Quote: “Demi Moore was the hottest actress in Hollywood when I was growing up. I
was in love with her when I was ten. Now it’s great, I’m [bleeping] her.”
Quiz: what word was sensitively [bleeped] by the mainstream publication we pulled this quote from? Send your ideas to firstname.lastname@example.org. Most creative entry gets posted on next week’s TWR, and winner receives a Robin (TM) powdered sports shake we bought at the corner deli but no longer feel like drinking ($2.99 value, nonperishable).
|Image of the Week
Whatever happened to the childhood shocks of yesteryear, like biting into a sweet, juicy, razor-laden apple? At least back then, you knew what to fear; a Reading Rainbow-approved avoidance strategy could be prepared. TWR remembers our first day of kindergarten, when our mother knelt down in her Pam Dawber culottes, her Barbra Streisand perm scratching up our face, and whispered in our ear, “If a stranger gives you a sticker with a little picture on it, don’t lick it!” Wise words we obeyed until at least the age of fourteen. But what happens when your child wins an innocuous-seeming Incredible Hulk doll at a carnival, lifts its loincloth and encounters a gigantic penis?
Nothing right, that’s for sure. In this case, not only has little “Leah” (above) of Biggin Hill, Kent, been sexualized in a less-than-ideal way, not only will such dolls contribute to the chronic body dysmorphia of the New Male, but the poor tot’s parents decided that an appropriate form of therapy would be to trot her down to the offices of the UK Sun and have her picture splashed across thousands of tabloids across the land! Leah was quoted here as wondering why her doll had a “willy.” Mum, who had apparently been trained at “university” to speak in British tabloid copy, told the paper, “A hulk with a bulk like this just shouldn’t be allowed! Considering the doll is only twelve inches tall it’s amazing how big his willy is!” Crushingly, the manufacturer of the dolls, Play by Play of Valencia, Spain, could not be reached for comment.
Now, TWR will take no stand on intergenerational nudity in the home we’re not touching that one with a Jock Sturges-sized pole but we say, keep penises off action figures! Leave them on fathers, where they’ll be equally disturbing to glimpse but at least anatomically possible.
|Oops, She Did It!
I’ve never told anyone this before, but [deep breath] I like Justin Timberlake. And why can’t I? That one song is catchy, and he’s the closest thing to Eurotrash this country can boast.
So this week, when avowed virgin Britney Spears revealed that she had, in fact, fucked Justin, I was like, well, yeah! As well you ought, hon, as well you ought!
But it seems that once Britney’s started, she can’t get enough. Watch as she morphs from lapsed virgin to mouth-foaming nympho over the course of one W magazine interview:
Early quote: “I’ve only slept with one person my whole life. It was two years
into my relationship with Justin, and I thought he was the one. But I was
wrong!” Which digresses into: “I need my single time to learn to be self loving.” And then, toward the end: “I haven’t had a boy in a really long time … just a
kiss, man. Just a kiss would be nice.”
Wouldn’t it, though? But welcome, Britney, to the dark side. In three years, I bet she’ll be found unconscious in an Orange County parking lot. She will be slumped in the passenger seat of an old
Buick, with Valium
scattered across the dashboard, a bottle of Leeds vodka in her hand, underwear around her ankles.
Ten bucks on that exact scenario. July 11, 2006. Call me on it. Carrie Hill Wilner
|Subject Lines of Five Spam Emails We Tried Not to Open This Week
1. deguisement Vorsteuerventile Catamarca jongwha
2. Hey needledick! Learn 2 make it BIG!
3. Learn to type fast and efficiently
4. Amazing food is in your future!
5. Tone-poem submission
|The Beach Boys Endless-Summer-Depression Test
In honor of our favorite new CD, the Beach Boys compilation Sounds of Summer and because we’re tired of taking those five-point “Are you depressed?” quizzes on TV and coming up inconclusive every time TWR has adapted the lyrics to “When I Grow Up (to be a Man)” into an airtight test for clinical depression. Take it and learn: which Wilson brother are you?
1. Do you dig the things that turned you on as a kid?
Yes: 0 No: +10
2. Ever look back and say, “I wish I hadn’t done what I did”?
Yes: +10 No: 0
3. Do you still joke around?
Yes: 0 No: +5
4. Do you still dig the sound?
Yes: 0 No: +30
5. Do you still seek your share of fun?
Yes: 0 No: +20
6. Have you experienced death by drowning?
Yes: +500 No: +0
7. Have you ever paid anyone more than $20 to provide you with “spiritual guidance” (i.e., follow you around, cook your meals, tell you what to wear, which daughters to emotionally divorce yourself from, etc.)?
Yes +55 No: +0
Total your points. You are:
0 to 20: Carl. Well-adjusted, an underrated leader, a sunny stick-arounder, you’re the last to leave the party. But you might also be smoking yourself to death.
25 to 500: Brian. You are depressed! Perhaps you are a left-brain thinker. The help you need cannot be found in gurus.
500+: Dennis. You were a troubled pretty face, weren’t you? And people mostly talk about you for being dead. But the truth is, you were first to learn what the records never said: that’s the only way summer is truly endless.
|Maureen Dowd Killed Grant
You might be wondering where Grant is this week. It’s a sad story. He is a victim of the demise of his gender. That’s right: no more men. First came all those boyfriend-killing insects. Then there was The Descent of Y by Steven Jones, which argued that the Y chromosome is a genetic parasite and is gradually shriveling. Finally, this week, Maureen Dowd’s latest column contained the phrases, “Why oh Y are men so insecure?” and “Better to be an X-chromosome than an ex-chromosome.” It made me wonder if we could lose the chromosomes responsible for weak wordplay instead.
But then Grant disappeared. Now there is this TWR item, because whenever I manage to
get through a Dowd article, it is a remarkable and newsworthy occurence. Anyway, in her piece, Dowd speculates that “metrosexuals” that ill-concieved compound noun which denotes the Axe Body Spray demographic
are an evolutionary response to this threat to the Y.
I don’t know about
that. But as long as we’re playing Fisher-Price My First Ethnobiologist, I’m going to throw out a few
other adaptations I’ve noticed. Or made up.
1. The that’ssonotfairosexual: Why have two out of the last three attractive boys I’ve
chatted up turned out to be 17? Because they now have to display their hotness much earlier, increasing the chance they’ll get to propogate, that’s why. Well, nice try, God, but I’m not so far out of high
school that I’ve forgotten high-school boys are a bad idea.
2. The philosophygradstudentosexual: In the absence of conventional measures
of genetic fitness, such as the ability to spear buffalo, these men
attempt to seduce you with talk of Kierkegaard, then they instantly impregnate you, thus ensuring that two-gender reproduction will continue for at least another
generation and that you won’t resort to cloning. Or something like that. It
3. The drunkandindiscrminateosexual: It’s three a.m. You can’t pronounce my name.
Why are you calling me? Do you think I wasn’t there when you called my
roommate five minutes ago? What are you doing? Is this some sort of
reproductive panic brought on by your realization of your gender’s imminent
demise? Yes, it must be! Carrie Hill Wilner
|The Michael Savage Poetry Hour
The new TWR is not about laughing at the misfortune of others. There are
plenty of things we could have said about Michael Savage (that’s “Michael Weiner” to
his mom, on his tax forms, and in all of our hearts), the conservative shock jock who was fired from
MSNBC for his bigoted and incoherent taunts. (Specifically, the bigoted and
incoherent taunt: “Oh, you’re one of the sodomites. You should only get AIDS and
die, you pig. How’s that? Why don’t you see if you can sue me, you pig. You
got nothing better than to put me down, you piece of garbage. You have got
nothing to do today, go eat a sausage and choke on it.”)
that Savage is now, as he puts it “dead in the water on television,” which is much worse than being dead in the water or dead on television alone, there’s no need to add insult to injury. That’s why we’re acknowledging Michael’s watery,
televised demise with a little tribute, reprinting his sensual letters to
renowned poet and sodomite Allen Ginsberg from the 1970s. It’s what Michael
would want, we’re sure. We also think he’d want us to convert them in to
haiku form. So we did. This is for real. Carrie Hill Wilner
School Courtyard where
little-known black brother looks
at me, takes my hand
the back of my hand I do
the same for his hand
I told him about
our brief talk and he says: I
must have felt the vibes
|No, But the Tabloids Also Like to Prey on the Useless, You See
“It’s not like I’m dancing on tables or getting kicked out of clubs or chugging down shots.”
Tara Reid complaining about her treatment by celebrity newsweeklies
|Stonehenge, Where a Man Is a Man. Or Perhaps a Six-Foot Walking Penis
Stonehenge, the massive rock circle on Salisbury Plain, has captivated mankind with its mystery for thousands of years. It has inspired many veins of thought which, until now, culminated in Spinal Tap’s song “Stonehenge.” (This was certainly
the best moment in This is Spinal Tap and maybe the best moment in any movie ever,
the only possible challenges coming from Blazing Saddles and anything with
Adrian Brody in it or anything Adrian Brody ever does or even just his name
as it flits by in the credits.)
Anyway, Nigel Tufnel once told us, “Long ago, there lived an
ancient race called the Druids. Nobody knew who they were. Or what they
were doing.” His once-perfect wisdom has been compromised. Now, we know exactly
what they were doing. They were building a giant vag. This is according to
Canadian researchers, who announced this week that they have determined the intent behind
of the ancient monument. It is, of course, unclear how seriously we can
take this postulation in light of Canada’s recent decriminalization of MJ.
And, really, science and archeology can only take us so far. Ultimately, in
our hearts, Stonehenge will always be where the demons dwell, where the
banshees live and they do live well! Carrie Hill Wilner
|About Weekend Review
Weekend Review is Nerve’s summary of the past seven days’ sociopoliticultural news about sex, dating and relationships. Have we missed anything? Email email@example.com. We haven’t seen Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle yet. Please don’t tell us what happens! No fair, you guys!!