebow “may be the worst quarterback in the NFL.” Dahlberg wrote that the day before Tebow threw an overtime 80-yard pass for Denver’s first playoff win since 2005. And if Tebow is the worst quarterback in the NFL, maybe Dahlberg should tell it to the 20 teams who didn’t make the playoffs.

CBS Sports analyst Randy Cross said Tebow gets unfairly criticized because of his Christian faith.

“People, especially the media, root against him because of what he stands for,” Cross told USA Today. “My personal belief is there are people in the media, people in the stands, who are predisposed to see a guy like that fail … Just because he’s so public about the way he feels.”

You don’t agree with Christianity? Fine. How about hard work and success? Granted, Tebow thanks his personal Lord and Savior before, during and pretty much after every snap. But it’s better than thanking his agent or promoting an energy drink or rap album.

Everybody should believe in something. I believe in UFOs and a second shooter on the grassy knoll. And, sure, maybe Tebow gets lucky—or is it divine intervention?—but he’s also a team player who puts in his time on the practice field. And what’s not to like about that?

You want to make fun of Tebow’s “Dudley Do-Right” persona? Go ahead. He’s more vanilla than a wafer. But when did it become OK to make fun of someone’s religion? Mocking Tebow for believing in God is no better than racism or homophobia. And it seems like everyone thinks they get a free pass because Tebow is a young, rich, straight, white male.

Here’s the thing: You don’t get a pass. It’s still wrong to make fun of Tebow’s faith. And you’re a narrow-minded, judgmental, egocentric jerk if you mock Tebow just because he believes in God and you don’t.

If Tebow was Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Wiccan, gay or handicapped—spin the wheel, pick a minority or protected group—would everyone feel so giddy making wisecracks about his values?

We’re a world thirsting for underdogs. We invent them, immortalize them and pay to see them in movies. Then a real-life underdog like Tebow comes along and we can’t wait to shred him.

“He can’t throw. He’s not smart enough. He’s not a long-term solution at quarterback.” These aren’t just quotes from media or fans. They’re sound bytes from his own head coach and team president.

I used to hate Tebow. I despised him when he was in college because he had the hot girlfriend, he was a two-time national champion and a Heisman Trophy winner. 

Now? I love Tim Tebow because you love to hate him.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.

We’re livin‘ in a material world: Look no further than this year’s Bridgestone Super Bowl Halftime Show on Feb. 5, featuring a 53-year-old Madonna. 53!

It’s a good thing halftime is sponsored by a tire company, because talk about a retread. For optimum performance, both tires and Madonna require steel belts and an all-weather encasement of rubber.

Madonna’s estimated 15-minute performance will feature five songs—“Gimme All Your Lovin,” “Ray of Light,” “Vogue,” “Music” and “Holiday.” And nothin‘ screams good ol‘ American football like Madonna on a trapeze singing “Vogue,” “Holiday” and three songs nobody gives a crap about.

Isn’t this exactly why we, as a collective society, willed Lady Gaga into existence—so that nobody would have to see Madonna’s boney ass again in thigh-high moon boots? When a 53-year-old Madonna sings “Like a virgin, touched for the very first time,” first of all: Ewww. Secondly, it’s like listening to your Grandma talking about dropping her pantaloons and “getting frisky” after a 10-cent shaved ice.

Forget talent or singing or meaningful song lyrics—or for that matter the ability to play a musical instrument—Madonna made her millions off sex appeal. But sex appeal starts to wane, ohhh, about the time you qualify for early-bird specials and senior discounts at the Krikorian. If Madonna gets on all fours and starts writhing around a Super Bowl stage, somebody might actually yell, “Dear god, somebody get her pills!”

At this point, instead of Madonna I would rather have sex with a warm bowl of corn pudding. Though to be fair, I really like corn pudding.

Madonna has stayed in shape, but it’s that lean, P90X, prison-fit shape. I’m not so much expecting Madonna to sing as I am afraid she’s spent the last 10 years preparing to fight the Terminator.

Madonna’s all knobby limbs and that gigantic googly-eyed, self-satisfied head. She reminds me of a gap-toothed British-sounding praying mantis. Though frankly it would be a better halftime show if Madonna were an actual praying mantis, especially if the praying mantis were 30 stories tall and systematically ate Phil Collins, then started the second half as quarterback for the AFC.

From Madonna’s perspective, one can completely understand why she’d accept an invitation to perform at the Super Bowl. It beats working a county fair. And lets be honest, that’s where Madonna belongs at this point in her career arc, right next to the glassblowing seminar and the kid who offers to wipe down one of your tennis shoes.

Madonna’s last two albums were her least successful. And critics are ravaging her latest movie, W.E.—which she wrote, directed and currently stars in. (Trivia time: Madonna used to be into S&M, so hopefully somebody ties her down before reading her reviews.)

The Guardian called W.E. “a primped and simpering folly”; the London Times described it as “unintentionally hilarious”; and the Los Angeles Times wrote, “W.E., Madonna’s second go at directing a feature film, leaves one wishing she’d find other creative outlets for those times when she’s bored with the pop-star life.”

Youch. Papa don’t preach.

The good news is Madonna just signed a new three-album deal that should guarantee she’ll be cutting records long after she stops cutting her own meat. And by that time maybe she’ll be invited back to perform at another Super Bowl. Every other AARP member has been.

And speaking of has-beens: Previous halftime performers have included Tom Petty (61 years old), Bruce Springsteen (63 years old), Paul McCartney (69 years old) and The Who (combined ages: older than leather helmets).

According to the NFL, the average age of its football players is 26.6 years old. Fifty percent of all NFL fans are less than 44 years old. And more than two-thirds of NFL fans are less than 54 years old. So why does the NFL keep trotting out halftime shows that would be more appropriate for the Smithsonian or a time machine?

Here’s an idea for the NFL. Figure out who the Super Bowl halftime performers will be in 2042 and just have them perform now, while they’re still young and relevant.

Added bonus: They can help Madonna stuff her cone bra with referee hankies.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.

New year/new laws: As if life wasn’t complicated enough, Californians will have to adjust to 760 new state laws, most of which took effect Jan. 1, according to the Los Angeles Times.

Want to carry a handgun in public, drink caffeinated beer or purchase shark fin for your soup? Not in California, buckaroo. You’ll also have to travel to Nevada or Arizona to cyber-bully a minor—the way nature intended.

Some of California’s new laws are controversial, including the first in the nation requiring gay history to be taught in classrooms, as well as financial incentives for illegal immigrants to attend college.

Other laws are just plain disappointing, such as legislation prohibiting buying liquor at self-checkout counters. So wait, now I have to talk to a cashier before I get my drink on … is the cashier hot?

Here’s a closer look at other new California legislation for 2012:

Baby food: Prohibits stores from selling expired baby food and formula. Until Jan. 1, it was the perfect crime. You were hearing “goo-goo, ga-ga,” but what your infant was really saying, “These strained carrots are older than I am.”

Pets: Bans the selling of live animals on any street, sidewalk, parking lot or other public right-of-way. This one is a shame because I consider my freeway off-ramp a one-stop shop for oranges, anniversary flowers and the family dog that will sleep next to my children’s faces for the next 12-15 years.

Booze: Allows bars to infuse alcohol with fruits and vegetables. My doctor has been after me to eat more of both. Who cares if it’s accompanied by 5 gallons of Smirnoff Ice?

Child actors: Streamlines the process for minors to work in the entertainment industry. And if there are two things this state economy needs, it’s more kids not going to school and more jobs going to 6-year-olds.

Protests: Makes it a misdemeanor to create a disturbance on or adjacent to an elementary or middle school—which could be a logistical nightmare if the very things you are protesting are elementary or middle school students. (Sometimes I wonder if they think these laws through.)

Tanning beds: Bans children younger than 18 from using tanning beds. So much for getting a 10-year head start on that leathery handbag, Donald Trump look.

Bullet train: Allots $4 million for construction on a high-speed rail system between Los Angeles and San Diego. Because 90 minutes in an air-conditioned car is totally unacceptable?

Presidential primary: Moves the state’s presidential primary election from February to June. Good thinking, because I have a lot of stuff going down in February: Black History Month, Valentine’s Day, the Super Bowl Pre-Game, Halftime and Postgame Shows. Plus by June, the rest of the country will have voted in primaries, so we’ll already know who the frontrunners are, and there won’t be an embarrassing repeat of me scraping off a “Howard Dean ’04” bumper sticker.

Raves: Requires organizers of raves with more than 10,000 people held on state property to ensure that safety guidelines are met. This law doesn’t go far enough. It should also require organizers to “get this party started right,” “raise the roof up in here,” and conduct a thorough analysis to determine “where all my ladies at?”

Elderly: Makes it a crime to trick seniors into voting in ways in which they did not intend. Super. That’s one less item I’ll be able list on my Match.com profile under “Hobbies.”

On one hand, it’s nice to know our state legislators are actually legislating. Still, 760 new laws in one year seems excessive, and nationwide, more than 40,000 state laws were passed in 2011.

Forty thousand laws—who can keep track? And were we really that lawless beforehand without our government “protecting” us? Sure, some laws seem like they might be beneficial. But most sound like they were designed to keep pencil pushers employed or line someone else’s pockets.

Before there was bureaucracy, there was common sense—and it didn’t require a voting majority: Don’t eat expired food. Don’t buy animals on curbs. Don’t put 10-year-olds under heat lamps.

If somebody has to write this stuff down for you, maybe we need one law for everything: Don’t let stupid people leave the house.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.

Happy Holidays! Yes, ’tis the season when everybody treks into the dark recesses of their garage, untangles dusty holiday crap, tacks it up around their houses and on their roofs, then waits until almost Martin Luther King Jr. Day to take the whole mess down. It’s what Baby Jesus wanted.

Everyone feels the pressure to get a Christmas tree. And if you celebrate Christmas you really should, if for no other reason than that’s one more tree that gets cut down in the prime of life. (Don’t kid yourself. If the situation were reversed, that pine tree would cut you down and everyone you love.)

And if there’s one thing we want to teach our kids about nature, it’s that living things should be sawed off at the legs, brought into the house, tackily decorated with SpongeBob and Batman ornaments, then discarded on the curb three weeks later like an old French whore.

I’m also a big fan of manger scenes, which if you’re not familiar with your New Testament scripture, illustrates the immaculate birth of Christ in a hay barn surrounded by fair-skinned parents and three blond wise men somewhere in Norway. Even the farm animals are blue-eyed! The only thing that could appear more Caucasian would be a Mitt Romney family reunion.

But by far, my favorite part of the holiday season is Christmas lights. Me? I don’t have Christmas lights. You’re lucky if I turn on the porch light for the Domino’s pizza guy. But everyone else in my neighborhood takes the month of December as a personal cry for attention.

Hey, I can appreciate that Home Depot is having a sale on glowing gnomes. But have some respect for narrative and production value. On any given lawn you’ve got nutcrackers sharing crabgrass with drummer boys and penguins.

Are you telling the Christmas story via searchlights and colored plywood? Or are you forcing me to relive my most frightening psychotic hallucination—the one where Christmas carols come to life and I’m forced to play freeze tag with Rudolph and Christmas Shrek in an igloo?

And what part of that thing hanging off your rain gutters is supposed to look like an icicle? It looks like Santa hocked a loogie. And that inflatable in your front yard? It’s great when it’s lit and full of air, but during the day I have to explain to my kid why the neighbors shot and killed Frosty the Snowman.

The average December temperature here is 60 degrees. I’ve lived in Southern California for almost four decades. Forget snow, when somebody says “it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” I imagine relatives in jean shorts fighting over candied yams, long lines at BevMo and strangers flipping me off for a parking space at Sears.

Your best bet during the holidays? Make believe it’s some kind of anthrax attack and hide inside your homes. Avoid strangers. Eat lots of canned meats. Roll up moist towels and shove them under your doors. Shove them under other people’s doors. Instead of watching Claymation Christmas specials, relive the magic and splendor of Seasons 3 to 5 of Magnum P.I. (After enough eggnog, Rick and TC look Claymated.)

The holidays are stressful enough trying to remember who’s whose secret Santa or not making jokes about the fat kid’s reindeer sweater. Relax. Take a load off. While your neighbors risk permanent paralysis hanging wreaths the diameter of truck tires, you’ll be safely tucked indoors eating gingerbread cookies from whoever’s aunt or cousin.

And if you ever feel a pang of guilt to “give back,” goodwill toward man and all that, just remember: Amazon.com ships and gift wraps just about anything and Vons has a surprisingly diverse selection of gift cards. Or just pull an old can of soup out of your cupboard and draw antlers on it.

And come Dec. 26, when everyone else still has Christmas junk littering their front yards, won’t you look like the eager young go-getter and the first house on the block to take your decorative lights down.

Looks like someone’s getting a head start on next year’s “nice” list.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.

Get off my plane! In the past week, Alec Baldwin was ejected from an American Airlines flight at LAX because he allegedly refused to stop playing Words With Friends on his cell phone.

He also allegedly hurled insults at the flight crew, locked himself in a lavatory, banged on the walls, started a Twitter tirade where he compared flight attendants to retired ’50s Catholic school gym teachers, deactivated his Twitter account, blamed 9/11 for his behavior, then appeared on Saturday Night Live as a pilot where he apologized to himself, describing Alec Baldwin as “an American treasure.”

In response to the incident, American Airlines announced it is switching the name of its in-flight nuts to “Alec Baldwin.”

Would we all prefer that Alec Baldwin didn’t act like a 300-pound hairy infant on airport runways? Yes, of course. Grown men should be able to sit quietly in leather recliners without getting shot with rubber pellets by Federal Air Marshals.

But Alec Baldwin isn’t like you and me. He’s rich and famous. (Or at least famous. If he was rich, he wouldn’t be humping it on American Airlines. C’mon, NBC, buy this guy a private jet!)

Alec Baldwin is talented. He’s on a hit television sitcom. He’s hosted Saturday Night Live more times than anyone. And to top it all off, he married Kim Basinger when she was gorgeously hot, not when she was old and busted and portraying Eminem’s strung-out mom in 8 Mile.

Alec Baldwin has starred in Glengarry Glen Ross and The Departed, and that’s way more impressive than whatever crappy jobs you and I have. And if Alec Baldwin wants to lock himself in the occasional bathroom and get himself tossed off a plane once every 53 years, frankly I think that’s a pretty fair trade—as long as he keeps churning out entertaining shows and movies.

And really, who hasn’t wanted to yell at a flight attendant? Name another profession where you can literally have someone arrested just by pointing at them, yet most of your in-flight responsibilities resemble that of a Denny’s waitress.

If a 747 is hurtling toward the Pacific at 700 miles an hour, who are you going to entrust to open the giant cabin door: The 90-pound stewardess who refuses to let you even drink from your own aluminum can of Diet Dr. Pepper, or Alec-freaking-Baldwin, who took down a Russian submarine commander in The Hunt for Red October?

Alec Baldwin is a pompous ass that deserves every sentence of bad publicity he’s ever received. But he also lives in a 24-hour pressure cooker where people constantly aim camera phones at him like he’s a giant panda, or post Twitter updates such as, “Dood, I just peed at a urinal next to Tony Danza!”

Alec Baldwin gets ogled all the time. Whenever he eats. Wherever he sleeps. And especially when he travels. Imagine every moment during the course of your life that you’ve completely lost your mind, then imagine all of those moments edited together, set to a Queen soundtrack and viewed on YouTube 4 million times.

And if you’re really concerned that Alec Baldwin is getting away with murder while the rest of us suffer in impoverished anonymity … One, get a hobby, because nobody should care that much about celebrities. And two, just wait. Sooner than later, Alec Baldwin will get his karmic comeuppance.

Google a picture of Alec Baldwin from 20 years ago: A boyish Alec Baldwin is arguably more dreamy than a Channing Tatum/Justin Bieber/Jonas Brothers Panini. Presently, Alec Baldwin looks like a fat Ricky Ricardo. And in 5 to 10 years, he will resemble a cross between Kenny Rogers and one of those beached whales that has to be exploded because they can’t roll its enormous, disgusting carcass back into the sea.

Someday soon Alec Baldwin will be as un-famous as Balki from Perfect Strangers. He’ll be lucky to find a job as an Indian casino greeter who also has to scrape gum off sidewalks.

And if Alec Baldwin gets out of line on an airplane—heck, if he pops off in line at a Dairy Queen—we’ll take turns beating the hair gel out of him with his own ascot.

Here’s a word for you, Alec: H-A-S-B-E-E-N.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.

See ya, Herm! Once a frontrunner for Republican presidential nominee, Herman Cain now has a better shot of becoming a Kardashian.

Cain said he’s quitting the race to the White House “because of the continued distractions, the continued hurt caused on me and my family …” Hmmm. If only we could find the person causing all these distractions and hurt … Wait a minute. I think I see him … Yes, standing at the podium under a banner that says, “Vote for me, the Great Distractor and Hurter, Herman Cain.”

Herm Cain still denies he had a 13-year affair or that he sexually harassed several female subordinates, though he did admit to making “mistakes, professionally, personally.” (He may have left out “nakedly.”)

Here’s the thing: If you’re going to have an affair that lasts longer than 3 summer Olympics, don’t run for president. When I buy Sudafed they make me show two forms of ID. You don’t think there’s a background check to run for the most powerful job in the world?

Being a politician is like having to put on a suit and flag pin every day and get a verbal colonoscopy for 2-6 years. We should automatically be skeptical of anyone who wants to run for election because nobody is that blameless.

Former Senator John Edwards’ ran for vice president … while his wife was dying of breast cancer and he fathered a secret love child. Then Edwards allegedly used campaign finances to bribe anyone and everyone to keep it on the down low. Edwards is now our nation’s 47^th vice president. Whoops. I mean he’s unemployed, facing six felony counts and could do five years in prison.

Eliot Spitzer earned his stripes by prosecuting prostitution rings as New York’s tough-talking attorney general … Then as New York’s governor, Spitzer was busted with a $1,000-an-hour call girl named Ashley. Spitzer also allegedly paid up to $80,000 for prostitutes—which are either 80 high-class prostitutes or 800 of the kind who take double coupons.

Former New York Representative Anthony Weiner denied sending lewd photos to at least six women and his 45,000 Twitter followers … Then Weiner quietly appreciated the irony of his last name as tabloids ran headlines such as “Stick a Fork in Weiner,” “Weiner’s Rise and Fall” and “Weiner Finally Yanks Himself.”

The line of disgraced politicians is long, and like Weiner, drifts to the left: Bill Clinton, Larry Craig, Mark Sanford, Barney Frank, Gary Condit, Chris Lee, Mark Souder, Eric Massa, Kwame Kilpatrick, Mark Foley, David Vitter, John Ensign—and those are just the sexy ones. Everyone from Representative Charles B. Rangel to former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich is either facing jail time or just has a lot of campaign buttons to recycle.

If you’ve ever kept a stable of Latvian aspiring models in an underground labyrinth, done an 8-eight ball of cocaine off of a dead rodeo clown, used a hacksaw to dismember a drifter in a Travelodge sink, tasted human flesh in a JPEG or QuickTime movie, been grand marshal in a parade of festooned Klan members, intentionally exploded/ignited/flooded/asphyxiated or ritually sacrificed anything or anyone for the insurance money/alimony/Keno winnings or conducted a one-man, scorched-earth campaign against all things homosexual only later to admit that, yes, you yourself go by the name “Major Winky” and you like to dress up like a military officer and stick “Private Winky” in public restroom glory holes/photocopiers/the Soup Plantation’s macaroni salad … DON’T RUN FOR OFFICE.

Not for president, not for vice president, not for treasurer and especially not for recording secretary (because everything gets recorded). Don’t run for anything. ANYTHING.

If someone wants you to run in a jog-a-thon, turn it down. Because there’s always a chance you’ll get recognized while jogging and someone will say, “Holy crap, isn’t bib No. 1157 the guy who got drunk at your son’s birthday party, wrestled Chuck E. Cheese in the ball pit wearing only a Skee ball apron and declared himself the sausage king?”

Everybody has a little freaky in them—or wants a little freaky in them. But good golly, there’s a difference between running for president and the privacy of your own living room inflatable pool.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.

Break out the eggnog and zip ties! The day after Thanksgiving, also known as Black Friday, traditionally marks the beginning of the holidays. Why, it’s enough to bring a sentimental tear to your eye … or maybe that’s the pepper spray.

There’s a lot of ass kicking to recap from last Friday’s Blacktivities, so let’s get to it (before I pass out from massive internal bleeding): 

In Lakewood, Colo., a woman was bitten at a Walmart for a $2 waffle maker. In Los Angeles, a woman turned herself in to police after allegedly pepper-spraying 20 Walmart customers during a mad dash for Xbox video games. And at a Walmart near Phoenix, a man was bloodied and knocked unconscious in front of his crying young grandson while being tackled and beaten by police on suspicion of shoplifting less than $50.

I think all this reveals one undeniable fact about the human condition: Walmart has incredible, rock-bottom deals. C’mon, $2 for a waffle maker? I’d gut a busload of nuns for some of that syrupy deliciousness.

And that’s not the half of it:

In Monroeville, Pa., two women at a Victoria’s Secret traded sucker punches while fighting over—wait for it—yoga pants. There were also gunshots outside stores in San Leandro, Calif., and a mall in Fayetteville, N.C., not to mention a yuletide stabbing outside a store in Sacramento, N.Y.

And in Charleston, W. Va., a man collapsed to the floor inside a Target just after midnight and later died—while people continued shopping around him. “Holy crap, is that guy dying? Never mind him, look at these door buster deals on garden gnomes!”

The good news is Black Friday sales rose an estimated 6.6 percent this year to a record $11.4 billion, according to something called ShopperTrak. The bad news is we’re all one pajama jeans coupon away from becoming poo-flinging, skull-bashing apes.

Seriously, people, when did it become socially acceptable to punch somebody in the box for yoga pants? They’re pants you put on to get another Ben & Jerry’s personal ice cream, not a Wonka golden ticket to the moon.

People lined up five days early at Best Buy in anticipation of Black Friday. And for what? A budget 32” TV? Last year’s model of a digital camera? It doesn’t even have red-eye reduction. And you’re just going to lose it on your ski trip like last time.

It rained locally for at least two nights prior to this year’s Black Friday. What’s pneumonia worth to you? $10 a night? $20? I’m willing to pay the extra $10-$20 to avoid being knocked upside the head for a $3 DVD of Transporter 3. (Is there any limit to what he can transport?)

And I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly want to receive a $2 waffle maker as a Christmas gift—especially if it comes dented from shopper fights or contains bits of dried blood and human teeth. “Oh you shouldn’t have. No seriously, you shouldn’t have. Forget the blue light special. Somebody get a black light. I think the DA might need this for evidence.”

I have no sympathy for anyone who gets hurt during a scrum on Black Friday. Walmart is dangerous enough on a Thursday or a Monday when all I want is a package of tube socks, a coy greeter’s smile and possibly a six-piece McNuggets.

Of course there was going to be riots at a Walmart on Black Friday. It’s like Wrestlemania with more ass crack. There was a nation of sleep-deprived shoppers in jean shorts and trucker hats fighting over a limited number of ridiculously low-priced key buys. We’re lucky all they tried to do was kill each other. What if they had done something really dangerous, like form another bluegrass band or vote?

I realize everyone is looking for cheap deals, but remain calm, people, stay inside your houses pant-less and remember the Internet. It’s gotten us this far and it’s provided everything from Facebook to fantasy football to midget porn.

I’m certain Amazon.com has a cyber special just perfect for you. I’d bet my yoga pants on it.

Contact Jeff Girod at finalword@ieweekly.com.