The Walruss, Youngstown's last alternative newspaper of recent memory, was published from August to December of 2006. All in all, there were eight issues; a ninth issue was planned and written, but never printed.

Collected here is my work from The Walruss.

Issue 1 - August 30, 2006
You'll Love The Walruss! And That's the... Tooth
More Fun than a Hayride? (Movie Previews)
Issue 2 - September 14, 2006
Crapaoke: Like Karaoke, but Tolerable
The Sticky Floor (Movie Previews)
Issue 3 - September 28, 2006
Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judge
The Sticky Floor (Movie Previews)
Issue 4 - October 12, 2006
Amish Paradise?
The Sticky Floor (Movie Previews)
Issue 5 - October 26, 2006
Tune In, Turn On, Drop Dead
The Sticky Floor (Movie Previews)
Issue 6 - November 9, 2006
Faking It
The Sticky Floor (Movie Previews)
Issue 7 - November 23, 2006
Now I Lay Me Down to Eat
The Sticky Floor (Movie Previews)
Issue 8 - December 7, 2006
The State of Bowling: 2006
The Real Reason for the Season The Sticky Floor (Movie Previews)

more HURF DURF hijinks with mediocrity's poster manchild

Opening 12/08

The Holiday – Sometimes casting can ruin the premise of a movie. Take The Holiday, for example: it features Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz, two women who swap houses and countries after being overcome with guy problems. I find it hard to believe that two of the most beautiful women in Hollywood (I am accepting the perception of Cameron Diaz as good-looking for the grounds of this argument) have such bad relationship luck that they actually need to change countries to solve their problems. Jack Black also stars, and he looks to be playing a role other than “Captain Wacky;” kind of a shame, since your girlfriend will force you to watch this.

Apocalypto – Mel Gibson’s face is all over the previews of Apocalypto, which seems like a strange marketing device to use after the actor/director’s drunken rant about “the Jews” back in July of this year. A story about the downfall of the Mayan kingdom, Apocalypto is similar to Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ; the dialogue of the film will be in a language appropriate for the setting – Mayan. Overlooking Gibson’s eccentricities, Apocalypto could be a good epic movie- as long as the downfall of the Mayan civilization isn’t because of “the Jews.” And if it is, you heard it here first.

Blood Diamond – Blood Diamond brings new meaning to the DeBeers-enforced slogan, “A diamond is forever,” with a story of the suspenseful struggle of three characters (played by Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Connely, and Djimon Hounsou) for a diamond that can change all of their lives in different ways. Of course, diamond theft is not as easy as smashing open a display case at Zales when you’re in the middle of war-torn Sierra Leone. Blood Diamond looks to be an interesting thriller, and it may teach American audiences that the diamond industry’s seedy side of mistreatment and torture may be reprehensible, but it can result in good movies.

Unaccompanied Minors – They really should have advertised Unaccompanied Minors as “Lord of the Flies at an airport.” Sure, that correlation may be very unsteady, but it would at least get me interested. Minors is the latest in a long line of “kids rule” films that started way back in 1990, when little Macaulay Culkin was still paralyzing home invaders with homemade torture device. But instead of taking place in a suburban home, Minors shifts the stage to a snowed-in Chicago airport, where a group of plucky kids must scrape together what natural resources they can find to have Christmas. Lewis Black co-stars, so if you don’t like to see kids getting into mischief, you will at least enjoy all the screaming.

Opening 12/15

The Pursuit of Happyness – The title of this movie makes English majors like me not want to see it out of spite alone. But there’s a method to Happyness’s madness: the word’s misspelling is actually a semi-important plot point. The film stars Will Smith and son as a fictional father and son duo who struggle with homelessness to carve out a place to survive in America. Based on trailers I’ve seen of the film, Happyness seems determined to extract tears from your eyes with a syringe if it has to. Sadly, the movie industry seems to ignore us modern Grinches who prefer to have our hearts two sizes too small.

Charlotte’s Web – Yes, there is now a new adaptation of Charlotte’s Web, even though the ultimate talking pig movies – Babe and its sequel – have already been made. Gary Winick directs this new movie version of E.B. White’s classic story about spelling and spider mortality, with precocious Dakota Fanning starring as Fern. As expected, there’s a bevy of celebrities voicing the various animal characters; Julia Roberts plays Charlotte the spider. If anything, this movie should be much better than the last “interpretation” of White’s book, the direct-to-video Charlotte’s Web 2: Wilbur’s Great Adventure, which featured Charlotte’s three daughters - who looked conspicuously like The Powerpuff Girls. I’m not kidding.

Eragon – Do you like Lord of the Rings? Would you like to see it blatantly ripped off by a teenage author? If so, Eragon should be your holiday movie of choice. In it, a boy and his pet dragon must defend their land from an evil king and proceed to rehash every fantasy cliché from the past fifty years. And the fact that this film is the beginning of a trilogy means that we’re guaranteed to see the same material annually for at least another two years. I may sound bitter about the young author of these books finding success and movie deals, but I’m not: after all, if my parents owned a publishing company and decided to print my book (as is the case with Christopher Paolini), I would no doubt deserve my success.

Opening 12/22

Rocky Balboa – Thankfully, this new Rocky movie does not have a Roman numeral at the end. If it did, I fear this new film would remind people of the Spaceballs joke, “Rocky Five… Thousand.” If you think that Stallone is a little too old to be playing Rocky, you’re right; after all, that mountain of man meat is pushing 60. But the plausibility arguments of Rocky Balboa are done in by the intense amount of nostalgia that this movie is generating. No matter how stupid the franchise became, Rocky has always been synonymous with the 80s. This is your chance to buy 90 minutes of your childhood back, and you’d better hurry – I don’t think there’s going to be another Rocky once Stallone starts cashing Social Security checks.

The Good Shepherd – One of only a handful of films directed by Robert DeNiro, The Good Shepherd tells the story of the CIA’s beginning, all told through the eyes of Agent Edward Wilson (Matt Damon). This 1940s period piece looks to be full of mystery, suspense, and Angelina Jolie’s boobs. But don’t blame her – she really can’t help it. And is there really a better gift you can give yourself this Christmas?

Night at the Museum – Ben Stiller is typecast as a hapless doormat in this movie about a security guard who works in a museum where the exhibits come to life. You’ll have to excuse my bias against Ben Stiller; to me he’s the poster child of middle-ground entertainment: not offensive, not enjoyable, and somewhere in the zone of absolute mediocrity. Owen Wilson is also featured prominently in previews for this movie, which makes me think that Hollywood is trying to set Stiller and Wilson up as the next great comedy duo, a la Laurel and Hardy. The only problem is that one of them isn’t fat. Oh yeah, and they’re both dangerously unfunny.

I don’t bowl often. Sure, bowling is the only real American sport – besides football (the real kind), baseball, basketball, and competitive eating – but I’m hardly a real American. I must’ve listened to that damn Hulk Hogan song about 50 times before I gave up trying to draw correlations between myself and better men with bleached walrus moustaches. But recently, I found myself bowling for the first time in a decade, and I was very surprised at my findings; I didn’t change: bowling changed. What was once an innocent, gentle sport I played multiple times throughout the ages of 8 -10 has since become an impostor with a slick new veneer of impostoricity. By now, you can probably guess what all this means.

I went bowling, and you’re going to read about it.

Does bowling bore you? How about an entire castle of bowling? Yes, I thought so. The proposition of bowling took me to Boardman’s scenic commercial wasteland, route 224, where Camelot Lanes, the bowling alley in question, is located. This particular alley is shaped like a castle – in case you haven’t yet solved the mystery – which hearkens back to a simpler, kitschier time when Americans demanded their roadside attractions be as freakish as they were novel. On our vast roadways, we used to eat hamburgers inside a giant hamburgers, pump gas near giant concrete dinosaurs, and buy our colostomy bags inside of massive - I guess what I’m trying to say is that if we were going to go bowling, it was going to be in a castle, good taste be damned!

But Camelot lanes has come a long way since my last visit, and its humble roots since being built in Arthurian Times (I can’t find a source, so I’m just going to assume this.)

That night I walked into Camelot, anticipating the image of a run-down, dreary establishment I expect from a bowling alley. Instead, spotlights! Televisions! Teenagers milling about! Where was the stench of death (the familiar “bowling smell”)? Where were the old men living out the last years of their lives? And what of the massive second-hand smoke cloud that was as familiar as an old bowling partner? All of these elements were relocated to the bar. But they might as well have been gone completely; since the early 90s, bowling had turned from the sport of the drifter to big-time family fun, and I was left bewildered.

Normally able to adapt to most changes, I tried to take everything in stride and enjoy the night. The first clue that this was not going to happen came with my bowling shoes: neon laces. It’s like someone’s idea of fun from 1987 had been transported from the past, infecting the feet of me and my loved ones. This time capsule coolness did not just end with the once-dignified bowling shoe, however. As I reached my lane, I saw various images of Rod Stewart being projected on large screens. Was hitting Rod Stewart with a bowling ball some sort of new, exciting objective to the game of bowling? The manager angrily assured me it was not. Thankfully, Rod Stewart’s face and voice were not the only things filling the enchanted bowling castle that night; the screens also showed some of the best music videos… from 1993. Perhaps Camelot Lanes is trying to increase awareness of The Breeders, but they couldn’t hide their misguided attempts to make bowling cool.

Don’t they realize that bowling isn’t supposed to be cool? Bowling should be full of skuzzy men with the sour smell of unwashed bedding, in tar-stained denim jackets or windbreakers, passing time until their next suicide attempt. Instead, all I could see were 12 year-old girls dressed like prostitutes and seductively leaning over the air blower on the ball return for the benefit of their 17 year-old boyfriends. Bowling used to be something your parents did while you drank wine coolers in your closet; I guess now kids have “better” things to do. And all of this pizzazz added to the game of bowling has now made a night of the sport nearly twice as expensive as a trip to the movie theater. I never though I’d see the day when handling a greasy, used ball would cost more per hour than a chance to see an official Scarlett Johannson boob.

One thing did brighten my night of tortuous bowling, though. In the Camelot Lanes arcade, I saw a machine that dispenses little key chains with flashing LEDs inside. And one of the key chains featured was a crucifix – but Jesus was not unhappy at his predicament. Rather, his face was beaming almost as much as the little LEDs inside that plastic cross.

Kitsch never dies.

~ taint the halls with matthew broderick
fa la la la la, la la la la ~

Opening 11/22

Déjà Vu- Denzel Washington and time travel: could a combination be less likely? The only time I can recall these two elements mixing was in a dream of mine where Denzel starred in a movie called Oscar Bait 5000. Nevertheless, Déjà Vu features Washington as a cop who must go back in time to stop the case he is working on (a ferry explosion) from ever happening, and possibly fall in love during the time-traveling process. Stopping the explosion may be the easiest part of Washington’s job; after all, Dr. Phil says one partner being slightly from the future is the hardest hurdle a couple has to overcome.

The Fountain- Darren Aronofsky, whose last film was the more-effective-than-any-PSA Requiem for a Dream, returns after six years of cinematic silence with his interpretation of the fountain of youth myth (think Ponce de León). Much like Déjà Vu, the fountain also features a time travel-based romance, with two lovers (Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz) torn apart and reunited over time. Okay, so maybe it’s more “unhealthy relationship” than time travel; anyone who has ever gotten back together with an ex can vouch for that. But if the romance of The Fountain doesn’t interest you, at least see it to help out poor Warner Brothers, who spent countless millions in pre-production hell just trying to get this movie off the ground. If we don’t help our movie studios, who will?

Bobby- After JFK was assassinated and America lost its innocence, we were ready for backup JFK (Bobby Kennedy) to give us back our faith in apple pie. Then someone shot him, too. Bobby is about just this, and marks Emilio Estevez’s first written and directed film since the 1990 comedy Men at Work. I don’t know anything about that movie, but something tells me it had to be pretty bad for Emilio to take a 16-year break from the creative process. Hopefully Bobby will be better; it promises to focus on the stories of 22 people who were in the same hotel in which Bobby Kennedy was assassinated. That number seems daunting to me, but I doubt Bobby will be as bloated as any of Oliver Stone’s political movies.

Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny- “Strike while the iron’s hot” does not seem to be the philosophy of Tenacious D. The 2006 (almost 2007) release date of this music/comedy duo’s movie seems to be especially baffling since no one has cared about the two since around 2001. I assume that if you like their show (if you remember it), you’ll probably like the movie; both the material and the sense of humor seem to be about the same. But the short-lived run of Tenacious D makes me wonder if they still have any original content up their sleeves. I somehow feel the need to tell you that this movie is directed by Liam Lynch, the mastermind and puppeteer behind Sifl & Olly. And if that TV show rings a bell, you are quite possibly as much of a terrible nerd as me.

Deck the Halls- In the immortal words of Norm Macdonald: “Happy birthday, Jesus; I hope you like crap!” This sentiment seems to sum up Deck the Halls perfectly, along with every other innocuous holiday comedy that tries to unseat A Christmas Story and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation from their rightful thrones as the rulers of Christmas movies. And Lampoon manages to be funny, even with Chevy Chase! It’s not that Christmas movies are inherently bad; they just have a tradition of suck. And the addition of Matthew “13 year-old in a 40 year-old’s body” Broderick isn’t helping much. The plotline of two neighbors in Christmas decoration competition can’t be good, as is the case with anything stolen from Home Improvement. I guess if you can’t get Tim Allen, it’s just as good to steal from his oeuvre.

Opening 12/01

The Nativity Story- Really, do I have to go into much detail about The Nativity Story? Three words: birth of Christ. One can only hope that for the cost of bringing your family to the movie theater – since Bible movies are always a buzzkill on dates – The Nativity Story is more entertaining than watching one of those “living nativity” scenes that are erected in front of churches close to Christmastime. I guess The Nativity Story, unlike The Passion of the Christ, may be more suitable for all members of the family, but in my opinion childbirth is more horrifying than any scourging. Just don’t bring your Bible and ruin the ending for everyone.

10 Items or Less- Even though it has a title co-opted from the world of shopping, please don’t confuse 10 Items or Less with October’s Employee of the Month. Whereas Employee was a vehicle for Dane Cook, everyone’s favorite flailing comic still pretending to be in his 20s, 10 Items or Less stars Morgan Freeman, America’s favorite black grandpa. He doesn’t seem to be playing the role of “wise mentor” or even “penguin narrator” in the film, which is a welcome change. 10 Items features Freeman as a has-been actor who develops an unlikely relationship with a grocery store clerk (Paz Vega); they then learn things about themselves and each other because that’s how situations like this usually unfold. 10 Items or Less may be good, but non-gimmicky character studies don’t exactly do well during the holiday movie season.

Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj- The royalties from Two Guys, a Girl, and a Pizza Place must be pretty nice, since Ryan Reynolds won’t be starring in the sequel to 2002’s Van Wilder. In case you’re not familiar with the Wilder franchise, it’s basically Animal House for unfunny people who hate themselves and the world they live in. Wilder 2 (obviously) is primarily about Taj (Kal Penn), a character from the first movie who fit nicely into the role of “hilarious foreign stereotype.” The bright lining of this storm cloud of a should-have-been-straight-to-DVD movie is that filmgoers will at least be spared from the sight of Tara Reid’s horrible, Frankensteinian body. They must have gotten my letter.

Turistas- Recently, America has been fixated on torture movies. No, I’m not talking about anything starring Ben Stiller; I mean artificial snuff films meant to creep out and possibly arouse the viewer (like Saw and Hostel). An imdb.com user comment calls Turistas “Hostel in Brazil,” and I’m likely to agree. The plot? Unlucky backpackers choose the wrong place to stay (they’re stranded in the case of Turistas), and either get murdered or escape the killer – though most bets are on the killer in situations like these. It doesn’t get any more complicated than that, folks.

As you gently lower your head into a pile of mashed potatoes this Thanksgiving (as I assume all people do), I hope you will at least take a few seconds and be grateful for the good things in your life, at least until the butter melts. Also remember that Thanksgiving is one of the few days – along with Patriot Day – that the placing of one’s face in mashed potatoes is considered a show of both solemn respect and hunger for mashed potatoes. But even though I have a strong reputation as a bitter little troll, as malevolent as I am fearful, I certainly won’t be left out of the tuber-based festivities. Yes, despite my policy on gratitude, I have many things to be thankful for.

So to honor the great pilgrim gods to whom many heathen turkeys are sacrificed annually, I would like to share with you my gratefulness in a specific format of no more than 900 words. I suggest you do the same, lest you want the pilgrim gods to descend from Asgard and use their magic buckles to steal your souls and unused VCRs. But don’t expect us to publish it.

Reason to be thankful #1: I haven’t died horribly in a fire. Because I don’t actively go around and intentionally avoid dying horribly in a fire, I must be pretty lucky to be alive right now. And it is a magnificently terrible way to die, though not just because of the pain. You see, my intended demise involves me, a speeding train, and just enough time before the explosion to vocally curse all those who wronged me. Could this possibly happen if my house burns down while I sleep? Of course not. Even being awake and burning alive offers very little in the “self-control” department. How can someone be expected to deliver a powerful and moving death monologue while most of their face melts off? It nearly borders on comedic.

Reason to be thankful #2: Complete global nuclear war has not started. I have to note that it hasn’t started as of this writing. With the inevitable delays between writing and publishing, I could end up looking like a total ass if North Korea and Iran decided to lob a few our way in the interim. That is, if The Walruss still exists at that point in time. But I can guarantee you that those sissies at The Vindicator will be high-tailing it to Canada – or even worse, The Netherlands – at the first sign of trouble. This scenario isn’t an entirely absurd idea; other nuclear-armed countries are not nearly as stable as our own. I mean, just look at the haircuts on those guys in the Pentagon! Just look at them! And you have to remember that Kim Jong-Il’s war room meetings on nuclear war consist only of Looney Tunes shorts being screened. It is in this context and this context alone that “rabbit season” equals nuclear holocaust.

Reason to be thankful #3: Beetle Bailey continues to exist. On the rare chances I actually have to talk to an old person, sometimes I find it impossible to avoid using a modern word – like “e-mail” – which usually confuses them into submission and sometimes war flashbacks. Comics like Beetle Bailey (along with Hi and Lois and the rest of the “drawn by octogenarians” collective) allow me to step into the world of “what was funny in 1950,” helping me communicate with the elderly. Whether it’s making fun of women for their driving ability, making fun of women for their nagging ability, or making fun or women for their inability to give me a son, Beetle Bailey covers all of the humorous topic bases – without using the mild profanity of a certain Gomer Pyle U.S.M.C. Just make sure you don’t ask why it’s mandatory for all black characters to exclusively stay in the back of panels.

Reason to be thankful #4: Gravity has remained consistent. I don’t know about you, but the placement of objects in my room is entirely dependent on the fact that gravity will continue to operate as it always has. Since this is the 24th year of my life where gravity has not yet changed, I think it may be time to take down all the mattresses I have installed in the ceiling. On second thought, I’ll wait until Christmas.

Reason to be thankful #5: Free press is alive and well. This is not self-congratulatory, even though the fabulous crown I have fashioned from discarded Burger King crowns and rhinestones was made for this fifth reason. You see, since The Walruss is not owned by large, evil corporations and is also not under the heels of puritan advertisers, my lies and ideas I thought of on the toilet are printed on these very pages twice a month. Can you imagine the amount of buckling I’d have to do in order to fit my content into the pages of a mainstream rag? I can see it now: “Bob Mackey Presents: The Lighter Side of Kittens.”

Great, I just gave away my submission piece for Reader’s Digest.

:(

Opening 11/10

Stranger then Fiction – As funny as he is, lately Will Ferrell’s movies have not been known for their quality. Bewitched was convoluted and unnecessary, while Talladega Nights made me long for the return of his Ron Burgundy character. Stranger Than Fiction teams Ferrell with a co-star he hasn’t worked with in quite some time: an interesting premise. In Fiction, Ferrell plays a hapless IRS agent whose life suddenly becomes narrated – and controlled – by an omniscient author. And on the other side of things, this author has no idea that this new character of hers is a real person, which is why she holds not convictions about killing him off. The premise seems interesting enough to carry the film as long as they don’t try to logically explain the magical author/subject connection (ex. “A wizard did it.”) And I would say that this film is slightly ripping off John Candy’s Delirious, but I’m sure the eight other people who saw that movie wouldn’t really care.

The Return – The Return might as well be called Stir of Echoes: Sarah Michelle Gellar Edition (Now With Less Bacon), because the plot of this movie is extremely similar to the 1999 Kevin Bacon thriller. Both The Return and its predecessor feature the idea of ordinary people haunted by horrible visions which cause them to solve murders of the past. The main difference between the two is that Stir’s story was penned by Richard Matheson – the creator of the zombie genre and a fabulous horror writer – while the writer of The Return seems to only have experience on some TV show called Night Stalker. America, who would you trust? Sarah Michelle Gellar stars, so you may want to see The Return if you need more material for your Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan fiction.

A Good Year – Like Sideways, A Good Year is a wine-related comedy. But instead of the impish Paul Giamatti and Thomas “Please Don’t Mention Wings” Haden Church, A Good Year stars the phone-throwing New Zealand madman, Russell Crowe. Crowe plays an Englishman whose world is turned upside down when the claim on his newly-inherited vineyard is challenged by an American woman. Please note that his world is not turned sideways, because that would be bordering copyright infringement. It’s nice to see Crowe remove himself from tortured and overbearing Oscar roles, but A Good Year – even with Ridely Scott as director – looks a little bland. Hopefully after swishing this one around in your mouth, you won’t want to spit it in a bucket. Now congratulate me for only using one wine analogy.

Harsh Times – Christian Bale is less Batman and more Joker (except without the world’s only hot clown as his sidekick) in this brutal drama about an ex-Army ranger returning to a life of crime after failing to land a job with the LAPD. For some reason, Harsh Times has been finished for a year, yet this movie seems to be showing up in American theaters last. IMDB.com also tells me that Iceland got this movie a month before we did. Iceland! I smell a conspiracy theory, or perhaps just movie executives trying to hide a bad movie. From Harsh Times, I get subtle shades of Falling Down – with the story of a man’s downward spiral in South Central L.A. – so hopefully first-time director David Ayer won’t go on to direct movies featuring bodysuits with elaborately molded nipples and codpieces, as Joel Schumacher did. See? Everything begins and ends with Batman.

Opening 11/17

Casino Royale – The long-awaited new James Bond is here in this movie adaptation of Ian Fleming’s first novel about the spy who prefers his martinis abused. Daniel Craig replaces Pierce Brosnan in this story about James Bond’s infiltration of a terrorist cell via casino (hence the title). A refurbishment may be just what the franchise needs, especially after 2002’s lousy Die Another Day. I think it’s important to note that Bond does not yet have his license to kill in this movie (as it is the “first” Bond adventure), so you may miss the wholesale slaughter of enemy goons - but I’m sure there’s lots of fun to be had with a permit to kill. Fans wanting more Brosnan Bond action may just want to wait until next year’s Mrs. Doubtfire 2, and then pretend really hard that Pierce Brosnan’s role in this film is a very convincing Bond undercover mission.

Fast Food Nation – Since Super Size Me’s documentary approach did a fantastic job of showing the world how fast food is both murder and suicide, director Richard Linklater decided to turn Eric Schlosser’s book - the strictly non-fiction Fast Food Nation - into a very fictional movie. Greg Kinnear plays a fast food marketing executive investigating the behind-the-scenes aspects of his industry, from the kill floor to the packing plant, and all the gritty details in between. I can understand Linklater’s attempt to deliver all of the book’s messages in the form of a traditional narrative, but the sheer depth of Schlosser’s writing and research makes me think this will be a tough conversion. I suggest that you read the book, or at least get the movie tie-in version of the book on CD (as read by Greg Kinnear).

Happy Feet – Another CGI movie made for kids, this time about dancing penguins. And apparently, someone had the entirely original idea of casting Robin Williams in an animated role where he plays Robin Williams! Well, Penguin Robin Williams. In fact, this movie has an entire cadre of celebrities attached to it, including Elijah Wood, Hugh Jackman, and Nicole Kidman. My theory is that celebrities are lending their voices to awful roles like these because A.) they want to entertain their children, or B.) studios who release movies like Happy Feet have terrible pictures of these celebrities in their possession. In the following year, I would like to see Matthew Perry play a seal, Regis Philbin play a mountain goat, and Jim Belushi play a talking pile of garbage. Thanks in advance, Hollywood.

Let’s Go to Prison – Arrested Development junkies looking for their next fix may be interested in Let’s Go To Prison, as it stars Will Arnett (AKA G.O.B.); and fans of comedy in general may be interested in the movie due to Bob Odenkirk’s (of Mr. Show with Bob and David) role as director. This Odd Couple in jail story features Arnett as the new guy in jail with his cellmate (Dax Shepard) showing him the ropes. My only concern is that half of the trailer features prison rape jokes. And the prison rape joke has been thoroughly explored by every hack comedy writer on earth. But, with so many tremendously funny people associated with Let’s Go to Prison, I still have hope.

Sometimes the tremendous duties of a journalist are interrupted by duties that are even more tremendouser. Because of this, I will be unable to perform the husbandly duty of providing a Last Word column for this issue of The Walruss. So before I go out and buy some very important groceries, let me introduce our guest columnist for this month, Rush Limbaugh:

Friends, it is I: the Sultan of Truth; the reason God made man in his image. You may wonder what Rush Limbaugh, a media giant, is doing in the back of a small, independent newspaper. Worry not; I have not gone on one of my world-famous benders that the liberal media used to never shut up about. Rather, I was promised 500 chickens of my choice to be delivered to my home by the fabulous Boston Market Company just for mentioning their delicious products (with convenient heat and eat packaging) in a format other than my world-famous radio show (syndicated only in America).

500 chickens? Is he kidding? These are questions which no doubt spring to the feeble minds of Democrats holding this free (socialism, anyone?) newspaper in their hands. Yes, I have long since moved on from my state of hyper-morbid-obesity to the normal, healthy, average obesity most hardworking Americans find themselves a part of. Then what’s with the food references? You see, folks, sometimes I wish I still was that good old 425 pounds (my college weight), because that’s what eggheads like Al Franken used to concentrate their attacks on. Now that I have shed the pounds, and made my opiate addiction private, liberals are actually paying attention to what I say. And, my friends, this is dangerous.

Of course we’ve all heard about the media backlash relating to a few “mistakes” I made in analyzing Michael J. Fox’s medical disorder. I’m no physician, nor do I claim to be one – except for that brief decade when I had a supply closet full of blank prescription notepads. And yes, I did apologize for not doing my research – but did the Democrats apologize for tugging along at Fox like a puppet on a string (possibly literally – but I kid) and manipulating the esteemed actor who taught us important lessons about the value of being a conservative in a family of filthy, rotten hippies? There were no “family ties” here, my friends. This was deceit, pure and simple. And I can tell you that if Hillary Clinton is elected President, she will turn good old Marty McFly into some kind of perpetual motion machine, with his disease-induced shaking powering her all-night abortion parties.

You know, I’m glad I can say these things in print, because my radio show producer thinks there is some sort of line I should not cross. So while I’m here, free from my AM shackles, why don’t we cross some of those lines together? I can almost taste the chicken, and you will, too, in your local grocer’s freezer.
First of all, John McCain: faker. Yes, I’ve heard “torture” this, and “hero” that, but where is the proof? And this man thinks he can criticize our President, a man whose mind is not clouded by the horrors of war? Tell me who you would trust; honestly folks, I don’t think it could be clearer. Worst of all, John McCain goes on TV and talks about how he was “tortured?” Mr. McCain, military service is hard, but it’s hardly “torture.” And you would dare badmouth the North Vietnamese, people who are desperately trying to rebuild after various calamities? Mr. McCain, that country has been through war.

Up next, Bob Dole: not a faker. Yes, he’s another Republican, and – unless I’m in rehab – I don’t like to crap in my own bed, folks. But don’t you think Bob Dole could have milked that arm thing just a little bit more? You know, play it up; get some sparklers to stick in that damn claw instead of a Bic? Mr. Dole, I hold you to blame for an additional four years of the nightmarish Clintonocracy. You couldn’t have ripped off your shirt sleeve while writhing on the podium in pain during heated moments of the 1996 Presidential Debates?

The third hot issue is Mark Foley: faker. I can’t imagine the horrors that will happen to this man in prison for only trying to call attention to his mission of helping missing and exploited children. Could anyone not see his actions with that young page were just an example of what could happen if the laws Mr. Foley fought for were not enforced properly? He was simply trying to show America that sexual predators can lurk anywhere, even in our own House of Representatives - which I don’t mind telling you is about half liberal. And Mark Foley’s role-playing exercise with his young page showed that his powerful message was getting through to the boy: if an older man starts making sexual advances towards you online, simply type “lol” a bunch of times and awkwardly sign off! Prisons around the world are full of heroes like Mark Foley.

In closing, I must tackle one final issue. JFK: faker. He’s not dead, folks, and his supposed “assassination” was simply a vast conspiracy with the intention of getting Americans to sympathize forever with Democrats. My friends, I won’t spend a half-dollar unless it has Benjamin Franklin on it; that’s how serious I am. Somewhere in Washington, an 89 year-old JFK sits on a velvet throne, smiling a ghastly smile because everything is going according to plan. So why do Republicans control most of the government?

Believe me, Republican domination is the first step towards Democrat domination. And you can quote me on that.

GREAT SUCCESS FOR BLOGGINGS

Opening 10/27

Saw III: With a new movie every year, the Saw franchise is beginning to look like the John Madden series of video games; each year brings new rosters, slightly new features, and a sense of the expected. The Saw series has always been “Home Alone for sadists,” with swinging blades and dismemberments replacing the heated doorknobs and swinging paint cans of slapstick comedy; this third installment is no different. Jigsaw, the evil mastermind behind the first two movies, is on the brink of death. And in a sadistic twist on the Make a Wish Foundation, he has one final request: to build another torture hut. Two victims, one made to keep Jisgaw alive and one trying to survive his deadly games, must work together or be torn apart- maybe even literally. Fans of the franchise should eat Saw III up, and horror enthusiasts will enjoy the cruel contraptions that would give Rube Goldberg nightmares. I’m just happy the tagline for this series is no longer “see Saw,” which ranks second in stupidity to Star Wars: Episode II’s “Who da man? Yoda man.”

Opening 11/03

The Santa Clause III: The Escape Clause: The Santa Clause III: The Escape Clause begs the question, “Must everything be a trilogy?” Even in epic adventures like Lord of the Rings, three movies seem to be a little too much; and most of you would agree with me after watching Return of the King’s 19 consecutive endings. But apparently, more of the Santa Clause saga needs to be told- or maybe Tim Allen just needs to recover from this summer’s Zoom, A.K.A “Tim Allen Presents: Pluto Nash 2: The Search for Curly’s Gold.” In this (hopefully) final installment of the series, Tim Allen faces a new challenge while playing the role of Santa Claus: Jack Frost, played by Martin Short. It seems that Jack Frost wants to take over Christmas for some reason, possibly because of a little thing screenwriters like to call “shoehorning unfunny old comics into kids’ movies.” How is Martin Short still allowed to be captured on film? He forced his Jiminy Glick character on America for five years – which we politely refused – then proceeded to make a Jiminy Glick movie that even projectionists refused to see. I think I have made my point about The Santa Clause III: I have to lie down.

Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan: This film, which I will now refer to as Borat: The Movie, is the brainchild of comedian Sacha Baron Cohen, whose Ali G character received his own movie back in 2002. But – in case you didn’t know - the joke surrounding Sacha’s characters is that bystanders have no idea that Sacha is playing a character. And Cohen uses this strategy to inflict Borat, a bizarre, sexist and anti-Semitic (Cohen himself is Jewish) man from a very foreign culture, upon the American public. The premise behind Borat: The Movie is that the titular character is filming a documentary about America for his homeland of Kazakhstan. But this is all just an excuse to push Borat into hilarious situations that make they concept of “fish out of water” seem considerably less hackneyed. Borat isn’t just a buffoon to laugh at, though. In a way (and I’m trying not to sound heavy-handed here), Borat holds a mirror up to Americans, revealing our prejudices and just how much we’re willing tolerate. Don’t worry about Borat: The Movie being anything like Crash, though; I promise you won’t walk out of the theater with a heavy heart and guilt over not knowing any black people.

Flushed Away: Flushed Away is slightly more distinguishable from the 50 other CGI movies in theaters now because it’s made by Aardman, the same people who brought us Wallace and Gromit and Chicken Run. There’s no mistaking that they have a good track record, but Flushed Away is the studio’s first move away from the slighty-more-meticulous world of sculpted Plasticine into the realm of computer graphics. The same distinct Aardman character design and British charm seems to inhabit Flushed Away, but will it be as good as their older films? It’s a possibility. The movie tells the story of a high-society rat (Hugh Jackman) who finds himself in a whole new lower-class world after an encounter with a sewer rat (Shane Richie) and must adapt to survive. I have no doubt that Aardman can make this concept charming, but recently there has been a glut of “things that shouldn’t talk but do” animated features. Unfairly, Flushed Away may just get lost in the void of mindless children’s entertainment. Animation studios could avoid this problem by making films with subject matter unique to animated movies - like 2004’s The Incredibles - but that would be crazy.

I am not a fan of the radio. The last time I regularly listened to a station was when Cleveland’s 107.9 was still on the air, during an age when the word “alternative” was slightly less meaningless and also a fitting reply to those questioning your taste in music. Since 107.9’s 1999 transformation into a hip-hop station, I have been without the fascism of the FM dial for over a decade; free of the electronic warbling of preteen jailbait as well as the thundering voices and terrible sound effects of overproduced bumpers this frequency is famous for. I – like most people – now use the Internet to find and listen to music because it’s just as free as radio, with the benefit of not being interrupted every 10 minutes by an alcoholic famous for appearing at grocery store and car wash grand openings. Without the radio, my life was even better.

But then I got curious.

The AM dial was something I had not yet explored in my life, but to be honest, no one regrets not changing frequencies on their death bed. Still, I decided to start listening to our own local AM station – 570 WKBN – just to encounter this new world of talk and its acoustics which sound like the inside of a coffee can. At first, I was amused. “Listen to the idiots that are calling in,” I would state to my unresponsive steering wheel and odometer. Then, one day I almost went off the road when I realized the terrible, terrible truth. Those idiots weren’t callers, they were RADIO PERSONALITIES.

This is not the most bone-chilling part of my tale, however. This status goes to 570 WKBN’s most prolific sponsor, godsaidmansaid.com (GSMS). This non-profit organization’s ads go by so fast, you may think they were just the work of bourbon and daydreams. But believe me: no dream could ever be this bone-chilling and sinister, even if it was full of naked grandmas. YOUR naked grandmas. Allow me to give you the formula of the GSMS ads: the first thing you hear is a loud blaring of synthesizer, followed by a man screaming a rhetorical question and the website address. Here are some transcriptions of a few real GSMS radio commercials.

“Was Noah’s Ark real?! God Said Man Said Dot Com!”
“Do Aliens exist?! God Said Man Said Dot Com!”
“Should your child be circumcised?! God Said Man Said Dot Com!”

When I heard the last ad, I thought, “Wait just a minute, buster. No radio voice is going to tell me what to do with the penises of my unborn son(s), especially voice that would probably add an extra syllable to the end of words like ‘Jesus.’” But even though I was offended, I fell for the trap. The GSMS ads are so cryptic and bizarre that you can’t help but go to their website, which is about as loud and annoying as the people who hold these scientifically retarded beliefs. In order to go into further detail on GSMS, I have done vast Internet research on this organization to save you, the reader, precious, secular time.

GSMS operates on the following principal: God right, you wrong. And if you happen to challenge their beliefs, you are obviously in league with The Devil. I’ll say this much: The Devil and I were roommates for a few years, but we don’t even talk anymore. So this investigation of GSMS comes primarily from my own personal sense of evil, which is what the GSMS crew generally calls things like science and logic.

I don’t have nearly enough space to deconstruct the already rotted out and silverfish-infested foundations of all GSMS’s arguments, so I will give an example of their argument for a young earth. Folks, I only wish I could mine for comedy gold as successfully as this:

Being that credible recorded history, which is proof of the past, does not exceed 6,000 years, it is impossible to prove the earth older than 6,000 years. Credible witnesses cannot be produced because there aren't any. Pseudo-sicence consistently throws up straw-men arguments speaking of billions of years of time which are regularly discredited by sound science.

So, in order for anything to have happened, there must be a credible witness or a written account? How about biological, meteorological, or geological truths? All of this questioning brought me to the question, “If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound?” Of course it does. Just as GSMS followers would make a sound if they collapsed in a vacant lot, crushed by the weight of their own stupidity and ignorance, as well as the mass of sheer amount of bibles most of them must carry around. At this point I realize I am giving this argument credibility by trying to dissect it, so I will now stop.

I encourage all of you to check out GSMS. Grab a beer, sit back, and get ready to laugh; but don’t get mad. If these opinions were not out in the open, no one would be able to see how tremendously stupid they are! And these are the opinions that are paying for 570 WKBN, so you can take a guess at how intellectually stimulating this station’s programming must be. Avoid AM at all costs, and if you somehow find yourself trapped in a car with nothing but AM radio, swerve into the closest lane of oncoming traffic and hope for a swift death. In the meantime, I am going to construct my own bizarre website in hopes of a cult following and future radio sponsorship.

Were fossils planted in the earth by space communists?! Bob Said Man Said Dot Com!
Does Jesus have a MySpace?! Bob Said Man Said Dot Com!
Can you put your elbow in your ear?! Bob Said Man Said Dot Com!

Heeeey- watcha readin'?
The Grudge 2: If creepy little kids in movies were ever actually creepy, it was for a period of time so brief that cameras were unable to capture it. Unfortunately, “The Grudge 2” has been made, furthering the belief that small pale children suddenly appearing in strange places is the most terrifying experience on earth. Anyone that has been to Ireland can attest that this is a normal and expected occurrence. I assume that if you liked the original “Grudge,” you’ll like “The Grudge 2;” then I start to remember how much I liked “The Ring,” a movie which was followed by a terrible, terrible sequel. Even though the directors of both versions are the same, fans of Japanese horror might want to choose the slightly absurd option of renting the original sequel – and to most people, the thought of reading subtitles will make the foreign version all the more terrifying.

Man of the Year: Through most of his life, Robin Williams played the same wacky character who would often lapse into different voices and personalities whenever his movies dictated (which was often). In the 21st century, however, he decided to take a different path by playing psychopaths in movies like “One Hour Photo” and “Insomniac.” With “Man of the Year,” he’s back to his original stereotypical role, amusing anyone who still thinks that Robin Williams is funny. Essentially, “Man of the Year” is “Robin Williams in Jon Stewart: The Movie.” Heck, “Daily Show” rage master Lewis Black even has a prominent role in the film! To me, “Man of the Year” seems like it’s pandering to “The Daily Show” demographic, and as a frequent watcher of this program I have to say that if this film’s message goes beyond the trite “we need someone who ‘tells it like it is’ in politics,” I’d be very surprised.

The Marine: The first thing I noticed about the trailer for “The Marine” is that this film is produced by the WWE’s movie-making division. Yes, World Wrestling Entertainment. It should be obvious what the people who brought you Randy “Macho Man” Savage’s leathery face plan on delivering in their movies: loud, dumb entertainment. Not that this is a passing of judgment; after all, sometimes loud, dumb entertainment is what some evenings call for. But “The Marine” looks so much like a video game, it may be cheaper to go down to the local arcade (yes, they exist) and play a few games of one of the many “Time Crises.” You won’t have the invincibility code that the main character in “The Marine” seems to have, but you’ll be able to drink beer and shout at explosions without worrying about usher reprisals.

Flags of Our Fathers: Have we not had a good World War II movie in a while? After all, World War II was that last war that was fun to watch, and the last time being a patriot was mandatory. In “Flags of Our Fathers,” veteran (I mean, just look at him) director Clint Eastwood brings us the story of the men behind the famous flag-raising Iwo Jima statue. And while the many other story-behind-the-statue movies are unbearably dull, “Flags of Our Fathers” looks to be a nice period piece with at least one kickass beachfront battle. My only worry is that Paul Haggis – whose writing stinks as much as the dish that bears his name – is the credited writer for this movie. I know that his writing won him Oscar Gold in “Crash,” but his preachy hamfistedness won him nothing but Bile Yellow from me. I suggest that you be wary- that is, if you care about America.

The Prestige: “Batman Begins” director Christopher Nolan has finally made a movie about the superheroes of reality: magicians. No, not the jumpsuited, besequined men with pockets full of birds and homely assistants; I’m talking about the magicians of 100 years ago. “The Prestige” tells the story of two of these magicians in turn-of-the-century England, played by Hugh Jackman and Christopher Bale- REAL ENGLISH PEOPLE. If you don’t find this authenticity amazing, “The Prestige” also features Michael Caine, perhaps the most English Englishman still alive. And we also have Scarlett Johansson, who will no doubt be dressed in flattering but internal organ crushing corsets. I trust Christopher Nolan, if only because he completely blew my mind with 2001’s “Memento;” and “The Prestige” looks like it may be just as twisty and turny.

Marie Antoinette: Until somewhat recently, Sofia Coppola was rather infamous in Hollywood for blighting the almost flawless “Godfather” trilogy with her godawful performance. She redeemed herself dramatically with her film, “Lost in Translation,” due mostly to the fact that she did not act in that movie. Sofia looks to be back on the wrong side of the tracks with “Marie Antoinette,” based on what I saw in the trailer. If you don’t believe me, go to imdb.com, search for the movie, and view the trailer for yourself. Why is it just a bunch of scenes of Marie partying while a song that sounds a lot like “We’ve Got the Beat” plays in the background? Why does the movie’s logo use the “Fight Club” font? What’s even worse is that I still know nothing about the actual movie, which may be just what Sofia Coppola wants.

Flicka: I can’t get over the fact that “Flicka” sounds like something you do with a booger, instead of the name of a horse. But this story about a teen and her horse seems to be intended for little girls, who hopefully don’t think like me. It seems like these “a girl and her horse” movies come along every five to ten years, and they’re all virtually indistinguishable. The girl is misunderstood, the horse is misunderstood, but somehow they find a connection that is suitable for all audiences to watch. Honestly, going into “Flicka,” you should know what to expect. And if you enjoy horses you’ll at least have a good time and come home not reeking of “fair stench.”

Dear Amish,

This is an open letter to all of you who failed to answer the countless e-mails I’ve sent(you know who you are). I’m not sure if print is still an Amish-friendly source of information, but you should be safe because – for now – The Walruss is free of any pornography. This, however, does not mean we look down upon advertising pornographers with deep pockets. But I digress.

Amish, you used to be the butt of our jokes, but now times have changed. “Weird” Al Yankovic’s parody of the popular mid-1990s Coolio song has now become a tragic narrative of innocence lost. Who knew that you would be subjected to the harsh reality that we in the outside world face on a daily basis? It took most of us outsiders until September 11th, 2001 to realize that we could be killed randomly at any moment of our lives for no particular reason, and also that there’s nothing we can do to stop it. And at least the source of our worries is logical: terrorists. Who would’ve thought a milkman could grow so deranged that he would storm a schoolhouse and exclusively shoot little girls? It this profession doomed to take the place of the “disgruntled postman” which was the source of so many bad sitcom jokes in the 1990s?

Believe me, Amish, now more than ever you should be happy that you don’t have access to the magic of television. Since the tragic schoolhouse shooting in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania – perhaps the laziest town name since Next to the Ocean, Florida or Boring, Kansas – journalists and talk show hosts have been able to do nothing but ask, “Why?” And it’s not the rhetorical “Why” that we hear so often after explosions or infidelity in our moving picture shows; these people literally want to know “WHY.” Since the killings were based on some nonsensical sense of revenge, I’ve heard nothing but the ponderings of televised morons trying to figure out how the murder of little girls could be a logical method of revenge.

Yes, we are trying to figure out some way the death of innocent little girls can be rationalized. This is not our way or coping with death; it’s just moronic. It should be obvious to both you and me that Charles Carl Roberts IV – the killer in question – was not playing with a full deck. In case you don’t understand my gambling metaphor, let’s just say that his hat was buckled just a little too tight for his own good. And if The Count of Monte Cristo was A.) not fictional and B.) aware of Charles Carl Roberts IV’s revenge plan, he would have challenged Roberts to a duel or delivered a paralyzing remark at Roberts’ expense. The Count cannot stand idly by while someone sullies the good name of revenge.

But with your community ripped apart and fear hanging in the air like the stench of manure hangs over Pennsylvania, I fear that you Amish will become even more reclusive. After all, you’re not a bad group of people, and it would be a shame to see you disappear completely. Imagine this scenario: I’m walking through the countryside, and wave to what I think is an approaching Amish person. But all of a sudden I see the flash of a quilt and the faint smell of apple butter. We still need you in our country, Amish, and before you start building Ewok tree societies and steam-powered air barn fortresses, hear me out.

Barring our milkmen, politicians, school teachers, businessmen, criminals, “cat ladies,” alcoholics, furries, Japanophiles, online gamers, and viewers of E! Entertainment Television, we’re not all that bad. This leaves at least 1000 people in our great country that you can safely interact and share your quaint lifestyle with! You can rest assured that they won’t even think about murdering your children, as they’ll be too distracted by your nightmarish life without bath gel, cappuccino, and text messaging. Just keep on keepin’ on, and the rest of us will still feel that same mix of reverence and pity that stops us from killing most people.

It’s true that as I write this using my electric computer, there are eight buttons on my person. Also, my beard is pitiful, and I wouldn’t know the first thing about raising a barn or marrying a close relative. But rest assured, you have a friend in this outsider. And even though we live very different lives, I do envy you in some respects. With your horse-and-buggy transportation, it’s like you get free hayrides every day! For most of us outsiders, this is an annual occurrence at best.

But that doesn’t make us want to murder you.

Your Pal,
Bob Mackey

These Walruss movie preview articles are really fun to write. I pick the premise, make my jokes, and move on after a paragraph. I hope you find them witty and informative.

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Ashton Kutcher as a deer and Martin Lawrence as a bear? HOW HAS THIS NOT BEEN DONE BEFORE
The Guardian – Even though he had a beard (the mark of a true thespian) in 2004’s “The Butterfly Effect,” Ashton Kutcher was still a hard sell as a serious actor. “The Guardian” is yet another attempt by Kutcher at a non-Kelsoish role, thankfully with Kevin Costner by his side. Costner, who plays the gruff senior to Kutcher’s rookie character, should temper any of Kutcher’s doofiness with his squinty style of wooden acting. This solution may have its negative side, but you won’t be going into “The Guardian” to be blown away by any Scenes for Young Actors. In fact, you should be familiar with every element of the rookie/veteran movie formula where one has to save the other, and they learn from each other over and over again while you wonder if you locked your car doors. But this time, it’s about Coast Guard rescue swimming! Until we get to the “Lethal Weapon” version of mall cops, I think you could do a lot worse.

Open Season – It’s hard to say anything unique about “Open Season,” as it’s the most recent of a long line of CGI movies that have had the premise of cute talking animals coping with humanity. In fact, science has indicated that there are now more CGI kids’ movies than there are cells in the human body. But perhaps I’m being too harsh. After all, the characters in “Open Season” don’t look nearly as bland as ones from similar movies - does anyone remember this year’s “The Wild?” Of course you don’t. Still, “Open Season” does make the common kids’ movie mistake of stunt-casting celebrities, and then basing the characters off of these celebrities’ stereotypical roles. On this note, “Open Season” does get bonus points for not including nightmare fuel such as the Will Smith fish from 2004’s “Sharktale.”

Gene Shalit line: I think we should declare “Open Season….” On these crummy movies!

School for Scoundrels – Typecast dork Jon Heder (Napoleon Dynamite himself) stars as Roger, a “nice guy” who enrolls in a confidence-building course in order to get girls. The course, taught by the suggestively-named Dr. P (Billy Bob Thornton) does just this, and soon Roger finds himself in direct competition with Dr. P for the love of his lifelong crush. Now, if Billy Bob Thornton was not who he was, I would greatly doubt his seduction abilities. The drawl, the baldness, the gap teeth, the very name Billy Bob; this is all negated by the fact that he once had a sexual relationship with Angelina Jolie and a fake sexual relationship with Halle Berry (Monster’s Ball). Without the internet, I would have no idea that this movie wasn’t a documentary. Add in David Cross and Matt Walsh (from The Upright Citizens Brigade), and you may have a movie worth watching.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning – Luckily, “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre : The Beginning” is not just the first 20 minutes of the original “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” I still would have opted for a less-clunkier title, like “Chainsaw Begins,” “Chainsaw Forever,” or “Chainsaw 2: Electric Bugaloo.” But the “The Beginning” part of the title may be necessary to inform moviegoers that this is a prequel to both the original, and the 2003 remake. The film does seem to follow the established “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” setup: teens get stranded, teens end up with family of freaks, teens get murdered. “The Beginning” is produced by Michael Bay, though, so the creepy realism of the original 1974 film may be lost to his special brand of razzle-dazzle. Limbs won’t just fly off. They’ll explode! With power ballads playing in the background and jets flying overhead. This is just a prediction.

Alex Rider: Operation Stormbreaker – “Alex Rider: Operation Stormbreaker” almost tied “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning” as the most cumbersome title for its release week, but won out for being more slightly more ridiculous. I was going to provide a list of movie titles just as funny as AR:OS (not typing that again), but the best I could come up with was “Chipped Beef: Operation Lunchmaker.” The title is somewhat appropriate, though, as Alex Rider is a sort of teenage James Bond. So it’s perfect escapism for teenagers who wish they had a jetpack (all teenagers) and various explosives (once again, all teenagers). But since Alex Rider is a teenager, he obviously won’t be having sex, smoking drinking, or murdering hundreds of armed guards; everything that made James Bond so cool. Older folks may want to wait for the next non-Brosnan Bond film, and use “Alex Rider” on their younger siblings as a kind of gateway drug to the Bond franchise.

Employee of the Month – It’s not fair for someone who has strong feelings for Dane Cook to preview one of his movies- and these “strong feelings” are of the punching variety. But I’ll try to suppress the comedy nerd rage for now. If you enjoy Cook’s unique brand of humor – telling stories while flailing around – there’s no doubt you’ll enjoy “Employee of the Month.” Heck, the commercial for the film has approximately eight shots of people getting hit in the head or genitals! Your love of Dane may not be strong enough to tolerate his slack-jawed and genetically altered co-star, Jessica Simpson. She’s not exactly box-office poison, but casting her in the film makes the about as Wal-Marty as it looks (with its superstore setting). It’s more “What’s that smell?” than “Look at these low, low prices!”

The Departed – A Scorsese film only comes around once every couple of years, and we’re always lucky to receive these filmed blessings from the man with the magic eyebrows. That may be laying it on a little thick, but it’s nice to see something of quality before the holiday movie rush. “The Departed” is about two different men undercover on two different sides of the law, The Boston Police Department and the Irish Mafia. If you don’t find the duplicity of the plot interesting, you should at least be impressed by the casting. Matt Damon, Leonardo DiCaprio, Jack Nicholson, Martin Sheen; it’s a veritable Who’s Who of actors. I’m particularly interested in the film because of its focus on the Irish mafia, which I honestly know nothing about. I hope the movie will answer such important question as “Does the Irish Mafia get St. Patrick’s Day off?” and “What’s the price on black market potatoes?”

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Feel free to weigh in with your own opinions if you've seen any of these.

If you’re in your twenties – and the secret microchip we place in every issue of The Walruss tells us that you are – you probably spent a great deal of the 1990s laughing at the antics (yes, they were antics) of Beavis and Butt-Head. It’s only much later in life that most of us realize that Beavis and Butt-Head was a brilliant slapstick social satire about a go-nowhere, do-nothing generation raised on TV… us. Since that series, creator Mike Judge has gone on to different projects, including movies such as “Office Space,” a scathing portrayal of the indifferent white-collar workplace, and the recent “Idiocracy.” Haven’t heard of “Idiocracy?” If you have, then Fox is very disappointed in you. They spent a lot of time making sure that no advertising was produced and only a handful of theaters received the film.

But perhaps a movie about a dystopian future where anti-intellectualism reigns supreme and the stupidity of American culture has increased to ridiculous levels hit a little too close to home for the major movie studio.

Mike Judge isn’t all that unlucky, though. He’s had a show that’s been a solid success and is nearing its tenth year on the air. “King of the Hill” received a recent stay of execution, and will have its eleventh season premiere this January. Yup.

To many, “King of the Hill” hardly seems cool. Countless articles on both Judge and the show refer to “King of the Hill” as being “about hicks” or “exclusively Texan.” The shocking – if not horrible – truth is that, much like Beavis and Butt-Head, “King of the Hill” is also a social satire. Instead of focusing on Gen X and Y burnouts, “King” instead takes a look at the pale, doughy underbelly of the American Midwest. Far from blue collar comedy, in the past decade “King of the Hill” has been one of the smartest shows on television. And series creator Greg Daniels, who worked on The Simpsons and currently runs the show on the American version of “The Office,” helped Judge lay the groundwork for one of the most rule-breaking and unexpectedly intelligent sitcoms on the air.

Don’t believe me? Let’s take a look at Hank Hill, the nucleus of “King of the Hill.” While the sitcom tradition is to make the male lead functionally retarded, Hank is smart, competent and has dignity; a far cry from the bumbling Homer Simpson or joke delivery system Peter Griffin. Even “normal” male leads like Ray Romano and the fat guy from “King of Queens” (Kingy Queenerton?) are so nondescript that their only character traits seem to be “doesn’t get along with wife” and “makes wisecracking a regular occurrence.”

Unlike most sitcom dads, you actually wouldn’t mind being neighbors with Hank; even though he’s the straight man of “King of the Hill,” he still has a tangible, non-idiotic personality. But Hank Hill is no like Chandler, and the show even mocks the lame senses of humor that most people have and willingly inflict upon their peers. The shame, guilt, and insecurities of white middle-aged middle-America make Hank who he is, as well his devotion and obsession with his go-nowhere job of selling propane and propane accessories. And when dealing with his eccentric son, Bobby, Hank’s advice is limited to: “This is a carburetor. Take it apart. Put it back together. Repeat until you're normal.”

The show’s rulebreaking extends to Hank’s wife, Peggy, which is probably the most daring portrayal of a suburban mother on television. Daring, because Peggy is a buffoon. Not in the same sense as Homer Simpson, though; Peggy has an overbearing sense of pride and a sort of method to her madness. This character represents the barely-seen-on-TV stereotype of the know-it-all middle-aged woman; I had no idea that life had so many Peggy Hills until “King of the Hill” started airing. Just think of all the slighty-frumpy women who seem to have an answer for everything, despite not having a source. Still a little unsure of what I’m talking about? Consider this quote from Peggy: “I find that I am too busy being successful so I have trouble remembering all of my bright ideas. That's why I keep a folder.”

Peggy’s arrogance is a large hurdle many can’t cross when trying to get into the show, mainly because it’s not punished on the level that if often should be. But this is where anyone can see that “King of the Hill” has a refreshing sort of gentleness with its characters (too numerous to discuss here), even if they are the objects of satire. The reason the show is starting to show only a little rust over ten years is because of this devotion to character; around the third season, the few existing catchphrases were dropped, artificial quirkiness was set aside, and the Hills and co. became real people. And it’s this consistency that so many shows – animated or not - lack which has brought me back to Fox on whatever random Sunday nights they decide to air the show. Maybe all of this realism is inappropriate for an animated series, but I’m eagerly looking forward to another year in the anthropological study of the white man. Thank you, Mike Judge.

WHAT
Everyone’s Hero: Everyone’s Hero killed Christopher Reeve. Everyone’s Hero killed Christopher Reeve’s wife. Shouldn’t you be the least bit wary about Everyone’s Hero? Okay, maybe this movie was not directly responsible for the death of the Reeves (who died during production), but another terrible entry into the currently-crowded CGI kids film market is a health risk to everyone. Don’t believe me? Everyone’s Hero has an anthropomorphic baseball. And an anthropomorphic baseball bat- with a sexy mouth. This bat is voiced by Whoopi Goldberg.

The movie also has something to do with Babe Ruth, but the characters terrify me to the point where I don’t want to find out more. But if anything, Everyone’s Hero is a good representation of America’s pastime… mourning Christopher Reeve.

Gridiron Gang: Lately, it’s been pretty easy to smell what the rock’s been cooking because his recent movies have been crap. No amount of eyebrow raising could lift the moviegoing public’s spirit after last year’s “Doom” dared to ask the question, “What if someone made a terrible movie based on a game that hasn’t been popular since the heyday of Windows 95?” This year, The Rock returns with the formulaic Gridiron Gang, a story about a gruff-but-lovable football coach who teaches a bunch of gruff-but-lovable teens how to work together and throw inflated sacs of leather at one another. It’s this year’s “Coach Carter!” Or possibly, this year’s “Dangerous Minds” or “The White Shadow.” We can only hope that Gridiron Gang does not feature any of “Doom’s” first-person-shooter sequences. Things like that should stay at Universal Studios, where no one has to see them.

The Last Kiss: Nine out of ten women agree: Zach Braff is dreamy. And apparently that was enough collateral to let him make 2004’s Garden State, the McDonald’s of indie movies. Those looking to overdose on quirkiness and carefully placed music by The Shins won’t find it here, though, as Braff’s creative input is limited to his acting chops. But if you’re interested in the relationship anxieties of two attractive young people (and who isn’t), it’s possible you may find The Last Kiss appealing. Personally, I couldn’t find anything interesting about the movie based on the trailer, but a post on the imdb.com message board perfectly describes what the theme of this movie seems to be: “White people have it so hard.” Guys, if you take your special lady to see this, you may want to bring a Game Boy or your electric football set.

Note: The Last Kiss is co-written by the screenwriter of Crash, so don't be surprised is a message is beaten into your face with cinematic hammers.

The Black Dahlia: There was a time in America when men wore hats, cars were huge, and women were inexplicably murdered and cut into pieces. Dames had gams then, even if they were removed from the body and located in different counties. The Black Dahlia is based on a book based on the real life murder of Elizabeth Short, an actress whose murder in 1947 is still an unsolved mystery today- mainly because Fatty Arbuckle was not alive at the time to blame any more murders on. Scarlett Johansson stars in this noir thriller, where I’m hoping she has a lot of screentime; statistics clearly show that the more Johansson there is in the movie, the better the movie will be. It’s simple trigonometry, people.

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This regular Walruss article now has a title: "The Sticky Floor." Also, I'm going to be doing two weeks of movies in every article instead of just the movies that are coming out the Friday after the paper.

Sometimes, we do things we regret. And occasionally, we keep doing these things. When these regretful things happen over and over again throughout the course of several months, those old feelings of embarrassment and woe soon turn into a sense of calm familiarity. After enough time passes, we identify with our captors and see our behavior as normal, or perhaps just non-sociopathic.

It’s about this time we realize that we’ve been singing karaoke all summer.

Once the disease called karaoke reaches the brain, nothing seems more appropriate than informing the Youngstown community about the soul-changing properties of karaoke; and by soul I mean “the inner spirit of humanity” and not “Motown,” because there’s far too many white people involved in karaoke for legitimate funk to occur.

In Japanese, karaoke means “empty orchestra,” a definition that is hauntingly apt for a people who cram themselves into tiny booths with their friends to sing their worries away in between the harsh days of cram school and piloting giant robots. It wasn’t long ago when I was unaware of this fact, and also lacking the motivation to do a simple 10-second Wikipedia search to discover it. Karaoke was simply something that wasn’t for me, like line dancing, organ meat, and life without crippling debt. But Youngstown has a way of making people do things they would normally never do; after all, from 1972 to 1984, Youngstown took a page from Missouri’s “The Show me State” and was once known as “The Show Me and then Slowly Back Away” city.

Like all new and socially risky adventures, it was drinking that led me to the beautiful siren known as karaoke, and no amount of cotton stuffed in my ears could pull me away or stop me from trying to sound intelligent with references to mythology. And Youngstown has plenty of bars where one could choose to enter any level of drunkenness, from slightly buzzed to trashed as a local news anchor on payday (or at lunchtime). The Nyabinghi (1229 Salt Springs Road ) offers many ways to forget your troubles and to create new ones; but more importantly, every Wednesday night at 11 PM the ‘Binghi (which is what the cool kids and also me call it) has a little something called Crapaoke.

When I first started going to Crapaoke, I had absolutely no intention of singing. This did not last long. What started as a plan to drink until the feelings of immortality and Lotharioism kicked in diverted horribly when I found myself staggering towards a stage. A man was calling my name, but why? For extroverts, performing in front of a group of people comes as easily as finding a beautiful mate and being highly successful in life (I hate you). The rest of us are constantly skating on thin ice, with the slightest faux pas threatening to shame us into a more hermitlike state than J.D. Salinger or Bobcat Goldthwait. But, unexpectedly, Crapaoke is extremely liberating, even to curmudgeonly writers and those with similar mental problems.

Allow me to explain.

With Krapaoke, there is a certain sense of “shared shame”- those crafty Germans probably have a word for it. No matter how bad you are, there’s always someone worse. Unless you’re that guy- you know who I’m talking about. Also, no one expects you to be good. The only people who go to karaoke and expect to be wowed are those who mourn the loss of The Family Channel and the quality programming associated with that network. Performance is not the central theme of Krapaoke; the central theme is being something very appropriate to do while drunk. Think of it as your modern day equivalent of bear-baiting, but without wenches selling oranges and only marginal risk of bear rampages. It’s the visceral feeling of experiences like hearing a very fat man sing Madonna that keep people coming back for more.

But even if you still feel shamed, the dim lighting of the Nyabinghi combined with several custom-made dark corners will allow you to lose yourself in the power of anonymity. You could also carve out a new life as a bar-corner troll, but lack of goat traffic could mean death by starvation. Still, there are options.

So, should you decide to make your Wednesday nights more interesting than falling asleep with Easy Mac spilled all over your lap while the TV plays episode after hilarious episode of “The George Lopez Show,” just remember two things. One: don’t sing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” unless you want to be shamed in print; I am not above doing this. Two: you never saw me there, and you never heard my heartbreaking rendition of “Uptown Girl.”

Once again, here's another Walruss article. I'll be doing a movie preview thing like this in each issue.

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If summer is the Blockbuster season for Hollywood movies, than fall must be “SCUD missile season” or “those little crappy snakes you light on the pavement which are boring and end up staining your sidewalk season.” This time period is a dumping ground for Hollywood studios who know that holiday visitations from family members will not happen until Thanksgiving, so Americans will have no reason to run to the theaters in droves to avoid holding conversations with said family members. FACT: 90% of the people who went to see 2000’s wretched “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas” did so to escape hearing their great uncles tell them about their reconstructive urology.

But even with all great-uncles currently out of state, you may find yourself at the movies for some godforsaken reason, unaware of the options you have. So, if you think building a leafman or dropping pumpkins off of the overpass is “too cool” for you, I will at least try to make your movie-going decision less painful.

Lassie: I have a feeling that the current holders of the Lassie franchise carefully examined the marketplace, analyzed the current state of American culture, assembled many attractive graphs with a Microsoft product, and then decided to make this movie anyway. In this post-911, post-Kangaroo Jack world, the idea of a movie about a dog in the Midwest who doesn’t talk is far too innocent for children of today. Perhaps if Lassie used battle pods, or if the movie was marketed with a collectable card game; then maybe someone would take notice. But at least this remake of “Lassie Comes Home” features the plucky dog’s adventures in WWII-era Europe, so the possibility of Nazi crotch-biting is very high. And we all know Benji never had the nuggets for that kind of action.

Crank: No this isn’t a sequel to 2004’s heartwarmingly fascist family comedy “Christmas with the Kranks;” all possible future installments in the Krank franchise were eliminated after the original movie was declared a war crime by several different governments and the International Court of Justice. This “Crank” is about a man’s revenge to kill those who poisoned him, the catch being he only has 24 hours of life left in which to do this. So in many ways, “Crank” is an experience those of us who have eaten a McGriddle can relate to, except in that case the best revenge is to defile a McDonald’s bathroom instead of murdering a McWorker.

But even if you’ve never ridden the McGriddle rollercoaster, the gimmicky nature of the premise might be enough to make it worth seeing. Although you may want to bring some faster-acting poison in case it isn’t. Hint: when combined correctly, Goobers and Twizzlers are more dangerous than cyanide.

Chance of Nazi crotch-biting: slim.

The Wicker Man: Warning: this is a Nicholas Cage movie. So if you don’t understand his unique brand of communication – speaking while whistling through his teeth – you may want to stay home, or at least bring an interpreter. “The Wicker Man” marks Hollywood’s current obsession but constant practice of remaking horror movies and pissing off the small and dangerous groups of Fangoria-reading parents’ basement-dwellers who are obsessive fans of the originals. As is the case with any remake, I recommend that you go see it, and make note of how it compares with the original. Then, proceed to go on the internet and write lengthy dissertations on how director X ruined your childhood, or how the new movie will cull many new ignorant people to your small cultish circle. Following this, remember that the old movie still exists, and take a nap.

Chance of Nazi crotch-biting: moderate.

Crossover: I’ll admit that I didn’t know very much about “Crossover,” so I was forced to do extensive research (stay awake during the trailer) in order to form an opinion. As someone who is an expert on and who spends his entire life immersed in street culture, I really don’t think that a movie about basketball starring Wayne Brady needs a trailer narrated by the “In a world where…” guy. I would have opted for using the comedy record scratch in this trailer, especially because the movie features a black guy whose basketball skills are poor at best. If denying the audience’s desire to see stereotypes fulfilled does not deserve the comedy record scratch, then I don’t know what does. For those of you who are more interested in the trailer, if I had to describe “Crossover” I would call it “Drumline” meets “Save the Last Dance” plus those street racing movies all the children are so fond of.

Chance of Nazi crotch-biting: anachronistic.

Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles: The “House of Flying Daggers” didn’t just kill Bob Vila; it also proved that Yimou Zhang (also of “Hero” fame) had the directorial chops to catch the eye of American audiences. “Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles” is much less flying-daggery, though, as it deals primarily with a father-and-son journey, and the personal discoveries this duo makes. The premise of this movie and the fact that it’s subtitled means that it will only play in the most independent of independent theaters; you will need to bring your own chair, and if the cops show up, just pretend you’re not in a movie theater. Of course, you can always go see one of the fifteen daily showings of “Snakes on a Plane” if the previous prospect doesn’t sound very appetizing. Just make sure to bring your favorite Internet joke with you!

Chance of Nazi crotch-biting: questionable.

If you haven't picked up an issue of The Walruss yet, what are you doing on the internet? Anyway, I'll be posting my Walruss articles here after the paper they're in has been out at least a week.

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No doubt just by picking up an issue of “The Walruss,” you have been given an ethereal feeling of inner-peace, or perhaps a tool that can be rolled up and used to beat stray dogs (almost the same thing). Either way, “The Walruss” hopes to make an impact on the Youngstown scene, triumphing over other local publications such as “The Metro Monthly,” “Bus Station Digest,” and “Sex Offender Update.” But since reader and writer alike are new to “The Walruss,” at this point we’re kind of on a blind date; you don’t know what to expect of us, and we don’t know what to expect of you, but we all know it can only end in shame. For now, all that we ask of you is to buy thousands of dollars worth of goods and services from our advertisers. This is the unspoken contract between journalist and reader.

If you’re trying to get to know me, though, there may be some trouble. Since I’ll be batting cleanup for “The Walruss,” my focus will change with nearly every issue. Am I the curmudgeon who hates unions? The sweet old grandma who gives out gardening advice? The small child trapped inside the Junior Jumble? Although I don’t like to be pinned down, the answer to all of these questions is “Yes.”

To assuage any fears of unpredictability, each one of my articles will be headlined with a delicious pun to bring readers into a comfortable realm of predictability. After all, statistics show that nine out of every ten newspapers are purchased due to their use of alliteration and wordplay. I’ve been practicing, too; let’s say that I’m writing about a cat. Well, of course “purr-fect” would work its way in there somewhere! Picture this headline: “Feline Leukemia is a Purr-fect Tragedy.” I can already hear you excitedly reading this in the future. And just maybe… laughing?

Along these same lines, if you love cute animal stories, then you’ve come to the right place. My future column, “Bob’s Bobnimals” (working title), will be full to the chock of hilarious pet stories that will make “Marmaduke’s Doggone Funnies” read like the medical reports of child burn victims! I can’t do this alone, though; my pets are not nearly entertaining enough to sustain a regular column (Mr Fluffkins, this is your final notice). This is why I encourage you “Walruss” readers to send in your own hilarious pet stories, along with an 8x5 photo of your pet and a blood sample. If your animal is deemed “pure” enough to make it to print, then its story may make the excellent basis for a journalistic dramatization (we usually add Draculas).

Just because I like cute animals doesn’t mean I’m out of touch with the common man. “Gabbin’ Bout Gas,” another future column, will feature the favorite activity of Americans: complaining about gas prices. Whether at home, work, or driving mindlessly in gigantic cars, we just can’t seem to stop talking about those darn gas prices! Isn’t it about time to hear what the Average Joe thinks about all of this? Here’s a preview:

“Ugh, forty dollars for a full tank… When I started driving, I could get a the same thing for under twenty bucks and still have enough change left to get a few Slim Jims. Hmm, I could go for a Slim Jim right now. I wonder if the cashier would mind if I paid in pennies. Maybe I should buy milk.”

As you can see, the power of the common man’s words should not be underestimated.

But if kittens and gas don’t interest you, and you’re very upset with the future of “The Walruss,” then you’re probably a woman. But don’t think that I’ve forgotten about the all-important “lady market!” Through personal observation of women and by watching many episodes of “Mama’s Family,” I’ve come to recognize the importance of the homemaker. But sometimes, it’s hard to have all of the answers. That’s why my “Get Back in the Kitchen” series will be your source for all questions about cooking, cleaning, and quiet desperation. Ladies, why spend hundreds of your husband’s hard-earned dollars on cleaning supplies, when just a little kerosene can eliminate any household mess? My “Burn it Clean” column will answer just this question, and the “Blame it on Teenagers” column which follows will tell you what to do if you get a little overzealous with the uncontrollable power of the flame.

Just a warning, though: all of these ideas are pending approval by my editor. I honestly can’t see any speed bumps on this road we call “newspaper,” but I am only a humble columnist. Worst case scenario? I’ll have to write comedy.