…Okay. Well, that pretty much wraps up our visit with Devendra.  We’ll check in again in a year or so.

Folks, I need your advice.  it concerns this phone.  It just showed up in the mail one day, no box, no wrapper of any kind, but with a note taped to it that said “You’ll know what to do.”  What in God’s name is it for?  What’s it connected to?  That naked front panel is so desolate, every time I look at it I want to hurl myself out a window.  And how do you place a call with it?  Every time I pick it up, I hear this:

And it’s not even connected to anything! I don’t know what to do!  I’d really rather not get rid of it though, because the call quality is crystal clear. Also every time I throw it away it reappears on my desk the next morning.   So please, submit your technical advice to me, care of here.  The best tech support solution will receive a free Rifftrax.

…Hopes you have a good weekend.  He also wants you to know that he loves you all.  He loves you very, very much.  I mean, wow, he loves you so much, it’s almost indecent.  Strike that, it is indecent.  But if loving you is wrong, Skeletor doesn’t wanna be right.

Ah. you laugh.  See, if you’d only love Skeletor back, just a little, he’d stay in Snake Mountain and leave Eternia at peace.  But no, you mock Skeletor, and now he must lash out, using all his powers to destroy you.  Even the Terror Claws – don’t make him use the Terror Claws!

Anyway, Have a good weekend.  And all hail Skeletor.

Was your suggestion TAKING PHOTOS OF DEAD POETS AND ANIMATING THEM TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE THEY ARE READING THEIR POEMS FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE?!?!

Example:  Here is poet Robert Frost reading his oft quoted-in-high-school-yearbooks poem “The Road Not Taken’

Line the kids up!  Youtube user poetryanimations has over 200 videos just like that!

Via kottke

No, we must be brave my friends, and rise above our own petty dislikes and seek the truly bad. Fortunately, 2008 has blessed us with a panoply of bad music in every popular genre. The bench was deep, what with your dependable Dolls of Pussycat and your John Mayer out there.  We’re all grateful to Kid Rock for the things he tried and smoked, and of course the songs he stole.  And a glib band of human-voiced rat puppies turned a shrill kid’s ear-worm into the shrill ear-worm of an entire nation.

This year’s true badness belonged to the breakout acts.  Take for  example Vampire Weekend, with a blend of African rhythms performed so dorkishly that it could only emanate from a band of white boys from Columbia University.  And although Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa was officially released in 2007, disqualifying it from this year’s crown bid, its whiteness leaked through campuses and clubs all over this great country of ours, as pea-coated Lit majors bounced and twitched to the rhythm like ergot poisoning victims long into the new year. I encourage you to savor the charm and inexplicable success.

But rhythm wins – it burrows into ones head and replaces the brain with thoughts of tight skirts with Uggs, Soco-and-lime-laced vomit and where the after-party is.   There is a new Queen of Badness, and her name is Lady GaGa.

BAD SONG OF THE YEAR: Lady Gaga, Poker Face

Lady Gaga – Poker Face ( with Chace Crawford )

Striking, isn’t she?  And by that I mean to say that she could beat me to death without putting down her Hennessy and pomegranate.  Here we have the swagger of Trace Adkins, the fashion sense of Cher, the robotic lockstep twitch-dancing of a Madonna or a Britney, the P-funk costuming and art direction, the nasally minor-third drone that passes for vocals, the rhythm that reminds you that Hell is eternal, all wrapped up in one sublime video.

I kept thinking that I was watching Dee Snider in a Japanese girl’s club wig. Then the lyrics washed over me:  “Russian roulette is not the same without a gun.” “I’m bluffin’ with my muffin / I’m not lying I’m just stunnin’ with my love-glue-gunning.”  It’s all here, folks; like Lex Luger before her, Lady GaGa is The Total Package.

I’m preparing this weekend to see the latest Bond film, Quantum of Solace, at my local googleplex.*  And I’m a little concerned that I may not take away from it any measurable quantity of comfort which would aid me in a time of duress.  However, I’m certain that there are other Quantities of other Entities that I might bring home from the experience:

• A Modicum of Heartburn
•  A Shipping Container of Mirth
• A Portion of Befuddlement
• A Mote of Chagrin

Of course I need your help, and invite you to submit your own Measurable Amounts of Physical, Mental and/or Emotive States.  The most interesting Amount of Something will receive a free Rifftrax.

*I didn’t go during opening week because I never go to anything during opening week; I am not a performing monkey.

BEVERLY HILLS CHIHUAHUA:  No Paws (out of four)

Okay, let’s get this straight:  Chihuahuas are not dogs.  They’re long-legged mutant rats developed by Nazi scientists in the 1930s and smuggled into Mexico with the hopes of spreading Bubonic Plague across the North American continent.  This opinion has been widely held by most breeds and cross-breeds of dogs for decades.  So for us to tart up these plague-ridden voles in diamond collars and set them dancing is like having a chorus line of Khmer Rouge perform selections from “Gypsy” on rice paddies.

Just watch these little bastards as the movie unfolds.  They love being treated like royalty.  They make jokes about humping, scratching and excretion as if those were bad things.  And as if that’s not sinister enough, they amass in ordered groups to perform lock-step close-order drills that pass as “dance numbers.”  I felt my flesh crawl.

Oh and by the way, Chihuahuas don’t sound anything like Paul Rodriguez, Cheech Marin or any of the other fine Latino actors and comics who were duped into participating in this sham.  Chihuahuas sound like Hitler.  Every last one of them.  If I could work an MP3 player I’d show you.  Slow down their shrill incessant yips and you’ll hear the frothing demands for a new order.  But no, go on, keep spending your hard-earned money,  laughing at the little parade of rodent stormtroopers, spreading their message of hate and world dominance.  Don’t listen to me; what do I know? I’m just a friggin’ dog.

Now you can see why this is difficult. For those of you unfamiliar with Devendra, and who perhaps out of sheer perverseness want to know more, suffice it to say that he has taken the Hippy mantle onto himself, having been born fully bearded and with a voice like an infant being burped. His song styling may remind one of a somewhat more talented Vincent Gallo, and he has a penchant for performing in his underpants, which is just fine if you’re Flea, but not if you’re infested with them.

Generally Devendra excretes his own compositions, but to get to the heart of true badness, we need look no further than his live rendition of George Gershwin’s best-known composition.

DEVENDRA BANHART: Summertime

I could only make it through three minutes of this before I was taken with the overwhelming urge to push everybody involved down and set fire to the stage. it was the guy in the cape, satin underpants and Buster Browns that got to me. See how far you can make it and report back.

As always, we encourage you to submit your nominations for our Bad Song of the Week, so long as it’s commercially available, not filthy, and not yours. Unless you happen to be Adam Duritz.

THIS WEEK: Trace Adkins – Honky Tonk Badonkadonk

Trace Adkins: Celebrity Apprentice finalist and legendary barroom fighter. A large, thick, angry looking man, who comes complete with knife and bullet wounds, and who could reduce me to a bloody pile of tissue with a swing of his hat. Trace’s 2005 chart-topper congeals country and hip-hop into a line-danceable tribute to the buttocks of women who are neither his wife nor girlfriend. It seems that between getting shot at and slapping his grandma, Mr, Adkins just can’t resist buttock. Indeed his career, his aspirations, his philosophic entire are based solely on the getting of badonkadonk. And like the best of bad songs, it refuses to leave the airwaves.

Back in the days before television devolved into the Love Cruise-taking, maggot-eating, Tanner-householding mess than it is now, families used to gather around the tube to watch wholesome entertainment such as James Earl Jones reciting the alphabet. Yes it’s true: James Earl Jones once was a young man. This clip comes from his three hour long 1967 special “James Earl Jones Recites Things” for which he pocketed a then unheard of sum of ten million dollars. I do have to say, they don’t call him James “One Take” Earl Jones for nothing. He nails it!

…Wanted to let you know he’s been having a great day, and his fully merged form only makes him more powerful.

You toss the bolos at the ladder, and each rung is assigned a different point. A major strategy thus becomes knocking off your opponents bolos with your own, which occasionally results in a twisting together of the bolos, that anyone in the know can’t help but compare to a Rat King.

A Rat King is when a bunch of rats get their tails twisted together and start to exist as a single unit.  I was informed about Rat King’s in an episode of “30 Rock” but nobody else I’ve asked seems to have heard about them. Evidently, despite the amazing photographic evidence above, they are not confirmed to be a real thing, but rather part of the fascinating world of cryptozoology, which also encapsulates the Yeti, Jackalope, Chupacabra and Axl Rose. My favorite sentence of the wikipedia article about them is: “Historically, rat kings were seen as an extremely bad omen,” as if seeing one of these writhing masses on your way to work in the morning was bad because of what it might be predicting, instead of just the completely natural feeling of utter revulsion it causes.

I also wonder if anyone back in that time willfully tried to embrace them as a good omen, like kids who pick number 13 for their sports teams on purpose. “Hey Bob, there was a Rat King on my porch today when I got the paper. I knew it was gonna be a good day when I got out of bed today! Even bought a lottery ticket!”

Anyways, Ladder Golf is really fun, and I’d recommend it to anyone as a entertaining game for the approaching summer. Just thought I’d share.

This is Dame Edith Sitwell, Woman of Letters, esteemed poet, critic, novelist, droll defender of literary modernism. She died in 1964 at the age of 77….Or did she?

This is “Trent Reznor,” as she now calls herself. There’s no mistaking it: Dame Edith is alive, beyond all explanation, and pummeling us with angry, self-pitying dirges like “My Violent Heart.”

See? Right down to the three-day mustache. Come on folks, stay on your toes! Do we really want anachronistic poetesses serving up our apocalyptic industrial metal? I for one think not.

**UPDATE BY BILL: Excuse me for intruding, Kevin. But this whole thing goes much deeper than you think. Observe:

Update by Mike (with thanks to reader Yanni)

“I was wondering… if you had read my book ‘I Lived under a Black Sun’? I MEAN, if you’d seen my eccentric stand-up act. Yeah, that’s it.”

Unbelievably Important Update by Mike

Match Game contestant and TV character actress Gina Hecht is in on it! I repeat, MATCH GAME CONTESTANT AND TV CHARACTER ACTRESS GINA HECHT IS IN ON IT!!

DATE: January 3, 2008
TO: All Rifftrax Employees
FROM: Master Riffer Michael J. “Mike” Nelson
RE: Simple Human Gratitude

I hope you’re all enjoying the waterless electric composting toilets that I bought for you as Christmas gifts and took pains to have express-delivered before the holiday. I wouldn’t know, as I haven’t heard back from any of you, and you all seem to be “really busy on Rifftrax.” Not a single one of you has installed your new composting toilet in your office or cubicle.

It was a very expensive gift, you know, not that I care about such things (they cost $1749.00 not including shipping). The good folks at Composting Toilet World helped me pick out just the right model to fit home or office (I’m enclosing a picture of the lovely model I’ve installed in my kitchen) and it will make work time more efficient, without all those trips to the bathroom every five minutes like I know some of you take.

It’s really about gratitude, isn’t it? Someone gives you something, shows you they care; the least you can do is say thanks, or show it off to friends or family, use it every now and then when I’m around. It’s just a gesture. I don’t expect flowers or five-pound bags of Sumatran coffee or a new Leatherman Tool (I’d prefer the “Wave” model in black oxide). Just pop in and say “Hey, Mike, that composting toilet is working out great, thanks!”

To that end I’m nailing the bathroom doors closed and I expect you all to have your composting toilets installed in your office or cubicle by start of business on Monday January 7. In advance, you’re welcome.

Help us. Please help us.

First, take a look at this. It’s the most recent version of the Fifty Dollar bill…

Now take a look at the most recent version of Ed Asner, and…

Who made this decision? Why weren’t we informed? How much did Asner make off this – certainly more than a measley fifty! How the hell do these things happen? Come on people, help me out here! I can’t watch everything twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five! I’m only one man here! Let’s keep on top of these things, okay?

WARNING: What I found may shock and outrage you as it did me.

Just because a holiday is coming is no reason to humiliate an entire species for no other purpose than so Aunt Midge can pull out her Instamatic and say say, “Ohh, fer cute, hold him while I take her pitcher.” Sure, part of the problem is that Aunt Midge has a forty-year-old Instamatic that uses Flashcubes and has a broken cover held on by an Elmo Band-Aid so it takes her roughly eleven hours to snap one picture, but we’re missing the bigger problem here.

The problem is the dogs. The noble domestic canine, canis lupis familiaris, loyal acolyte, protector, laborer, forced to wear some polymorphic nightmare while we laugh at them. Cases in point:

Think this is cute? does it make you laugh? Does it “jingle your bells?” I think it’s tragic.

This is good for your faithful friend’s self concept. Let him out in the neighborhood and even the rabbits will laugh at him. Then he’ll get beat up by a poodle, dragged into the gutter by a kitten, thrown in the pound and gang-banged by a family of Dachshunds. Merry Christmas, King Timahoe.

Hi! I’m a meticulously bred champion terrier. Well known for my courage, graceful line and gentle demeanor, while not without a keen hunting skill passed down to me through centuries. This Christmas, my family decided to show me their love by strapping a stuffed toy to my back, and now I look like that sad bastard in the taco ads. Thank you.

Good dog. I love you. Now sit there like a dumb asshole with a foam tree tied to your head while Aunt Midge takes your picture. Stay now, Aunt Midge can’t find any Flashcubes. I don’t care if it’s uncomfortable. I don’t care if you have to spritz! SIT, DAMMIT!

Okay, here we go. Let’s extend our passive loathing of dogs directly to our faith system. I’ll assume that they both went to Kanine Shul, And I think I heard the short one lecture on the Mekhilta Midrash at Congregation Beth Fido. I’m sure any family of faith will want to address their dog as “Reb Bowser.”

Hey, wait, this has nothing to do with any holiday, it’s simply gratuitous! Just stop it.

AWow. This is wrong on so many levels, I don’t know where to begin. I’m serious, stop it now!

Aaugh! Dear God in heaven, no, no! Augh! Aaugh! Aaaaugh!

I’ve said my peace. But if I see any of you on the street, all festive and jolly, with a dog dressed in anything but a modest, practical sweater or snow booties, I promise I’ll bite you.