Monthly Archives: July 2010

List O’ the Week: Worst Superhero Parents #8-10

If you’re like everyone else, and by “everyone else” I mean, “people that are attending the San Diego Comic-Con” (that’s comic book convention, kids), you’re really into superheroes and what makes them tick.

Seeing how most of us blame our adult issues on mom and pops, it only makes sense that that must be at the root of superheroes becoming superheroes, right? I mean it must take spectacularly bad parents to make a superhero; it’s why Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston’s daughter is destined to become Afro-dite and while Jon & Kate’s batch of Gremlins will similarly result in some biracial real-life X-Men team.

But, I suppose we can elaborate, can’t we? So we’re going to look at how these heroes were created; specifically, how bad of a parent you have to be convince your child to sit in the dark wearing a mask and whore-tight clothing.

So strap-on your mask, cape and insecurity: Mama’s gonna teach you to fly.

The Kids Don’t Get It Worst Superhero Parents #’s 10-8

10. Mr.and Mrs. J’onnz (The Martian the Manhunter’s Parents):

No Earth. No Wind. No Fire.

Martian the Manhunter (MtM) is, well, a martian–the kind that comes from outer space, not to be confused with the one who dated “Gina”–that’s “Martin Lawrence” , as in Martin, but we’ll forgive you for making such an error. MtM was born on Mars and was DC’s even-more-alien ‘Superman’, because no one wanted to write stories of a brown-skinned Superman of Earth flying the skies of Detroit or something. Like Supes, MtM can fly, lift things and shoot eye-beams. And can read people’s minds.

All a clever play on not having a Black Superman–I mean Black guys can read people’s minds too. When I’m walking in the city, I know that the white lady I’m passing is thinking, “this Barack clone is going to snag my purse”–that’s why she quietly pulls it close. And when a shapely chick is strolling down the street, she tugs at the back of her skirt because she’s thinking, “this coloured man is eager to sneer at my hindquarters once I’ve passed”. I can read it like I read my Gmail.

MtM even has a black name–J’onn J’onzz. That could easily be the guy sweeping your office or a member of Jodeci. Or both. And then there’s his ‘Kryptonite’: fire.

Bah! Everyone knows that brothers’ real Kryptonite consist of water (can’t swim, slave ships), cops, and not being drafted/signed to a label.

Mississippi burning

So what makes J’onn J’onnz’s parents so b’ad b’ad? Because of all the things that they could’ve taught him–how to not look Superman in the eye when he speaks to him, how to speak ‘proper’, the cultural bias built into Justice League Membership test–they instead taught MtM how to be a shape-shifter. A shape-shifter!

This dude could be Affirmative Action Superman, and his parents want him to learn how to be like everybody else. Could there be a crueler message to send to a colored man with so much untapped potential of his own? I don’t think so.

Don’t worry MtM; you my J’onnz.

9.  Gloria Steinem and Aphrodite (Wonder Woman’s Parents):

Raised on the Amazonian chick-ranch Paradise Island (it’s where they shoot all the Venus shaving gel commercials), Wonder Woman was

"Wwwwhhhhheeeeeeeee!"

born and bred to be a princess, ambassador and a warrior. Look, I’m all for strong women types–that’s why I’m such a huge Kim Kardashian fan!–but the Amazonians spent years Diana (Wonder’s real name) to be a strong, just and noble representative of The Ultimate Woman and what’s her mother’s first advice in sending her daughter into Man’s World?

“Put on this star-spangled thong, gold tiara and Athena’s old bustier and for Zeus’ sake girl, get some bracelets!”

And then she was gifted with an invisible plane that everyone could see through because women should be seen at all times, but not heard. Gotta get them mens, right?

The result of Wonder Woman’s mission of “How to Serve Man” is almost biblical in proportions:

  • there was Wonder Woman, who begat Strawberry Shortcake

    "Who has time for a career? I've got undies to wear!"

  • who begat Veronica/Betty in Archie Comics
  • who begat Cheetara, den-kitten to Panthro, Lion-O and Wily-Cat
  • who begat Catwoman
  • who begat Blanche on The Golden Girls
  • who begat Xena
  • who begat Samantha on Sex and the City
  • who begat Katie Perry

Each previous one has been consumed by the last because Their Can Be Only One.

8. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers (Captain America’s Parents)

"Your milkshake called me to the yard, Suzie"

Picture this: it’s like 1940 and you’re a young Caucasian boy with a bright, bright future ahead of him. You’ve graduated high school which in the early 40’s was the only other prereq to becoming POTUS (besides being white male which didn’t change until Clinton). You’re probably thinking, “man, I can’t wait to go to the malt shop and have Old Black Sam make me and Suzie Beaver a swell milkshake!” and then after that milkshake you’ll take Suzie Beaver and screw her because “Suzie, there’s a war going on and I don’t know if you’ll make it, or I’ll make it or even your queer little brother Harold will, but I know I got this thing here, and while it can’t punch Hitler, it can certainly blitzkrieg you.”

But no. Not happening if your Steve Rogers. If you’re Steve Rogers, you’ve got parents that say, “did you know Old Black Sam’s son J’onn J’onnz is volunteering in the war?! What are you doing with yourself? Stop playing with that twat Suzie Beaver!”, so you run down Marmalade Lane….Brightwood Ave….Mulberry Lane…and now your chest is heaving because usually you only have to chase the coloured boys out of Brightwood, and you’re realizing that you aren’t even fit for war, and that Suzie Beaver’s not going to want your weezy, wimpy noodle with studs like Old Black Sam around, and you don’t want to die and come back as a ghost just to watch them screw do you?

No!

So you’re Steve Rogers, high school graduate, American-lover, Hitler-hater, and sick of people making fun of the fact that your dad’s got that weird neighborhood “kids show”, so you go where? To the Army! And when you get there and they see you can’t lift towels but you Bleed This American Life, well, they say “we’re going to pump this sissy full of that stuff we were going to use on those Tuskeegee boys” and whamm0!–you’re stuck faster’n you can say Mein Kampf, and now you’re PUMPED, you’re going to the front-line of the war, you’re CAPTAIN AMERICA and you’re going to punch Hitler in the face because he looks like Mr. Rogers with a mustache and you’re bringing Bucky along with you because he’s you man, and you want to see someone Shut Daddy’s Mouth Up.

and…and…and….

"BEAVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

BEAVER!!!!

#’s 7-10 next.

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Billy Genes

Most men, on some level, freak out when they’re learning that you’re going to become a Father for the first time.

A great many things race through your mind, like:

  • Oh why, why, why, why, why, did I insist that we have ‘Natural Love’ Wednesdays?
  • Where am I going to put all my porn now that we have to have a ‘nursery’?
  • I have enough gas in the car right now to at least make it to Greensboro….
  • I thought Dr. Drew said the ‘pump n’ pray’ method worked as well as it sounds?!

And then there’s the 9mos waiting for the baby to come. It’s a real process. I know this from watching family members and frien–oh hell, who am I kidding? My students. I learned this from watching students that I’ve taught over the years. It’s a long process with LOTS of make-up homework, but little-to-no gym class.

And when you’re a black couple having your first kid you just think, “Please Batman, don’t let this baby come out in this operating room embarrassing me in front of these white people”.

Step lightly, pops.

This wasn’t as much of a problem back in the day when black people had their own hospitals: the field. But things have changed since Reagan was in office, so now black couples worry about grander things like, “do you think our child will go to Hillman too?”, or, “I don’t like that Urkel boy coming around here everyday to visit Laura. I think he might kill us and wear our faces.”

But with the life expectancy of black males teetering somewhere between “breath fog on a window pane” and “newborn sea turtle”, many parents keep their fingers crossed for a healthy baby. One that will perhaps make money quick by playing ball or pouring champagne on the asses of other brown girls in music videos.

What they don’t cross their fingers for is this:

"If we squeeze in close enough, maybe we can mask her with our brownness."

Black British couple Ben and Angela Ihegboro gave birth to baby girl Nmachi.

Nmachi was born a healthy blonde-haired and skin so white the couple momentarily thought they were in Canada, or at least Portland.

Said new-father Ben: “When that baby came out of my wife I didn’t know whether to look for 3 wise men or buy her shoes just so I could put them on her feet and shine them.”

Angela agreed: “It was like my boss suddenly walked out from between my legs.”

Given the unusual birth, in hindsight none could blame the reaction of the parents or the hospital staff on hand.

Said Dr. Pale: “We saw this beautiful baby emerge from Angela, and naturally, the first thing I did was mouth to Nurse Betty ‘Call. The. Cops.‘ I was sure the Ihegboros had somehow switched babies on us. We even had the emergency locks activated in the room.”

Once all involved saw the umbilical cord though, much of the fear subsided.

Then came the hard part: naming the child.

“Well, the hospital staff were really, really interested in helping us come up with a name,” said Angela Ihegboro, “but most of them didn’t seem right: we got a lot of suggestions for the name ‘Katie’. ”

"I'd like to do a Pigment Test on your baby: we've had some crazy shit happen here this week."

The couple settled on the name ‘Nmachi’.

Already little Nmachi is making a name for herself, impressing family and neighborhood friends alike.

“It’s certainly a little hard when your infant gets seated before you at Denny’s, and it can be a little anxious sitting her on the curb so we can get a taxi faster, but dammit, you look into her little blue eyes and you just know she’s worth it. Our property value doubled!”

Still, the irony doesn’t escape Ben: “Mariah Carey…Eminem…Flava of Love..Michael Jackson–even when we try to make something our own it still comes out white. I give up.”

Geneticists feel Ben’s pain. Says one noted German geneticist, “after seeing pictures of that baby, we stayed up all night getting drunk and high re-writing ROY G. BIV. We’ve merely decided to call this the ‘Gumbel Effect’. ”

Angela, sighs, already the weight of her latest newborn catching up to her as she raises little Nmachi’s mouth to her chest to feed.

“I just don’t know how I’m going to do this child’s hair.”

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Candles, Leg Blown at Vick Birthday Party

Is there any worse Evite than the one that says, “Michael Vick Invites You To….”?

Vick; winning over PETA!

In the past that Evite would’ve said something like “Come to my house and chill on Aug 20th. I’ve got the beer and chips covered, you bring any unused dogs you don’t want.” A Michael Vick party is probably the only celebrity/athlete party where it’s probably a good idea to make it a Netflix night instead. I mean why go to Vick’s place when you can catch it all on Cops anyway?

As if dog-fighting (“they were playing! They were just dogs being dogs!”) wasn’t enough, after spending a year or so recuperating his image with the public–making TMZ.com-type appearances shopping with dogs, decorating X-Mas trees with dogs, teaching dogs to drive, and being Donovan McNabb’s b-tch–Vick decides to throw a party for his 30th birthday.

All was going well for most of the night–the weed bin was surely flowing like oh-so-much soda fountain, the strippers were still riding their coke high, and at least 8 Madden tournaments were happening on XBoxes–until, needless to say, someone looked around and said, “this 30th party needs a board game or something, and by ‘a board game or something’ I mean I’m about to shoot someone in the leg.”

Now to be fair, this gentleman might’ve done it just so he could keep track of who he drove to the party with–I’m sure there were a lot of guys wearing knee-length white tees, and after awhile, everyone must start to look like Casper. Plus, it’s a great convo starter with people there that you don’t know.

“Hey man, nice bullet wound; where’d you get that?”

“Parking lot.”

"Tape make Kev's head tickle."

The guy who was shot that night decided not to press charges, though several eye-witness reports claim that South Philly native Bark-Bark the Italian Aryan Power Dog was seen squatting behind bushes with a “gun-shaped” object clenched between his teeth.

When reached for a comment, Bark-Bark merely had this to say, “If I was at that party, I wouldn’t have had a gun. But if I would’ve had one, I’d’ve been aiming for Michael Vick. And if I was aiming for Vick, I’d probably miss on account of me not having any f-cking fingers to point this gun in the right direction.”

"You'll never catch me, coppers!"

Bark-Bark was brought in for questioning, along with Plaxico Burress and Mel Gibson just on the grounds that he’s purely bat-shit lately, but was later released when a fellow dog showed up in KKK robes demanding he be released and not left to “consort and rot in these cells filled with so much blackdom”.

And with the shooting victim unwilling to cooperate (“I’d have you know that I brought this bullet in my leg with me, thank u very much”)

All in all, it makes for some tough times in Philadelphia: the city and Vick are becoming more and more intertwined as many citizens haven’t been fooled by the Eagles’ management that it was Vick that left for D.C. and McNabb that’s stayed here.

I have friends who are applying to get a dog of their own to have, and I’ve forewarned them: take any trace of Michael Vick out of your home before the SPCA come to visit and determine whether you’re dog-worthy or not. This was my advice:

  1. Get rid of any black Eagles’ pictures–I don’t care if it’s Randall Cunningham, Herschel Walker, or Charles Barkley with feathers–don’t confuse them.
  2. Throw out any bottles of Vick’s Cough Syrup, Vick’s Vapor Rub, and definitely Vick’s Obedient Dog Treats
  3. As a matter of fact, throw out anything that’s Vick-sounding: if you have any copies of ‘Victor/Victoria’, replace them with ‘Tootsie’. Just as good. That copy of Invictus? Apartheid that shit pronto. I’ll give you a copy of Hoosiers. Same story.

There’s still a chance that they’ll Vick-it-up but I can at least know that I’ve done my part.

And now I ask that the Eagles organization do their part: cut Michael Vick. Like now. I mean he’s no loss now, right? I’ve seen him play since coming to Philly; his arm’s about as strong and accurate as Stephen Hawking’s, and he’s about as nimble, too.

"Reading make Kev's head tingle on inside. Want pizza."

Besides, we have to start the Kevin Kolb Era now; he looks like he’d rather spend his birthday at Dave & Buster’s or maybe getting his free Book It! pizza at Pizza Hut. I mean, he’s still learning how to read! We can build on this.

Even Bark-Bark likes him.

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Gorilla Airfare

When most people travel to Central America, they come back with the typical fare:

  • tans
  • sombreros
  • pictures from the “donkey show”

    "Sh-t; they're onto us!"

  • syphilis
  • Penelope Cruz (and if you think that’s the closest that Penelope Cruz has been associated with a donkey show, you haven’t seen Vanilla Sky)

Y’know; normal stuff.

Not so if you’re Roberto Cabrera. On his way to Mexico City from Lima, Peru he was stopped in Mexico City Airport by security on the grounds of seeming “nervous”.

If you’ve ever traveled to Mexico City, this may not raise much alarm. Years ago I visited Mexico City with a friend, and when we arrived in the airport, we were stopped at some point by airport security.

The exchange went like this:

Mexico City Airport Security: “Where are you traveling to, amigo negro?”

Me: “Here. Mexico City.”

Mexico City Airport Security: “Oh, a smartass, eh? Search Puff Daddy’s buttocks with the spoon we use for re-fried beans. Pfft; ‘Mexico City’. ”

So, I don’t like to stereotype, but I understand.

But that has its limits.

"Remember to stay quiet until I give you the sign Mr. Crunchy."

Why was Roberto Cabrera nervous? Well, upon closer inspection with the re-fried beans spoon, aeropuerto security discovered that Cabrera was actually smuggling 18 monkeys under his t-shirt in a girdle.

I’m going to isolate this sentence so you can appreciate this for what it is:

Aeropuerto security discovered that Cabrera was actually smuggling 18 monkeys under his t-shirt in a girdle.

I mean I really just don’t know where to begin.

First of all, I have to confess: when I saw the headline “Man Arrested Smuggling 18 Monkeys in Clothing”, I was convinced that this was a white person, because if there’s one thing that white people love more than wearing Teva sandals everywhere they go, it’s monkeys.

To kiss. To have as pets. To make wear stupid things like tuxedos and shock collars (now that all that Jim Crow stuff’s been sorted out). They just do.

But no; Cabrera is from a whole other raza, and really, I don’t think even this raza is going to renew his membership anytime soon.

But how lax is the security in Lima, Peru? I mean seriously, WTF.

Here in the States, we have to remove our shoes, give a stool sample and recite the theme song of Blossom before we’re allowed to board a plane.

"Air Lima: When you absolutely HAVE to get your monkey there."

Hell, even in New Orleans Airport I had to show them the watermarks on my jeans to prove I’d spent time in the city.

But apparently Lima’s airport security is about as secure as a Kardashian chastity belt.

Surely someone would’ve noticed Cabrera’s roving, writhing flesh as he walked onto the plane, right? You really can’t chalk that up to “Montezuma’s Revenge”.

And we’re talking 18 monkeys here–18 monkeys.

I can maybe–MAYBE–see if the guy was smuggling 1 monkey–hell I’m feeling generous today, 2 monkeys–in a t-shirt, but 18?! Look, I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know how to quiet 1 monkey–when I was a kid I watched people throw peanuts and car batteries at chimps in the Monkey House at the Philadelphia Zoo–so how Roberto “Tarzan” Cabrera managed to silence 18 of these little f-cks, well…that’s some shit we haven’t seen since Noah.

But the feats don’t end there. I Googled and discovered that the flight from Lima to Mexico City is 5hrs and 50mins–well, probably more like 12hrs, because we all know how slow and lazy even Mexican pilots are.

"Quick Thelonius; hide!"

Kidding. Nearly 6hrs! What in-flight movie is going to keep 18 monkeys quiet for that long?

Well, I suppose if they played M. Night’s latest flick, The Last Airbender, that might do the trick; it put an entire nation to sleep, so it could probably do the same to a dozen and a 1/2 titi monkeys.

And didn’t anyone sit next to him on this flight?

Weren’t the flight attendants suspicious when he constantly requested more courtesy peanuts and a bottle of “General Aurellisimo’s All-Purpose Lice Removal Powder”?

I’m not sure what one offers as an explanation when one is caught with 18 monkeys:

  • I broke my other monkey, so I bought 18 new ones to spank.
  • I only need 982 more monkeys and only 999 more typewriters before they begin writing a novel for me.
  • I’ll have you know that these monkeys are part of the Make A Wish Foundation; their last wish is to see Mexico City. Also, the Miami Heat.
  • These monkeys are part of a blood-letting ceremony to revive the corpse of the King of Pop.

Cabrera was of course smuggling the monkeys into Mexico City for money; with more and more “uppity” Mexican women choosing the workforce and education, there’s less tail to go around when American fratboys and/or their businessmen dads come to town looking for some action.

Pimp: “Lo siento senor, but I’m afraid our brothel is fresh out of women tonight. But we do have Lim-Lim, our most ‘native’ pleasurer.”

American: “Where’s Lim-Lim from?”

Pimp: “…..Titi.”

American: “Titi? I think they did the last Real World/Road Rules Challenge in Titi! What’s Lim-Lim look like?”

Pimp: “Small, brown, big eyes, acrobatic with a big tail. I must warn you; she’s muy wild, amigo.”

"Lim-Lim get dressed; your 12:00 is here."

American: “So am I, Alamo. Here’s 15 pesos. Keep the change.”

Pimp: “She may scratch you, friend. She is, in plain ingles, ‘savage’ .”

American: “Dude, if you keep spoiling all the fun ahead of time, I’ll never be able to get it up for this monkey. Now scram!”

In the end, I’m not sure how you properly persecute such a person. Taking a man’s monkeys away from him seems cruel somehow, though I suppose not as cruel as being packed against said man’s belly for 6hrs.

Surely, the Mexican authorities must’ve been baffled too–they’re used to drug mules, not covert monkeys.

Jail-time’s going to be rough for Cabrera; if prisoners hate child abusers, I can’t imagine what they’d do to a monkey smuggler.

Best not drop the banana methinks.

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Li-Lo in Stitches

Surprisingly, not her mom pictured here, it's actually Lindsay.

Typically if you search on the internets using the terms “Lindsay Lohan nails” you’d get a veritable Google* of results that would probably be composed of Lindsay (affectionately referred to by the people of E!, US Weekly, People and celeb-chat losers as “Li-Lo”) copulating with everyone from Gerard Butler, Wilmer Valderamma, Heath Ledger, Jared Leto and most recently Samantha Ronson and Animal from the Muppets.

According to one website, Li-Lo’s been with roughly 39 celebrities since coming to H’wood, meaning at this point more celebrities have been in Lohan than this week’s Entertainment Weekly.

Li-Lo represents herself in court. Part of her defense? Wearing Heather Locklear's pants suit.

At this point it’s safer to say that Lindsay’s vagina will get a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame before she does.

Anyway, Lindsay’s making the latest news because of her current bout with alcohol, drugs and Lohanness.

So let’s role play a bit (I know some of you are into that sort of thing, so don’t go reaching for your Comic Sans font in a tizzy):

You’re Lindsay Lohan.

You’re rich, young and attractive in that this-is-me-right-before-I-bottom-out-on-crystal-meth-and-horse-pills sort of way. It’s haute-cute.

And now, because you’ve enjoyed a string of months, years even of trying to outdo Halle Berry, Mel Gibson and Rodney King on the Poor Drivers list, you’ve ended up in court. At this point, you’ve even offered the judge some blow (cocaine, job) in order to get out of it, but alas, this one’s out to make a famous judge out of her name, like Ito, Judy, and Reinhold.

So, you’re stuck.

What’s a tramp to do?

(at this point you may choose to play “I’m a horny celeb stuck in jail, save me Mr/Ms Jailer” with your spouse, which is fine just make sure you come back when you’re done in 10mins to read the rest of this)

Li-Lo exits court after spending a day recounting her "Samantha Ronson episodes"

Well, if you’re the real Li-Lo, you’re not doing anything sensible like hiring a credible lawyer or wearing conservative clothing to court, or even brushing the meth-stains off your teeth. Why should you? You feminine wash with Stellas at this point, what’s Lever 2000 going to get done?

Like my mom used to say, “remember; God stones tramps”. And with that, I was off to kindergarten.

But oh, oh if only Li-Lo had my mom for a mom. For starters, she’d be black, which would be cool, because after Whitney finally went cold-Bobby a few months ago, we’re tragically short on headline-worthy crazy black folk–unless you watch the evening news. But those guys are Nameless and Faceless and not the kind that, say, you’d think about running away with or want to have over your place for fajitas, or maybe you do because, hey, you watched The Wire, and Stringer Bell is sorta magnetic.

But no way would Mama Kids approve of Li-Lo’s nailware. While in court having her future* decided for her, Lohan decided to go low-hand by having tattooed finger nails read the ever-pliable phrase: “F-ck you”.

Now granted, there are several plausible reasons such a phrase would appear on her nails. Let’s examine them.

The Kids Don’t Get It Explains Lindsay Lohan’s “F-ck U” Message

  • Cultural: Technically, the nail reads “F*ck u”, which could possibly represent one of those always new celeb religious/diet/yoga trends, like Kaballah or adopting black babies. Maybe Fucku is some sort of church she belongs to? I guess I’m just saying stop being so ignorant, guys.

    e-Harmony profile pic

  • Romantic Courtship: Maybe “F-ck U” is short-hand for picking people up? Y’know instead of using something practical like “talking” or even cyber-kinky stuff like e-Harmony (“I’m into snorting coke off of Paris’ belly and stuff in Africa”). Maybe after getting her a drink at the bar (“can I buy you a tequila shot to take off my taint?”) she has nails with the options “Date U”, “Like U”, “Who R U?”, “Stab U” and “F-ck U” that she uses to communicate with? I think it’s rather brilliant; 80% of our true impressions are expressed via body language anyway.
  • Membership: Or maybe she’s a part of some sort of hate group? Like how white supremacists have things like “Hate”, “White Power”, or “McCain ’08” on their knuckles, y’know? Girl’s gotta be able to stand for something, right? Is that’s what we always want for our celebrities and children’s role models, innit? Standing for things proper and having smart-ass fashion sense. That’s what those (red) t-shirts were about after all, innit?

At the end of the day though, it doesn’t really matter anyway: we all know now that the judge sentenced Lindsay to 90 days in prison. The only stars that ever serve a full term are those hot chicks in those Caged Heat movies, and even they have the pleasure of showering with each other and having busty wardens.

Way I figure it, the Judge will grant leniency by reducing the time served based on the following:

  • Sleeping with Samantha Ronson: -14 days
  • Dealing with Cougar Mama Lohan and I Was a Trailer Park Porn Director Daddy Lohan: -25 days

    Pictured (l-r): Traci Lords; Scary Spice; Queen Latifah; one of the girls from 'Girlfriends'; Khloe Khardasian; Dana Plato; Tiffani Amber-Thiessen; Cecily Tyson. Not pictured: Lindsay Lohan.

  • Making her record albums: +5 days
  • Having to make Georgia Rule with Felicity Huffman and Jane Fonda: -30 days
  • Making I Know Who Killed Me (where she plays a bipolar stripper; later to be recylced as Lindsay Lohan: This is me!): +3 days for fictional release.; -8 days for later reflecting life
  • Appearing on Project Runway with Heidi “I sleep with the Unmasked Phantom of the Opera” Klum: -15 days

= 6 days; just enough time to make Caged Heat 17: Li-Lo and the Po-Po

Hey; F-ck U, huh?

*coinging a new slang term: “Google”.

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