never been a bitch so I don't act bitchy

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

'Lost' Actress Chooses Jail Over Service

Wow. Michelle Rodriguez really hates picking up trash.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

A New Film Pigs Alternate DVD Commentary -- Everybody is Racist!

The Film Pigs watch Crash.

To call this movie ham-fisted would be an insult to the depth and
subtlety you get from ham-fistedness. From its opening scene, Crash
blunders through an endless series of tired racial stereotypes and
preachy cliches like a fat kid in an oversized pair of moon boots,
ultimately concluding that everyone on earth is not only racist, but
also an incompetent motorist. Best Picture 2005? What the fuck,
America? And would somebody please get Thandie Newton a God-damn

Download our commentary from Film Pigs dot com and give yourself a giant migraine trying to figure out how in hell the same 8 people in Los Angeles keep running their cars into each other.

And remember the Best Picture of 2005's timeless message: Everyone is racist and anyone who tries to change for the better will fail, so there's no point to anything.

Also, you can download (and subscribe to!) our podcasts at iTunes, under "Comedy." Or if you are a savage and don't have an iPod, you can just listen on your computer. (And then get an iPod because, c'mon.)

Wednesday, April 19, 2006


Well. After two-and-a-half days of watching jurors bend over backwards to be released for various reasons, and then watching the lawyers (both nervous, both tipping their entire case with the pointed questions they were asking us) let people go for various obvious (someone hated gang members with a manic passion, someone had been held up with a gun and had trouble identifying the person in a line-up, someone had a brother in a gang, someone thought cops were infallible, someone clearly didn't understand English or have any idea what was going on or even if/when he was being talked to), and sometimes mysterious reasons, I was released. And as I walked out of the courtroom, the defense attorney said, "The defense is satisfied with the jury."

I was the last one of about fifteen released.

The reason? Well, it was the case of a gang memeber or wannabe gang member who had held up a whole grab bag of people and businesses with a semi-automatic weapon. And one of the addresses which they read aloud was very near my house. A 7-11 as it turned out. "My" 7-11. And when I finally was in the box and was asked various personal questions, I let them know that fact.

At the end of yesterday, I asked for a sidebar and told the judge and lawyers that I didn't think I felt comfortable sitting on a trial of a gang member in my neighborhood. And I guess that did it.

As I was walking to my car with the guy released before me (reason: we have no idea), we both admitted there was about 10% of us that regretted not sitting on the trial. I think it has to do with being told the prologue to a story for 2 days and then never getting to hear the actual story.

I also sort of enjoyed the differentness of it. I spent almost 3 days hanging out with and getting to know a true cross-section of Los Angeles, and with only the clock and each other to stare at all day, we were beginning to feel like a weird little family. I could see getting to know some of those people very well over 15 days. And except for the scary lady next to me with toenails like dark, nuttish talons, I think I would have liked that part of it.

The gang reprisal part of it? Not so much.

Monday, April 17, 2006

I U Read This Fuck You.

11th Floor Bathroom. Los Angeles Criminal Courthouse.

I have jury duty. That's what I get for voting. The worst President in history, and jury duty.

After a day of sitting around, reading, staring into space, listening to my iPod, and walking for blocks to find lunch in the I-don't-care-what-the-realtors-or-alt-weeklies-say, it-ain't-"hip"-until-you-have-some-fucking-food-for-sale crater that is Downtown Los Angeles, I'm close to being on a case.

It's a long one, 15-days, they think. And after all the people made their excuses to the judge about why it would be too much of a hardship for them to serve (I didn't think "It's staffing season and I really should be available for meetings, plus I have a script due in a month and lots of TiVo to watch" would have received any sympathy), I'm perilously close to being an alternate or actually sitting on the jury. And I'm sure after the lawyers use their random dismissals tomorrow, I will be selected. I just have a feeling.

Unless, that is, I can figure out a clever way to get myself excused. I'm too much of a pussy to lie under oath and say something like, "I hate Mexicans" or "I'm highly claustrophic" (the latter of which is an actual excuse used to success at a recent trial a friend served on; I bet the first would just get you held in contempt). I could say something about how I'm still mad at all criminals because of my Honda being stolen a few months ago. But I'm contemplating something a little more subtle, like visibly smiling and laughing whenever the cute female prosecutor speaks and frowning and shaking my head whenever the defense attorney speaks. (Ooh, I should tell her during my questioning that she "puts the 'cute' in 'prosecutor'!" That would get me dismissed for sure. Or, a date!)

But of course there is a part of me that thinks serving on a jury would be interesting. I think if that happens, I'll campaign to be the lead juror, and then sway opinions just based on my whims! Or else I'll just whine whenever I'm not asleep, and occasionally entertain paranoid fantasies in which the defendant somehow gets the jury list and years after the trial gets out and hunts us down one by one.

The glassy, tired eye of justice.

On a more alcoholic note, I found a second bar in my neighborhood! (Third if you count the bowling alley.) It's called The Wild Hare and they have great beer and food and lots of booths and a fantastic juke box and BINGO on Tuesday nights. I'm just mad nobody told me about it. How dare you?

Frank at The Wild Hare

Thursday, April 13, 2006

I'm A Little Worried About The Netflix Couple

Now, I'm no expert in body language, but it doesn't take a guest on Access Hollywood to recognize that these two are not long for this world. First of all, she gets everything. The popcorn. The wine. What does he have to drink? Nothing. His own spit. Clearly it's her house and she didn't offer him anything. And if he wants some popcorn, he has to reach across her horrible, gnarled foot to get any. Seriously. Look at her foot!

It's disgusting. It looks like a Hobbit foot. And she rudely takes off her stinky shoe and puts her freak-toes right next to the food they're supposed to be sharing! So thoughtless.

Secondly, look at her body language. Arms and legs crossed, pillow covering her lap. She might as well just wear a sign that reads, "You are not getting anywhere near my vagina!" I'm not sure they make signs like that, but they should. And while she's closed off, he's all over her, trying to get some bit of affection. His arm is pathetically around her, his knee trying to pry apart her legs, his other hand trapped on the vagina-pillow by her defensive talon.

Thirdly, look how focused on the movie she is. Laughing her fool head off, not a care in the world. And his laugh is so cloying and dishonest; he's clearly just trying to enjoy the movie (which she obviously picked out) in solidarity. While inside he's screaming: "What does she want from me?!"

Lastly, while he's not exactly wearing a suit, he still took the time to put on a nice jersey -- with sleeves -- and grey pants. Her? Sweats and a tank top. Way to put in some effort, lady.

So I'm worried about the Netflix couple. I swear, if she doesn't start sharing her popcorn and maybe occassionally putting on a skirt or at least covering her little Thalidomide feet, he'll be taking off that jersey in some other girl's apartment pretty soon. And someone who might offer him a friggin' beverage every once in a while.

Oh look! Someone made the sign:

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

And Many More

Monday, April 03, 2006

Future Plans and Ambitions

From Pamie's memory book...