Another installment in the Twilight saga can only mean one thing.

White women are still fucking insane.

When we last saw the white woman in my soul stirring piece, Are All White Women Total Psychopaths?, she was not doing so well. She was trying to steal Beyonce’s man, jumping off of cliffs to get her vampire ex-boyfriend to take her back, and taking a ride on your disco stick. I’m sad to tell you that things have not improved for the white woman and they may have actually gotten worse.

Two weeks ago, The Twilight Saga: Eclipse opened to unanimous praise. This praise wasn’t for the movie itself and the unanimous quality may only come from various moods within me, but one thing was clear. This was a sharp and accurate portrayal of just how far honky bitch will go to let us all know that she is out of her damn mind.

Those comforted by the white woman’s uncanny ability to be unforgivably horrendous in her actions toward others and get away with it will be happy to know that Bella hasn’t changed since her ass-hattery in the previous installment. She may be sporting some serious new weave (crazy white bitch actress Kristen Stewart had just finished playing crazy white bitch singer Joan Jett), but she’s still thinking with her vamp hungry vag instead of her brain. Despite the onslaught of fresh vampires created by the psycho redhead white bitch from the previous installments (this time played by the girl who played the dumb blind white bitch in The Village), Bella insists on sticking with her boyfriend, Edward, and endangering his family and her werewolf bros, all bewitched by her crazy white woman charm. I have a hard time believing Bella is truly in love with Edward, but this is mostly because Kristen Stewart constantly looks like she’s smelling shit and not functioning as a happy human being. Not only does she lock lips that pig- nosed werewolf who sports neck tits but she, shortly before, indicates that she’ll abandon her disdain for marriage as long as Edward taps it. These are all the acts of a seriously troubled young individual who has all-too-quickly assumed her psycho white woman role in society. Because of her pale masked unassuming nature, the morons around her– humans, vampires, and werewolves alike– not only tolerate her behavior, but celebrate it and defend it with their lives. Would that Helen of Troy hadn’t send thousands of men to their death so that centuries of white women’s piss-poor actions wouldn’t be so fucking acceptable.

Crazy, unfortunately, doesn’t always lie within the boundaries of convention. Sometimes, it’s hidden behind the thin veil of “avant garde”, a concept likely invented by a white woman. No bizarre white woman knows this better than repeat offender Lady GaGa. Since we last left her, there’s been no end to the shenanigans she’s gotten away with because she has skin the color of Elmer’s glue. Most recently, she donned a priestess get-up to solidify her standing as Freaky White Oprah, complete with the ability to dicklessly sodomize gay men and shoot bullets from her breasts in the mind-fellatingly long video for her summer smash ‘Alejandro’. Honestly, what’s the deal with this white bitch? Was she sexually assaulted by a carny as a youngster living in Manhattan? Perhaps too many viewings of Can’t Stop the Music? Either way you spin her, it’s hard to stomach a woman who takes the lack of color of her skin to the extreme in terms of demonic possession. She’s like Linda Blair in The Exorcist with killer dance beats.

If these bombastic trends of film and television are too much for you to sample the evils of the beast, perhaps more intellectual and socially conscious fare can convince you that there’s a clear problem. Perhaps, like 50,000 Americans per day at this point, you’ve allowed yourself to become caught up in the Swedish adventures of Stieg Larsson’s Millenium Trilogy, beginning with inaugural jam The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Let’s think about this title for a second. First, let’s note that the title is not the literal translation of the Swedish title, the instantly catchy and charmingly appealing Men Who Hate Women. While I like to be a purist, I can’t say that this title accurately describes the experience you’re about to have when you escape into this twisty tome. Sure, the book is about men who hate women, but I feel that The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo gives you a more solid understanding from the beginning.

Only a fucking crazy ass white woman is going to have a dragon tattoo.

Lisbeth Salander, the heroine of the series and the driving point of its popularity, is tattooed and pierced to within an inch of her midgety existence. A gigantic dragon on her back is a solid indication that a bitch breathes fire. Throughout the series, she tears apart every gigantic man who dares to threaten her by means of throwing punches, kicking testicles, setting fires, and swinging axes, among others. There are few adversaries who can even get close to fucking with her. This is plausible, as a woman so far gone to the white side can easily work off of her adrenaline when she’s in a scary situation. Does it surprise you that a white woman can terrorize in the fiercest way possible due to her superhuman ability to rock some seriously terrifying white-succubus-steez? It doesn’t surprise me. The only aspect that would lend more legitimacy to the concept of someone as frighteningly aware as Lisbeth Salander is if she were American. Have no fear, as American film adaptations are just around the corner. Expect lily white feminine lunatickery to beckon the call of Americans to the multiplexes in droves. After all, we’re hopelessly pussy-whipped by the idea that a white woman will fulfill her destiny and take us on a bumpy ride of chill-inducing ass-clown behavior.

As I write this in feverish solitary confinement, I’m less confident in my ability to take on a race of pasty golems with tits. Their powers are far beyond my comprehension and I’m afraid this battle may be the end of me. So, all 3.4 of my faithful readers, I need your help in the fight to eradicate the beast. It’s as simple as staring it into submission. Every time you come across an evil white woman, let her know that she’s not welcome in your territory. Give her the eye. You know what I’m talking about. Like, Blue Steel, only angry and constipated. With enough force and back-up, we’ll let them all know that this is a world of strong upstanding citizens unafraid of evil and alabaster bitchery. It is my hope that, when I next address the state of the white woman, she will lay dormant and we will have much more important matters to discuss. For instance, what are we going to do about this whole “Watergate” business?

E

Oh, bitches. The hour is upon us. Okay, maybe the hour won’t be upon us until January, 2011, but the fact that it will soon be upon us is nothing short of nut-busting awesome.

That’s right, the iPhone is going to Verizon. I’ve got dance fucking fever about this news, but now that I’m coming back to reality, I have a pretty intense decision making process ahead of me.

I had every intention of shelling out over $600 to upgrade my shit to iPhone 4. Luckily, the hand of Jesus (real Jesus. Like Jim CaJesus. Not Eric Jesus) plucked my wallet from my pocket and threw it on the ground. Thinking it had been stolen, I canceled my debit and credit cards before I received word that an Apple Store employee found it, contents intact. I still haven’t received my new cards yet, so I’ve had no opportunity to go trade in my firstborn and the left side of my penis to be able Skypefuck with other iPhone 4 users. Then, magic time. Today, we receive the most earth conscious gift since MJ recorded ‘Heal the World’.

One question remains. What the fuck do I do?

To give a little background, my first iPhone contract started in June of 2007 with the release of the bulky, beautiful original iPhone. I had her hot ass until November, 2009 when the touch screen decided that I wasn’t fingering her quite right anymore. At this point, I got a new contract and scored my iPhone 3GS. In April, 2010, I got punched, like, five times on the subway and the douchebag made off with my phone. I spent the full price to get another 3Gs and two months later, iPhone 4 was released. I still have until November, 2011 to fulfill my contract.

Luckily, my dad’s gung-whore on taking my iPhone and it seemed like a good way for me to get a cheaper iPhone 4. Now, we have this Verizon sitch. What the fuck do I do?

Options:

• Get a Verizon contract now and ride out with a Droid until January when I can rock the iPhone 4. Give iPhone 3GS to Dad.
• Get a Verizon contract now and ride out with a Droid until next summer when I can rock the iPhone 5. Give iPhone 3GS to Dad.
• Say, “Sorry, Dad, but lick my nuts.” Keep current phone and give him the phone in January at which point I’ll get a Verizon contract and rock the iPhone 4.
• Say, “Sorry, Dad, but lick my nuts.” Keep current phone and give him the phone next summer at which point I’ll get a Verizon contract and rock the iPhone 5.
• Get Boost mobile.

Tell me what to do! Any one of those decisions is going to hurt and I’ll document my journey to Verizon iPhone through all of its dramatic twists.

E

Don’t be fooled. Chris Brown is not back. Correction: based on his Michael Jackson tribute performance at last night’s BET awards, the public may think it’s safe option to start liking him again. After all, we’re reminded that Chris Brown is an excellent dancer. He is. I am more than willing to admit that someone is talented when I realize that I could never possibly do what they do with such effortless swagger. The boy danced his heart out through a well plotted MJ lovefest.

Then he cried.

Like a wimpy bitch-ass baby, he cried. Did he at least stop what was going on while he leaked tears that very well may have been the result of cleverly placed tubes? No. He cried while trying to sing ‘Man in the Mirror’. ‘MAN IN THE’ FUCKING ‘MIRROR’. He chose the most obvious MJ ballad to blubber through as if doing so would remind us that he’s “only human, y’all.”

I don’t buy it for one second. He might as well have worn that goofy ass bow-tie from Larry King and read heartfelt scripted sentiments from a teleprompter. He hasn’t changed. He just has better PR that won’t let him sing the national anthem at a wrestling match. He remains a sad little child unable to function in a world of popularity and microscopic focus. I’m waiting patiently for another brilliantly timed publicity stunt and an album to which my ears will never be subjected.

This is indicative of the fact that I’m still not over using Chris Brown as my scapegoat. It’s been a year-and-a-half  and I’m still doing everything in my venomous WordPress power to keep him under that bus. The fall out has, ultimately, been an ideal experience for my own Jesus-like view of the slop culture world below. I always agonized over whether I should like Chris Brown, whose voice often grated on my nerves but whose every third song was undeniably catchy. With a reason to hate Chris Brown and the release of Rihanna’s most supremely excellent album, I should’ve been ecstatic that the event happened even with the emotional and physical damage that everyone’s favorite five-headed Cadillac-assed Barbadian had to endure after the kick-off of Whitney Houston’s failed comeback. I’m not, though. I’m still infuriated. It eats away at me.

I know why. I miss songs with Chris Brown. Not Chris Brown songs, but songs which have the unfortunate stigma of featuring Chris Brown vocals. I purged my iTunes of all traces of Chris Brown and in the process lost these gems:

‘No Air’ by Jordin Sparks- So indicative of post high school relationship high drama. I still don’t know how I’m ‘pposed to breave wif no ayer.

‘Shawty Get Loose’ by Lil Mama- Yeah, considering Lil Mama’s trainwreck assness, perhaps I’m not so sad that this left my collection.

‘What Them Girls Like’ by Ludacris – Any loss of Ludacris to my collection is, to put it mildly,  A FUCKING TRAVESTY.

‘Get Like Me’ by David Banner- To this day, I’ve never seen the Chevy with the butterfly doors.

So there it is. I’m going through colossal hip hop standard withdrawal. I feel like I’ve achieved such baller cathartic steez by coming to this conclusion and realizing that a part of me will always just be a tad bit empty without these tunes. I can put it in perspective, though. ‘What Them Girls Like’ is nothing compared to ‘One More Drink’ and for every ‘Stuntin’ is a habit,” there is a ‘Stuntin’ like my daddy.” My principles are strong and I am so feverishly committed to spreading the hate about the evils of pop stardom for someone as immature and poorly handled as Chris Brown.

Carry on, bitches. There’s nothing admirably trainwrecky to see here.

E

No objective nature up in this bitch. I’m here to tell you how I really feel about San Francisco-based pop rock band Train and it ain’t pretty.

Of all bands to make a seriously baller comeback, scoring their first top ten hit in nearly ten years, it really really REALLY shouldn’t have been the laziest rhymers of 1990s-present pop music. In a way, however, I can almost take delight in their resurgence of popularity as their current hit “Hey, Soul Sister” is the ultimate in shitty songwriting.

Before we go in depth with that song’s massive shortcomings, let’s take a look back at Train’s previous catchy shitshows.

Train first half-assed their way into the music scene with their 1998 album Train (we can see how creative and original it’s going to get from here). You might remember their first top-twenty hit “Meet Virginia” which is famous for either its overly dramatic video featuring Rebecca Gayheart or the fact that it’s often mistaken for the eerily similar song “Closing Time” by Semisonic, released the same year. Either way, it’s somehow not being remembered for its achingly lame lyrics. As evidenced below, Pat Monahan and crew seem to have failed rhyming 101:

Well she wants to live her life
Then she thinks about her life
Holds her hair back as she screams
I don’t really wanna live this life

Thanks guys. Maybe you’ve made a statement here. I didn’t know that you could rhyme “life” with itself not once, but twice, and it could be considered acceptable for professional mainstream music. It gives me hope that I could travel back in time to convince my seven-year-old self that he too could be a Grammy-winning lyricist.

Yeah, that’s right. Train have won two Grammys. Not for “Meet Virginia”, but for their biggest hit, “Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me)”. You’re sure to remember that gem for this little bit of words strung together near the end:

Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken
Your best friend always sticking up for you
Even when I know you’re wrong
Can you imagine no first dance, freeze-dried romance
Five-hour phone conversation
The best soy latte that you ever had… and me

Look! I can do that too!

Tea-steeped love affair!
French-fried Fridays!
Mom’s pasta dish!
That time we skipped rocks!

Just throw two or so notes on the piano in the background and I’m a fucking rock star.

Things went a little cold for Train after that, but they’re back. Despite the fact that they’re in their forties, their lyrics have not improved. “Hey, Soul Sister” contains obscure pop culture references to Mr. Mister (which conveniently rhymes with “sister”), the television show Love Connection (because their love is like a game show?) and “Like a Virgin” (seriously, the line is “Like a virgin, you’re Madonna.”) Funny when you’re Family Guy; not so much in this setting.

Perhaps the most amazingly awful stretch of lyrics which showcase both their continually lazy rhyming which is borderline offensive is captured in these four lines:

The way you can cut a rug (Because we apparently live in the ’20s)
Watching you is the only drug I need (Love as a drug: perhaps not yet a tired concept)
So gangster, I’m so thug (YOU’RE A FORTY YEAR OLD WHITE MAN!)
You’re the only one I’m dreaming of (Insert standard pop lyric to end verse here)

So what’s the deal, bitches? Why is Train on our radar again and why were they there in the first place? Is it that warm sense of familiarity? Is it the way they wail the chorus to make it seem like it might be accomplished singing? Perhaps its that sexy crease in Patrick Monahan’s fivehead that makes your panties drop. Any way you spin that one, I don’t get it. I’m hard on Train because I’m totally jealous of their success. I wish I could be that mediocre and still be wildly successful.

E

Gentlemen, start your engines. If you can’t, however, don’t worry! Erectile dysfunction is officially no longer persona non penis in the pop culture world. It seems as though there are enough representations in the media to where we can finally get past the discomfort that comes with talking about it. Now if only it could be the same way about that extra dick I have.

Let’s be real here, not all of the lack-of-blood-allocation mentions have been positive, but it takes a combination of both the good and the bad to break ground on such age-old taboos. Let’s take a good look at two current examples which represent both ends of the spectrum.

Mormon tomfoolery has never been quite so adorably psychotic as on HBO’s mad twisty Big Love. While later seasons have been more geared toward shit like plot points and character development, the first season was all about Bill Paxton’s ass. There was so much of it! At points, I wasn’t even sure which sister wife was getting every inch of her allotted evening because the screen was just filled with fifty-one-year-old ass. In fact, the only time it seemed that we weren’t starting at Bill’s ass was when he couldn’t muster up enough dick to dick down Chloe Sevigny.

In later seasons, Bill’s ass has made only a handful (heh) of appearances, but his reliance on Viagra to get things going with the Jan Brady of the sister wives has remained a constant. Now, I don’t do chicks, but I just can’t see his penis’s reasoning. Look at her! Perky, pointy breasts (remember that mole on the left one we saw when Hilary Swank was doing her with a rolled up sock in Boys Don’t Cry?), appropriate child rearing hips hugged by a sensible wool skirt, and don’t even get me started on the braid. No, please, get me started. The braid. With two wives who are pretty standard representations of the headstrong matriarch and the ditzy girlfriend, why wouldn’t you want to get all up in some sweet role play action? Go on, man! Churn some buttermilk with a girl who’s garden snake in the back and Snooki from the front. It makes it that much more wild if it’s easy to grab her hair when you’re going at it from behind.

The yeast-less loaf also has its place in the lyrics of popular music. Take Rihanna’s latest hit, “Rude Boy”. The chorus stings with an aggressive call to attention for both her man and his boy:

Come here rude, rude boy
Can you get it up?
Come here, rude, rude boy
Is you big enough?

When you’re the object of the affections of a Barbadian chanteuse with a seriously bangin’ fivehead, it only makes sense that there would be reasonable expectations for you to plug her up. While she might’ve realized the unspoken nature of such a request, Rihanna felt it necessary to verbally encourage her rude boy to stiffen the rod before bludgeoning.

Why shouldn’t she? Is it not the right of all heterosexual women to affirm their dominance by letting their man know that all ducks must be in a row in order to proceed into the swamp?  Perhaps Rude Boy thinks he can go with the flow when he gets with Rihanna, but were I in his position, I would put some mad emphasis on each action leading to me opening up her umbuhrella. I would walk slowly down the hallway of that skeezy motel in Tuscon and tell Jesus Jr. that he’d better get good and full because we were about to ball some seriously bangin’ island ass. I mean, have you seen these hams she’s been smuggling? It’s some all hands on deck shit when it comes to this lady.

So when it comes down to it, maybe American pop culture isn’t exactly being supportive of our comrades who need a little more help getting the air in the tires. I really should be more understanding. After all, clumps of skin often come off of my scalp and there sure as shit aren’t any depictions, positive or negative, in the mainstream media. Ultimately, however, I think patriotism has to win out in this situation.

I am Eric Jesus Grimm, a red, white, and blue blooded American, especially when it comes to what’s rushing to my penis.

E

Here's a screencap of 'Avatar' because it's blue and I want the site traffic.

For the last two years I have been totally convinced that Blu-ray was some bullshit scam to get us to re-buy all of those DVDs we’ve collected since the late nineties. As someone who has amassed a collection of some 600 flicks and television shows on disc, I was not even remotely into the concept. You’re saying I have to spend more money on a player and discs so my greens can look greener? Buh-buh-bullshit. Even my perfect fucking eyesight doesn’t give that much of a shit about digital clarity. It’s not like it’s as far a jump as it was from VHS to DVD.

Then again, it only made sense that I was opposed to the idea considering that I was mad poor around the time of its inception and rise to popularity. The Eric Jesus Grimm is a fickle little thing, so when the DVD player attached to my HDTV went berserker, it only made sense the more financially stable me would opt for a PlayStation 3. After all, in addition to its mindfellating ability to stream Netflix Instant Watch (the most important technological innovation of my life) to my televizzle, that shit has Blu-ray, which I had been told was the only way to watch films.

So I fucking bought into it the same way that I bought into The Last Train From Hiroshima and the musical career of Leighton Meester. Even worse was the fact that I bought into it with a lot of money. I snapped up my PS3, an HDMi cable, and a new copy of Blade Runner: The Ultimate Tricked Out Collector’s Edition Which Only Would’ve Been More Special If It Came in a Bust of Sean Young’s Bust. So I set everything up and popped the shit in ready to nut out of my eyeballs.

Guess what. It wasn’t special. In fact, it was so unspecial that there was a fucking green glare on the screen for most of the flick. This was not the Blu-ray that was supposed to replace the need of food, water, and sex. It was very little surprise to me that I probably had to spend even more money to get the necessary desired experience.

What was surprising was when the guy at Best Buy told me that my ultimate viewing experience was missing one crucial factor: a new television. That’s right, kids. My ten month old television is the equivalent of a Zack Morris cellphone. While the ultimate viewing experience is achieved with a 1080p television, mine only has 720p. Somewhere out there in television land, there’s 360p that was too busy smoking pot and jerking off to pictures of Shannen Doherty to join the party on my television. The result is that my mind has been tricked into thinking Blu-ray is less like the high glamour of Angelina Jolie and more like the only-pretty-when-you-squint Amanda Seyfried.

While  I realize that it’s my own shortcomings in purchases which have led to this problem, I feel like someone punched me in the eye but made me feel it in my dick. Higher pay was supposed to mean that I could buy my euphoria in a totally legitimate way. Now I have to drop acid to make this shit look as dazzling as they said it would. Ultimately, I’ll probably continue to buy Blu-ray DVDs and eventually buy a new television, but I’d like to believe there are some of you out there who are somewhat less desperate to remain trendy.

E

Sandra Bullock in 'The Blind Side' via Be Jack's Friend

Uh, because she’s a white woman, duh. Do we really want to start off a new decade by giving the award to the most evil race/gender combination known to man and elves? I digress.

Don’t get me wrong, here. I’m very fond of a good deal of Sandra Bullock’s work. I dug her ill-equipped emergency driver in Speed (never mind Speed 2: Cruise Control) and her tomboyish FBI agent turned beauty queen in Miss Congeniality (never mind Miss Congeniality 2: Armed & Fabulous). Do we get the point here? She’s a mildly pleasing actress who is rarely ineffective, but who will compromise what little integrity her popcorn flicks have in order to collect a paycheck. Is this woman really going to win an Oscar just because she’s in a role that doesn’t suck?Don’t get me even wronger than you might’ve gotten me before. I didn’t dislike The Blind Side. It was a tad treacly for my tastes, and inspirational sports movies leave a sour taste in my mouth (fight me all you want, but Remember the Titans blew ass), but I felt that the film did exactly what it was supposed to do for its core audience. As for Sandra Bullock, I was relieved that her Southern accent, while still a little sharp at points, was much improved over her disastrous turn as Harper Lee in the other Truman Capote film which shall not be named. She navigates the whole tough-exterior-with-a-big-bulging-heart act pretty well. Why shouldn’t she? She’s been in the game for over twenty years.

The thing about Sandra Bullock is that she’s not so much a good actress as an excellent businesswoman. For years, it puzzled me to discover that she was one of Hollywood’s highest paid actresses despite her inability to churn out $100,000,000 blockbusters. This is someone who knows how to collect a big paycheck for shitty films and make her money work for her through lucrative investments. She could straight up retire. As such, she won’t anytime soon because everyone has decided to like her again.

Fine, like her all you want. I have my guilty pleasures. I’ll go see anything with Rose McGowan. Does this mean I think Rose McGowan should collect an Oscar for any of her work up to this point? Gag me at the thought of it. Here are four iron-clad reasons why Sandra Bullock should go home empty-handed at the Oscars this year.

1. Julia Roberts

What I’m seeing is a repeat of the Julia Roberts situation with Erin Brockovich. There’s a really likable actress with questionable film choices who takes on the role of a Southern woman who exists in real life and it seems like the perfect opportunity to throw a veteran a bone. So despite the fact that every other actress was approximately one-thousand-nine-hundred-eighty-eight times better than her (and I’m still smarting from the fact that neither Joan Allen nor Laura Linney have collected Oscars) Julia Roberts showed up to the Oscars with a really important dress and a really important hairdo and left with a really important Oscar. On top of all of that, I thought Julia Roberts was much better in Erin Brockovich than Sandra Bullock was in The Blind Side.

2. Eddie Murphy

When Eddie Murphy was featured in Norbit shortly before the Oscars were handed out, he kissed goodbye any chance he had of taking home an (equally undeserved) Oscar for Dreamgirls. If I have to give a pass for The Proposal because people actually enjoyed that flick, I can’t imagine why anyone would give her a pass for All About Steve. Sure, neither of these movies were released after The Blind Side craze, but let’s continue to take away credit where credit isn’t due, aight?

3. Carey Mulligan

Come. The. Fuck. On. Has anyone seen An Education? Of course you haven’t. The widest release it’s ever had was 317 theaters versus 3,407 for The Blind Side. Mulligan, in spite of being in her early twenties and acting alongside some of the most established British actors living today, manages to knock it out of the park for every second of her performance. She is that film. That film is better than The Blind Side. Need more actresses that gave better performances last year? How about Meryl Streep, Gabourey Sidibe, Helen Mirren, and Tilda Swinton. There! Altogether, you have five. No need for Sandra Bullock.

4. Sandra Sequel

Let’s think of the title for the likely sequel to The Blind Side which will make Sandra Bullock a billionaire. The Blinder Side, The Blind Side 2: The Deaf Side, The Blind Side: The Next Tackle, The Blind Side 2: Blinder & Blonder. Remember, this is a business woman, not an accomplished actress.

Listen, do what you want. It’s not like I ever have faith in awards shows other than the ones in my head. If, however, you Academy members have any shred of dignity, correct the mistake you made with Julia Roberts and continue on with that uncanny foresight you had when you didn’t give Kate Hudson an Oscar. Somehow I’ll live either way. I’m just convinced that it will be easier to breathe in a world where the only naked man in Sandra Bullock’s house is her creepy looking husband.

Thank you for your time. Go Colts.

E

Because I don't want to feed Daniel's ego, this is a picture of Alexander Skarsgård via Men's Journal

My absence from blogging has not quelled my insatiable appetite for bromance, though I’m unhappy to report that my first legitimate attempt at elite bro-tastic awesomeness has failed miserably.

I must warn all who share my fever that he who deigns to seek bromance with even the marginally famous is in for a world of disappointment. Such is the summation of my short lived bromance with Daniel Fox. Consider the name. Beyond the fact that you probably don’t recognize it, we are dealing with one supremely excellent name. We start with “Daniel”. If you want to rock out some serious masculine swagger, you just can’t go wrong with a biblical name. Motherfucker was cast into the lion’s den and emerged unscathed. From a cultural diversity standpoint, the Book of Daniel also resides happily in the Jewish canon. This is no coincidence: Daniel Fox, in addition to being South African (just like my heroes Nelson Mandela and Wikus Van de Merwe), is a Jew. What of his surname? Fox. Beyond the fact that the fox is a sly creature with crazy sharp teeth, Daniel also shares this surname with vapid hottie extraordinaire Megan Fox, of the Transformers flicks. Since it’s obvious that all women want to be Megan Fox’s BFF, it only makes sense that I want my bro to be the male equivalent, right? This seemed like such solid reasoning at the time.

Daniel and I crossed each other’s paths at Everyman Espresso, where I’ve made him many an Americano while he stared intensely at shit like A Streetcar Named Desire as if reading with that much of a scowl on his face would transform him into a living, breathing Stanley Kowalski. He’d mouth the words as he read along. Once, I saw him sitting with his mouth agape for a solid minute before I realized that he was silently saying “STELLAAAAAAAAAAAAA.”

So what qualifies Daniel to be my bro substitute for the famous gentlemen I’ve courted for bromance in the past? Daniel’s claim to fame is as the member of the sprawling ensemble cast of the HBO miniseries Generation Kill. That, in addition to his obvious, and maybe freakish, devotion to his craft (not to mention the fact that he was so often sitting ten feet away from me) moved him to the forefront of my bro dreams.

Despite a front of off-putting narcissism and unattainable swagger, Daniel accepted my proposal of bromance and things went well for us for a decent stretch. We engaged in important bro-activities like eating dinner while bitching about stupid whores and drinking (I did all of the drinking; he’s one of those loser actors who doesn’t defile his body with alcohol). We even went opening night to see Avatar and I’ll be damned if I didn’t buy his fucking ticket. For a time, I felt I’d found such a positive, if bombastic male role model in my life and soon, I’d reach camaraderie and masculinity quotas and spend the rest of my days sailing on a sea of male dominance. No need for romance when your bromance is mad baller.

As the remorseful tone of this entry suggests, ours was not meant to be one of the epic bromances of the twenty-first century. Daniel has succumbed to the evils of living in the West Village and has, I’ve heard, given up caffeine. As Everyman is no longer a convenient stop for him to sip water and brood, Mr. Fox has been a total nonentity in Eric Jesus Grimm world for two weeks now. Is this what it comes down to? Are straight men so devoid of emotional responsibility that it’s so easy to disregard a kindred bro-spirit? Maybe this real-life shot at male-friendship gold has just been the opportunity to realize that my error was always wanting emotionally unavailable hetero meatheads to fulfill my desire for a constant assault of machismo. Where do the flaws lie? Is it in my heightened expectations or his unforgivable unwillingness to Facebook stalk me?

In all, I wish Daniel well in his likely future of playing Banquo in regional productions of Macbeth and as recurring pathologists on various CBS crime procedurals. Me? I’ll be leading a much more fulfilling life writing blogs for all four of my readers (up 100% from last year!) and continuing to seek the bromance that has so often eluded me.

E

Crazy White Bitch and Beyonce via YouTube images

I’ve played around with this concept for some time, but it all seems to be coming full circle. White women are the new pop cultural face of insanity. It seemed for some time that the entire black race would be set back by the ludicrous actions of many a Tyler Perry heroine, but you need not worry. There is simply no controversy when it comes to the batshit antics of caucasianistas.

As a product of the vidiot age, knowledge of cultural norms and uh, other important shit stick so much better when I can see clear visual representation. This especially helps when there’s a big screen involved. My first indication that the white woman was a lunatic force with enough mad energy to power a town and enough ravenous desire to gobble said town up was in the delightful Fatal Attraction retread Obsessed. Released in 2010, Obsessed is not a new topic for this blog. I’ve probably used it as a reference in many pop culture trends at least once a day in conversation or written form since I saw it opening night last April. Anyone who’s seen me since then has likely gotten an earful about how Ali Larter’s character ruined the idea of a sane white woman for me. After all, we’re considering the extremest of all extremes in her characters’ actions. Despite persistent rebuffing on Charles’ part, Lisa drugs him, sexually assaults him, breaks into his home, chills with his kid (the nerve!), and finally ends up in a fatal altercation with his wife, Sharon. Who plays Sharon? Only the most powerful black woman in the world, Beyonce Knowles. This is a woman who scores $80,000,000 a year on recording profits, endorsements, investments, and general existence. While it may be argued that the role of a secretary turned stay-at-home mother is far from Queen B’s reality, she doesn’t exactly disappear into any of her film roles. There’s plenty of Bootylicious in this fierce woman of color.

So it’s not Sharon’s life Lisa is ruining. That’s Beyonce’s man. Beyonce’s child. Beyonce’s house. It’s inconceivable to me that anyone who sees this film would think otherwise. Is race the key factor here? It’s debatable, but in the end my heart tells me that it’s Lisa’s “cauc-iness” which leaves her vulnerable to Sharon’s stiletto-fu skills, which she likely picked up between perms and yoga. The fabulous hard-working black goddess with an ass that goes on for days manages to vanquish the skinny white bitch.

For some time, I wondered if Obsessed were a one-shot warning to white women that their fucked-up ways were being noticed and would not necessarily be tolerated. Recently, I have learned that this hysteria did not begin with crazy Lisa, and will certainly not end with it.

There are many reasons to lament the success of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series. Beyond the fact that its action sequences are heinously conceived and executed and it has no momentum to sustain over the course of four novels, it is just the juggernaut needed to capitalize on America’s craving for the unhinged white woman.

Is the fact that Bella Swan is merely a girl of eighteen years a solid excuse for her actions? When I read the books two years ago, I found ways to justify her actions. It’s normal to feel that way about a boy, right? It makes total sense that a teenaged girl would engage in the shadiest behavior because the man who was too good to conceive of in dreams peaced out on her for seemingly forever ever. Right? Once again, that big screen element drills it into my skull and I’m forced to come to terms with the steady stream of madness permeating my sense of security. While watching The Twilight Saga: New Moon, I saw Bella disregard the apparently welcome attentions of the smokin’ hot werewolf with a six pack and jump off of a cliff so she could see the man who indicated that he never wanted to see her again. Never mind Edward’s actual intentions, when I saw her dive, I said “ONLY A FUCKING WHITE WOMAN.”

That’s right. Only a fucking white woman is going to repeatedly put herself in dangerous situations because of a boy who, to her knowledge, doesn’t love her anymore. Only a fucking white woman would do this while stringing along another hottie so she can get her vain kicks in while longing for something she thinks is better. It doesn’t help that she’s fucking with the emotions of a Native American with full intentions of leaving him high and dry once she gets the attentions of, yeah, A FUCKING WHITE BOY.

If you think you get my point and you’re convinced that avoiding bad movies is a way of shielding yourselves from this macabre of the fair-skinned she-bitch, think again. Critically-lauded films are letting more choosy filmgoers in on the concept. You might recall a few months ago when you enjoyed the independent comedy (500) Days of Summer. I don’t. I hated that flick more than Kate Hudson hates good film roles. Like Obsessed, the set-up involves an extreme opposite who is antagonized by an evil white woman. In this case, it’s the dorky, lovable, and achingly relatable Tom who thinks he’s hit the jackpot with quirky white devil chick. Like a polar bear, she lures him in with her sparkling white teeth and blinding white complexion until she rips him apart and leaves him. Unlike the stellar aforementioned Beyonce vehicle, however, the ivory villainess does not get crushed by a chandelier. After toying with Tom’s emotions and giving more mixed signals than a Navajo who’s hit too much peyote, Summer marries some guy she’s known for a few months. Since the movie is hung up on being a realistic portrayal of a doomed relationship, Tom has to lift our spirits by learning from his shitty experience and moving on, all the while not holding a grudge against his vile ex. By the last fifteen minutes of the movie, I was so far gone from being able to point out the good in Summer that the only way I would’ve been okay with the film is if she had pulled a Charlotte Gainsbourg move from Antichrist.

Cinematic experiences can only do so much to present an idea or further fuel a concept. I’ll usually catch a film once and be satisfied with my immediate reaction (though I’ve seen Obsessed so many more times than I could try to count). Luckily, it turns out that my point is clearly enforced by the fact that 2009/2010 radio has become a cochlear implant repeating the exploits of none other than psychotic-ass white women.

Yes, I’m talking about Lady GaGa. I’m not even suggesting that what she’s doing is something I don’t like. Her presence often gives me that rare blood condition known as “an erection”. I can recognize, however, that she and her gigantic record label are using glamor and catchy beats to disguise the fact that they are justifying the behavior of maniacal pasty bitches. Her songs’ themes hit upon textbook cases of general insanity, let alone those actions that have categorized today’s subject. Some are, but not limited to:

• Getting so high that, despite having misplaced all personal belongings, one continues to gyrate
• Having sex with a man while thinking about a woman (I have so little experience with this and am unwilling to alter my perspective)
• Stalking the famous
• Basing romantic satisfaction on the titles of Hitchock films
• Straddling a painful-sounding phallic substitute known as a “disco stick”

This is not to mention the visual nature of her electric presence. The lady can often be spotted donning an alien facehugger mask, playing a burning piano, sporting razor blade sunglasses, and (shocker) killing her foreign boyfriends. She leads a constantly replenished force of wacko whities like Katy Perry, who slobbers on other girls for shits, and Ke$ha who kills time by crooning about vomiting in Paris Hilton’s closet. “So what?” you think. “At least I’m enjoying it.” Yeah? Michael Jackson enjoyed Demerol. Chew on that.

Epidemics aren’t difficult to disregard, but this one is eating away at us without any immediately noticeable manifestations to properly scare us. Consider the terror I’m facing as a human being cognizant of this atrocious race of women when I realize the fact that the overwhelming majority of my friends are both white and female. While I’d like to believe that I am reasonable enough to not associate with individuals who engage in behavior that is too destructive to deny, who’s to say that one or many of my friends won’t soon start stealing the husbands of hard-working black women? Just as I cannot give blood because I’m more likely to be teeming with AIDS, white women appear to be so much more likely to fly under the radar before ruining all of our lives.

If you’re still not convinced, I do not mind that you won’t let fear grip onto you and keep you in a state of sheer terror. I will keep a vigilant eye for you. I will spend every waking moment tracking the movements of these beasts and making sure they aren’t making these difficult times that much more trying for you. I will protect your man, your house, and your child. I will do it with or without blessing.

White woman, enemy mine, modern pop culture has defined you. Your days are numbered.

E

Do you remember the great flick Subtle Seduction? Man, I hadn’t even heard of that shit until I was procuring music by, um, less than conventional means. I saw a thumbnail of the poster in an advertisement and thought, “Damn. That looks really familiar!”

I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t immediately know what the sloppy people at the marketing department of Nferno Productions had used as inspiration for their classy flick directed by Christopher Nolen (no shit). I would certainly want to emulate one of the best films of all time in my marketing materials.

That’s right. This poster is clearly taken from the legitimate Oscar contender and my personal favorite film of 2009, Obsessed. Schaech it out, bitches:

'Obsessed' poster via Film Gordon

The look from the woman on the left. The crossed legs of the woman on the right. The black and white lettering. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I’m inclined to beat some bitches down over the fact that some cheap ass film rebranded itself (it was released in 2008) to capitalize upon the success of a stellar piece of cinema.

Or is there a lesson to learn here? It’s ironic that this film is called Subtle Seduction, because it’s actually one of the most subtle forms of film rip-offery in recent memory. The film is only an imitation of Obsessed in poster form, and is otherwise just some generic thriller. It has nothing on the mockbusters of C. Thomas Howell. The former The Outsiders star has continued to stay just above the double-Z list by ripping off mid-range high profile flicks like The DaVinci Code (The DaVinci Treasure), The Day the Earth Stood Still (The Day the Earth Stopped), and The Land That Time Forgot (Land of the Lost). Though C. Thomas Howell missed out on this one, who could forget the sweet action that was Transmorphers?

Career change! Clearly there’s money to be made in ripping off films, but instead of taking the mockbuster route, Eric Jesus Grimm is going to start doing the Mockscars. Okay, maybe it needs a different genre name, but the idea would be to create flicks which capitalize on the success of relevant Oscar winning films. Potential titles include Alleycat Billionaire, Very Little Stretch of Land for Geriatrics, The Absented, Smash, and $999,999 Infant. I think I’ll be doing a service to others in addition to myself. While I’ll clearly be making some fat motherfucking stacks (even though I’ll be missing out on the mad appeal of Crackspine Plateau) I’ll be introducing the plots of these legitimate, if impenetrable flicks to the masses who might have otherwise been turned off by their classy nature.

You’re so entertained. I’m so paid. Thank you Subtle Seduction. You’ve opened my eyes to the beauty of mediocrity just as Obsessed opened my eyes to the evils of white women. Hollerrrr.

E