Author / DrMabuse

by DrMabuse

Roeper Slash Ebert Fiction

Ebert spread banana oil over Jonathan Rosenbaum. Rosenbaum was spread-eagled across the popcorn booth, his bulging cucumber growing beneath the overturned extra large popcorn bucket carefully placed there by the management. Rosenbaum felt Ebert’s gentle fingers caress him, bristling across his piebald chest hair. He knew that those fingers had typed all those glowing reviews for Woody Allen. They had even given Celebrity two and a half stars. Would Ebert show him the same generosity?

rogerebert.jpgRosenbaum hesitated as Ebert’s loving touch eased in, putting him at ease. Yes, he knew indeed how those hands had won a Pulitzer. Gene Siskel must have been a lucky guy. Rosenbaum had to confess.

“I always liked your pudgy bottom,” whispered Rosenbaum as Ebert tightened the blindfold. “Do me.”

Ebert smiled. He suddenly had an idea for his Video Pick of the Week. But this time, it was a Video Pick for one.

“You’re just saying that because of the recent stroke,” Ebert replied. “The good news is that you’ll be my love slave for the weekend.”

Rosenbaum’s eyes widened.

“Don’t worry. We’ll sit through Dekalog together. It will be like a nice little picnic. The wife, you see, is out of town.”

Ebert puncutated this last sentence by taking off his glasses and licking the banana oil, applying his tongue in a soft loving curlicue around Rosenbaum’s left nipple. Rosenbaum liked it when Ebert did that. J. Hoberman wasn’t nearly as good.

Suddenly, Ebert’s head bolted up from Rosenbaum’s torso.

“Richard!” he screamed down the art deco lobby.

Ebert clapped his hands. Merely a second later, Roeper, the weasly little hunchback, scampered across the theatre lobby. He dragged the corpse of Vincent Canby, now well-used. Roeper, the beady-eyed necrophile, had jismed into Canby’s nostrils twelve times that morning. When Ebert saw Roeper’s gaping maw, he tried to stare away.

Still, Roeper was a trusty servant. And you had to give Roeper props when, during the legendary ten-day orgy, he had pleasured Janet Maslin while simultaneously boffing David Denby in the ass.

Oh, there’d be some hot action this weekend all right. First, a little bit of intimacy with Rosenbaum, followed by a delightful threesome with Elvis Mitchell and Rex Reed, Ebert’s longtime nemesis. Fortunately, Ebert knew that love would bring everyone together.

(inspired by Cinetrix)

by DrMabuse

Pollack’s No Working Class Hero

Neal Pollack: “That would quickly find me at the wrong end of a fist or a beer bottle.”

“Pal, I’d rather have a cup of coffee with my next-door neighbor every day for the rest of my life than share one ‘hazelnut latte’ with you. He thinks I’m going to hell but helped me fix my lawnmower last weekend anyway. ”

Blah blah blah.

Lately, Neal Pollack seems to be operating under some illusion that he’s the blue-collar voice of reason (complete with Star Trek references!). I hope the new schtick wears off. Of course, I have no worries. I’m sure his post-Nov. 2 ravings are just a temporary affliction that came with the six figure check he got from Bill Gerber, which should last him very handily during the next four years while the tax code gets uprooted.

Next thing you know, Pollack’s going to be making documentaries and telling us that he’s a factory worker from Flint, Michigan.

But no matter. Maybe he should just follow his own advice and shut the fuck up.

See? Satirical genius! I’m recused from responsibility! In your faces and pocketbooks, foolish readers! Such courageous writing! Why, Terry Southern would give me a rim job!

Where’s the realism and the attention to details? What’s needed among the blogs in this turbulent time is a batallion, a brigade, of Zolas marching from here to Montgomery uniting the two Americas: the Real America and the Pretend America, if you catch my drift. Neal Pollack is a bag of bones. His work is no longer relevant. He is the one stooge in a sea of self-indulgent bloggers trying to comment upon the current situation. And he is a friend of Dave Eggers! It doesn’t get much lower than that.

The time has come for bloggers to concentrate on the tiny important details of the world around us rather than be funny. That involves going to colleges and watching the world around us helplessly while the sorority girls ignore our erections.

I hereby renounce the use of satire. Life is too austere and heartbreaking. The white suit is in the closet. Blame the liberal elite. They haven’t got a clue. I haul my colostomy bag in their general direction.

by DrMabuse

Volunteers Needed

I’m currently researching the next play.

If you are in a polyamorous relationship (meaning: more than two people), I’d be interested in talking to you — ideally in person, but, if desired, email or phone works too. Sexual persuasion and gender do not matter. However, I hope to concentrate on relationships that have been going on for at least two or three years.

If you have an hour or two to spare and you’d be interested in a confidential chat, please feel free to drop me an email at ed AT edrants.com.

Thanks,

Ed

by DrMabuse

Round Robin

  • Okay, how about some cool things coming out of the U.S. government next year, such as some nifty stamps, including Marian Anderson in February (to counterbalance the odious Reagan one), Jim Henson and the Muppets in March, Robert Penn Warren in April, a Masterworks of Modern Architecture set in June, and a Greta Garbo stamp in September. The Garbo stamp is rumored to be the first talking postage concocted by the U.S. Postal Service. It will not be sold in sets and the stamp will remind you to mail it through repeated entreaties to “be alone.”
  • There’s a rollicking debate going on at Tingle Alley about migrating within the United States. Carrie suggested that instead of moving to Canada, bluestockings might better serve this nation by moving to a red state. Several lovely people have made some fabulous cases.
  • I was remiss in noting the Complete Review’s incredible coverage of Checkpoint. It seems more pertinent now, somehow.
  • James Patterson’s ex-girlfriend has sued him for breach of contract and copyright infringement. One only hopes that the legal battle prevents him from gluttoning the bookstores with more tripe. Perhaps Karen Valby might want to be called in as a character witness.
  • The bad reviews for I Am Charlotte Simmons keep on coming. David Kipen suggests that “Wolfe needs a cold shower in the worst way.” Meanwhile, Bob Minzesheimer demands a Wolfe embargo on “loins.”
  • And the Guardian First Book shortlist has been announced: Matthew Hollis’ Ground Water, David Bezmogis’ Natasha, Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, Rory Stewart’s The Places in Between, and Armand Marie Leroi’s intriguingly titled Mutants: On the Form, Varieties and Errors of the Human Body.