SKIJORING
Pronounced “skee-YOR-ing,” or by a select few “She-Whoring.”  You should know we do this all the time in Minnesota, in fact on weekends the city streets are packed with horses wildly cantering while avid skijorers fly off the roofs of parked cars  and bus stops.  It’s a sport for anyone with a pair of skis and a horse, or a couple of dogs, or maybe in a pinch several cats. You might be able to pull this off with a well-organized train of highly motivated guinea pigs, and if you are please let us know and we’ll post your picture.

KITE-SKIING
Pronounced just as it sounds, this ultra-current sport replaces draft animals with a very large kite, the kind you might use to pop over waves in Australia, or perhaps drown under in Cancun. It’s not an easy sport, requiring a lot of skill and strangth, so think twice before casually “dabbling” in this or any sport that can cause your arms to rip out of their sockets.

WINTER CYCLING
If you enjoy looking like an ass, just put on all the clothes you own, wedge some very expensive studded knobby tires on your bicycle and get out there in traffic. Here in Minnesota we all know folks who resolutely endanger themselves and others on our increasingly slippery and narrow snow-bound streets, adamantly refusing to drive or even take the bus in any weather, opting to pretend they’re having fun as gallons of salty slush assault their backsides and their faces, all the while chanting their desperate mantra “this is good for the environment.” But they are not having fun, they are some of the planet’s most wretched creatures.  For me the comforting thought is that these are the same people who in the summer wear bright, heavily branded tights so thin and taut, every wrinkly detail of their genitalia is not only on display, but enhanced.

TRAYING
A close cousin of tubing, traying has been practiced on college campuses in northern climes for decades. The equipment is simple: a snowy hill and a cafeteria tray, and since the trayer is already essentially sliding downhill ass-first, there’s little risk of injury. And there’s that special pride in knowing that the next day, the tray which now holds your classmate’s pancakes just hours before held your own butt cheeks.

SKITCHING
If you’re stupid, you’re probably familiar with the nefarious act of skitching, which involves grabbing on to the back of a car on a snowy, icy street and skidding along on your feet as the car careens on, barely in control and without knowing that you’re back there. We cannot endorse this, primarily because it’s exceedingly dangerous, but also because it’s the kind of winter thing fans of Steve-O might engage in. It’s a good bet that anyone who routinely skitches also owns a Jagermeister six-bottle shot cooler and is fond of saying “whoo” as loudly as he can, indoors. So if you must skitch, we suggest you grab the back fender of the nearest winter cyclist and go for a ride. Remember to yell “whoo.”

ICE FISHING
Speaking of drinking, there’s perhaps no sport that for most people defines the Upper Midwest better than ice fishing. We need to broaden the definition of the word “sport” to include “sitting on your ass all day and leafing through the SI Swimsuit Edition,” but in fact it’s one of the few winter activities that can provide food.

SHOOTING AT THINGS
I’ve never quite understood the Winter Biathlon Olympic event, which combines cross-country skiing and shooting, and appears to wring the fun out of both. Minnesotans prefer to venture out into the deep woods in a Carhartt coverall and blast God’s creatures to pieces. There’s a season for every conceivable wild animal here short of rats, so grab your shotgun and leave your girly little skis at home.
There.  Now take ‘n’ get out there while the gettin’s good, you D.C. dwellers, you shivering Mid-Atlanticans. It won’t be long until the summer humidity causes your shirt to adhere to your back, and you’ll be looking back to this time saying “why didn’t I go skijoring when I had the chance?”

It’s mercurial, this internets of ours, unpredictable and volatile.  The tubes get clogged, people wail and weep, but the sun rises and sets and the local bakery still has crullers on special.  Here at Rifftrax we’ve had the hard crashes that come from being swamped with attention.  It’s not fun, but it’s oddly comforting  to know that we’re not the only ones.

So here’s a suggestion: Today, use the time you’d normally waste on Twitter here.  Maybe download and enjoy one of our shorts.  Or order tickets to our August 20th nationwide live show in theaters everywhere.  Drop in on the forum and discuss movies, social networking, breakfast meats, whatever strikes your fancy.  Then maybe take a walk.  it’s a nice day here; if you have rain, bring an umbrella, or get a little wet.  You could even head down to the local bakery and get yourself a cruller.

Why hell, you could have a nice conversation!  For instance: This is what we in the Midwest call a cruller, particularly in Wisconsin:

Whereas many of you in other parts of the country call this a cruller:

We call that a French donut, which makes it no less delicious.  There, see?  we’re having a conversation, learning about each other without any social networking. In fact, why don’t you folks give us and each other some ideas on what to do when your favorite social networking service is offline.  And enjoy a potentially Twit-free day.

-kwm

Now here’s Kevin (right, with Bill Corbett) sporting his dreary old look.  His dogged refusal to surrender his facial hair is problematic, but we’ve come up with an elegant, sophisticated solution - the face mitten.

The beard is no longer a problem.  The loosely vested top accentuates Kevin’s broad shoulders and draws attention from his kidney fat and pit ham.  Sure it’s a bold statement, but is it bold enough?

We asked our readers to contribute their vision, and boy, was that ever the right idea! Daisyj worked the face mitten with something more leggy:

Wook, among other more adventurous combinations,  urges Kevin to adopt a more youthful line in his couture:

But it took BEMaven to put the whole thing together, and it hits you like a bolt out of the blue: OF COURSE!  THE BRIAN BLESSED LOOK!!!

Here the beard is in balance with the wings, there’s a helmet (Kevin loves helmets) and he gets to show a little leg.  Okay a lot of leg.  All right, way too much leg.  But on an ursine fellow like Kevin, I believe we have assembled a comfortable, versatile look that’s absolutely perfect for Comic-Con.

Thank you all!  Hope none of this haunts your dreams!  It’ll certainly haunt mine!  On to the Con!

(*Looks may not be entirely new.)

Here’s a sample of what occured behind the scenes.  I believe Paul might have suffered a hernia.

Sparkly vampires!  Sexy Stooges! Mambo-ing zombies!  Bowie-ing Nelson!  They’re all here, and more!

Ever since Rifftrax started, people have asked, “When are you guys going to do more music? What’s the matter with you?  Why are Kevin’s pants so femmy?”    Well in answer to the first question, we’re officially tickled to introduce our first collection, Music for Riffing.  All ten of these songs are inspired by movies we’ve riffed, movies you love, or hate or simply laugh along with us.  From the sublime (Jaws) to the ridiculous (Reefer Madness) to the downright silly (Twilight), these movies all hold a special something that compelled us to sing, or groan, or croak somewhere near the appropriate key.

We hope you enjoy, and we hope this is the first batch of many more songs to come.  Keep checking back to the music page, we’ll be adding more soon. And in honor of our riff of Twilight, here’s a sample of Bill’s delightfully gutless confection, “Sparkly Vampires.”

Believe me folks, this isn’t William Shakespeare.  I don’t know who it is, but it’s not him.  Me, I believe it to be a cleverly rendered portrait of System of a Down Guy.

See what I mean?  This kind of thing happens all the time.  Another example, this famous image, once the property of the Duke of Chandros.

Posh.  it’s Paul Giamatti. Plain as Hell.   Anyone can see that.  No friends, I shall cling to the ONLY ACCURATE PORTRAIT of the English Language’s greatest artist:

That is the short and the long of it.   I’ll not budge an inch.

Actually, I’m being told that they were here to interview Mike about bacon.

Still, pretty awesome stuff.

*I didn’t want to spend too much time looking for them and could only remember the NY Times one

**MIKE OBSERVES**

RiffTrax and our local NBC affiliate apologize if the video still for this piece frightened your children or caused you to spit up a mouthful coffee all over the screen of your new laptop. I’m usually not that hideous. (Usually meaning, well, fifty-one percent of the time.)

And to answer your question, of course I’m delighted it’s turned out this way: that I’ve worked in the entertainment industry for going on 20 years, have striven to do the finest work, with the finest, most talented people (who I also happen to genuinely like) to the best of my ability, have been blessed to have received good notices and some official recognition in the form of the prestigious Peabody Award, Emmy Award nominations, some notice of my books, including my novel, for which I am very pleased. I have done much work on pilots and projects that have never seen the light of day, unfortunately, but that have brought me in contact with people whom I respect, people at the highest level in their respective fields, and have no doubt I will work with again.

Now, however, I am “that Bacon Guy.”

The jury’s still out on which is better.

*****

BILL adds:

This is not related in any specific way to Mike’s month of smoked pigflesh, but… I saw this cry of pain on Twitter today, from some prominent web geek trendsetter type young man:

“Enough! I f**king get it! You like bacon!”

about 14 hours ago from web

Having just returned from a retreat to Mexico, I’m delighted to see that Michael J. has kept his word and embarked on a solid month of bacon stupidity.  All week I broke my fast con tocino, and this morning in his honor I cooked up a batch of Nueske’s, which contrary to some east-coast prudes who probably eat their bacon with a knife and fork, is one of the best.

And Micheal, to help  you along your way I’m sending you a slab of Nueske’s and a copy of Mark Gormley’s latest, “Audo CD.”  Mark’s is truly the bacon of music.

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.

Congratulations and thank you to all who sent in their Amounts of Something in response to the title of the new Bond Film.  Your responses gave me a demijohn of elation.

For me, the one that put it over the top was Barleycorn of Tedium.  Says it all.  And I learned that Barleycorn was at one time not only a grain of the mentioned grain, but also a unit of measure.  What’s more,  it sounds so English, don’ it, and it has two “O’s” which was not required but graphically fortuitous.   So congratulations to Bob, well done! Now you’re your own uncle.

However there were so many damn good entries, I have to also give props to my other favorites, in no particular order:

• A Monad of Weltschmerz
• A Pouch Full of Penis Envy
• A Schtickel of Schadenfruede
• A Nanoacre of Kleptomania
• A Tall Coffee of Regret
• A Bushel of Sepulchritude
• And a close runner up, An Orthodoron of Triskaidekaphobia.  WILDbore, Had you said “A Baker’s Dozen…”, you’d have killed.

And Bob, please claim the free Rifftax of your choice by emailing our friend Erik, the Happy Warrior of Great Online Service. email address is ERIK AT RIFFTRAX DOT COM.  Tell him “Kevin says I won a Rifftrax.”

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.

NOSE – Initially sweet and malty, mild citrus hop notes, fading quickly to reveal a strong base note of Jean-Claude Van Damme.  Hints of buttered toast, Kodiak snuff and air burps after a meal at Arby’s.

BODY – Paunchy, with skinny legs and more than a little hair.  Mouthfeel reminescent of French-kissing a Teamster.

TASTE – Smooth, subtle, nuanced – wait, that’s my tongue.  The beer isn’t giving me anything.  Okay, there’s some malt, and something resembling hops, although not exactly hops;  more like a photocopy of a picture of some hops.  However, a dominant flavor is taking hold now, familiar, seductive.  It’s the flavor of marketing.  Aftertaste leaves me bitter, clinging to religion and guns.

CONCLUSION:  This is a beer for those who would prefer to drink regular Budweiser but who have girlfriends.  If you’re a Sam Adams Drinker, save your money and pour this into old Sam bottles.  Keep in mind that Anheuser-Busch is now owned by a bunch of Belgians who have flooded the world market with their inexplicably popular version of carbonated urine, Stella Artois.  Ultimately, those seeking gusto will be more satisfied with Schlitz.

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.

(The apparent anomaly occurring around Walk Hard is commonly explained by the Meadows Effect hypothesis, which argues that any movie featuring Tim Meadows will see a significant across-the-board downturn in quality and performance.)

However, recent developments in Rogenomic theory are predicting a gradual realignment and possible convergence of LRI’s which will have a powerful impact on the future of filmed entertainment. Take a look at this corollary to the Hornet Theorem:

Not to suggest that Seth Rogen will reverse in age or height; keep in mind that this progression moves in both directions. This is accepted to indicate that if conditions persist, one of several outcomes are possible: Seth Rogen will become Jonah Hill; Jonah Hill will become Seth Rogen; or the two will merge in a sort of Superseth Convergence, the outcome of which is wildly unstable and possibly dangerous. However, the supposition that existing conditions will persist is called into question by the following probability:

This of course follows the Sizemorean Curve and applies the Nolte Rule, both of which create unknowns in typical outcomes and increase the standard deviation.  Yet in fact, real-world proof, both of progression and probability, has been observed in the field:

This trend, while neither inevitable nor irreversable, tends to support the general principle that schlubs will always move toward a state of inertia. Next time we will discuss the declining influence of Sandlerian Rogenomics and the surprising accuracy of the Rule of Sequels.

Mr. Goldman needs a primer in Rogenomics.

Simply stated, Rogenomics serves to express the apparent vicissitudes of Hollywood as a function of the interaction of certain foundational elements including and in relation to, but not limited to, Seth Rogen. These elements, interacting with – and sometimes against – each other, are subtle yet universal forces, which taken as a whole embody a system for explaining succinctly why a film as seemingly worthless as, say, Superbad is actually the monolithic model of the future. Let’s explain it in simple Rogenomic terms. First principles:

Essentially, that Seth Rogen is Money; as a medium of exchange and a storehouse of value, the two are interchangeable. This is the most fundamental statement of pure Rogenomics. But before we scrap the Federal Reserve and convert to a Rogen Standard, you should know that many consider Pure Rogenomics to be dangerously oversimplified; to that end I’m a student of the Aptovian School, based on this constant:

In which x equals anything Judd Apatow touches, not limited to the inclusion of, nor diminished by the absence of, Seth Rogen. Perhaps it’s an oversimplification, but the Apatovian School (and its Sandlerian and Ferrellian counterparts) would dispute the truth of “Rogen equals Money,” without Apatow, especially over time, expressed thusly:

Within the Aptovian Rogenomic discipline, then, we can confidently use these elements to predict the future. Take for example the upcoming movie The Green Hornet, in which Seth Rogen is playing the shadowy limo-riding superhero. For this role, Rogen has slimmed down, muscled up and attempted to shed his elemental schlubness – patently self-contradictory, and about as likely as water shedding its “hydrogen-ness.” Here’s what happens when we formulate these components as a statement of Rogenomics:

Absent schlubness and Apatovity, Seth will always become Robert Wuhl; therefore the movie is doomed to failure. However, put Seth back on the lard-and-donut diet, and hire on Judd Apatow, and it projects like this:

Perhaps the Green Hornet is a belching, hapless cowardly pervert, without a single virtue, yet who is allowed to French-kiss the likes of Jessica Alba. Perhaps he’s a late-stage wino who staggers around town in his underpants. He could be a skin-popping mass murderer who dresses in Nazi drag and sings Charles Manson’s folk songs – the point is that it doesn’t matter. This solution will produce consistently positive results every time; the rest is just window dressing.

Next time we’ll discuss the exciting new developments in Rogenomics, particularly the introduction of Jonah Hill as a null integer, a Rogenomic cypher if you will, able to occupy a place in any equation without affecting the outcome. In the meantime, a quick look at the simple non-Apatovian exception that earned Rogenomics the attention of the Nobel Committee:

Yo…all. This one goes out to all my players out there, who sleep too heavily to hear their girlfriends banging around the loft, packing all their belongings and vacating the premises; and who then drown their sorrows by listening to Bobby Vinton at chipmunk speed. You know who I’m talking about.

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.

LENINGRAD COWBOYS: Gimme All Your Lovin’ (With the Red Army Chorus)

Something this sublime needs no comment. I first encountered the Cowboys in Finland, where they’re nothing short of national heroes. Find the Leningrad Cowboys online, hunt down the Aki Kaurismaki film Leningrad Cowboys Go America, or rent the concert video from your favorite online video rental outlet.

And yes, that is a whistling solo at about two minutes in.

RAY J (Featuring Yung Berg) SEXY CAN I

• MTV
• Music Videos
• MTV Shows
• Entertainment News

In which the timeless question is asked: “Sexy, Can I?” to which the timeless answer is “No, Creepy, you can’t, and if you try, I’m pulling out my pepper spray.” In the video a young man with a very nice baseball cap and his friend wax rhapsodic over the way that a woman moves her body, and ask, politely, if they can do all manner of filthy things to her. “Sexy Can I” has almost everything a bad song needs – cars, jewelry, women with preternaturally large butt cheeks and plenty of bling. The only thing keeping this from being a Kid Rock song is the presence of melody and the absence of a dwarf.

If you have a nominee for Bad Song of the Week, let us have it! Submit it in the comments area here. We only ask that your song be commercially available and not jammed with obscenities.