Andrew Sullivan says:

This president has now made the Republican party an emblem of exclusion and division and intolerance.

Now? Now he figures it out. In all fairness to Andy, he also posts this letter:

"Seriously, when they have to hit you with the speech equivalent of a two by four to get your attention as to how they feel about you, you might want to rethink your party affiliation."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the political spectrum, Adbusters has gone absolutely batshit insane by posting a list of "the 50 most influential neocons in the US," marking, with a little dot by the name, those "neocons" who are Jewish. I'll let you supply your own david-star-juden-verboten joke or outrage. For my part, I'd just like to note that this is eerily similar to that list of abortion doctors that the antiabortion dude posted on his website, with lines drawn through the murdered docs.

And, incidentally, Adbusters has no fucking clue what a "neocon" is. Gary Fucking Bauer? Ack! The title of the article is, "Why won't anyone say they are Jewish?" Adbusters having published such a list, I'd have to say the word "pogrom" springs to mind.

I saw The Triplets of Belleville tonight, and it's fantastic. A particularly nice blending of animation styles, I thought. I'm also terribly fond of any movie that tells its story without dialogue. I may have to go see this again.

If you have seen this film, I would like to draw your attention to a detail. The mother, at one point, shacks up with the eponymous triplets. The walls of their apartment are lined with various framed posters. One of these is an advertisement for a dinosaur called Gertie.

Gertie is one of the earliest pieces of animation, a film composed of roughly ten thousand individually drawn frames, done by Winsor McCay with the assistance of John A. Fitzsimmons. They began work in 1913 and debuted the short in February 1914. The film itself presents an amiable dinosaur named Gertie, a black and white line drawing of no small charm, who interacts with a basic prehistoric environment, snacking on trees, drinking from a lake, and even dancing on her hind legs.

Gertie's presentation as a film was far different from what we expect from a movie these days. McCay was a cartoonist who also performed in what were known as chalk talks. In these performance pieces, an artist would sketch out cartoons on a tableau in front of an audience, following their suggestions. McCay created Gertie as a sort of super chalk talk. As the filmed animation was presented, McCay would issue orders to Gertie. Having timed his presentation beforehand, Gertie would then appear to follow McCay's commands, creating the illusion of interaction between McCay and the cartoon dinosaur. At one point, McCay appeared to toss Gertie a pumpkin, which Gertie then ate. For the finale, McCay walked behind the screen as an animated representation of himself entered the frame and climbed up on Gertie's head.

Dinosaurs on film tend to be pretty scary (Babies, Secrets of Lost Legends excepted), but Gertie was thoroughly affable, cute, and quite whimsical. When Gertie takes a sip from a lake, she leaves a dry canyon behind. When she eats a tree, she doesn't pick at it but rather swallows the whole thing up in a comic trope that would be revisited in animation many times again. Plus, just look at that mug, with its broad grin and pupilless, ping pong ball eyes. What's not to love?

And now for the links.

This is the home page of the Gertie Restoration Project, which features (on that linked page) a 2 meg animated gif of Gertie dancing. This page also features a scene-by-scene breakdown of the film, along with a gallery of stills from all parts of the film.

Here is a short biography of Winsor McCay, referencing his other works. I'd like to check out his Little Nemo strip, sounds good.

VanEaton Galleries has some Gertie material, but also shows some stills from McCay's earlier animation work. He had done two animated films prior to Gertie, Little Nemo and The Story of a Mosquito.

This tripod page documents Gertie's fate shilling ice cream.

Finally, the Library of Congress has clips from Gertie's later film adventure, Gertie on Tour, which does not exist in its entirety. The film, from 1921, shows Gertie playing with a toad, a trolleycar, and attending a dinosaur rave. Although not the original Gertie, it's still fun to watch. The fluidity of the animation is gorgeous.

Asked to comment on the trade of Alex Rodriguez to the New York Yankees, Derek Jeter had this to say:

As a man who has devoted his whole life to the pursuit of balls, I must say that there's nothing wrong or immoral about wanting to be in a committed relationship with the person you love, no matter the gender. We only ask that those rights extended to straight couples be available to us as well. People worry about the impact on society, well, I don't see how bringing about justice for people in loving, committed relationships can do anything but good.

Superelectric attempted to solicit George Steinbrenner's opinion for this blog, but he was too busy making true the blood libel to comment.

For entries like this:

But why has Bush learned that lesson “in recent days?” Because the press corps avoided this story in 1999 and 2000, when it should have been doing the basic reporting. But at that time, the press was conducting its War Against Gore. It was inventing ludicrous tales about Gore—and taking a total pass on Bush. Troubling tales about Bush had to die. So the national press corps went AWOL.

The point we made yesterday is quite important. When one follows the current reporting on Bush and the Guard, it’s hard to believe that this is the second time Bush has run for the White House. Why is the reporting being done now? Because the press corps went in the tank for Bush during Campaign 2000. The press corps’ conduct during that campaign is one of America’s greatest scandals. When you see them reporting this story today, don’t forget how they sold you out then.

God bless the Howler.

One of the unfortunate side effects of my having a job now is that I have little energy and time. I sleep a lot. One of the nice perqs of the job, though, is that the hours and general mindlessness of the tasks allow me to listen to Stern in his entirety.

Today Courtney Love called in. I've never liked her. She seemed like Nirvana's Yoko. Today, though. She couldn't really hold a conversation. Unable to maintain a dialogue. Spoke off in random odd tangents, her thoughts continually circling around hazy notions of conspiracy. There's a certain explosive joy to be felt in hearing the thoughts of somebody who's mind is firing in lots of different directions. But then, in other circumstances, you get the shiver down your spine to hear somebody completely lost in their own delusional world, unable to be understood. It's frightening. So today I felt pity and sadness for her.

I have been trying to rebuild my JD Salinger collection. I went to the large used bookstore on Page the other day. Half the store is used books, the other half a massive porn collection. Got Franny and Zooey. Also picked up a cassette tape recording of TS Eliot reading some of his poems, including The Waste Land. He didn't read the introductory bit in Greek and Latin, which disappointed me a bit. TS Eliot's reading contained many instances of rising ends of sentences. You know how when somebody raises the pitch of their voice at the end of a sentence, making declarations sound interrogatory? He does that a lot in the recording, though it sounds more menacing than questioning.

I also wanted to say that I am confused about this whole gay marriage business. What's being asked is not to allow people to marry, but rather to extend the governmental benefits of marriage to a different group of people than before. I mean, marriage hasn't really ever meant what's meant by "gay marriage." If I had my druthers, those governmental benefits wouldn't exist for marriage. Rather, marriage would mean whatever anybody felt like making marriage mean, and we'd have a separate civil union system for gay and straight people. To expand marriage is a bit of social engineering, and while I can't say that it's a bad thing, it's something I'm loathe to endorse. I mean, we're talking about an incredibly small portion of the population. And the advocacy of this one issue has now encouraged amending the US Constitution. I mean, there're people rumbling to add a specifically anti-gay amendment to the fucking Constitution. How is this good? I don't really want government interfering in the personal lives of people, and so I'm troubled by making interpersonal relationships the business of the government.

A far more important question is health care. Affects a jillion more people. Plus, it represents something that is, I think, unambiguously evil. The notion that a person's sound health and own life should be determined by their finances is abhorrent to me.

What's more, this lack of access is distributed across racial lines. One, minorities are far more likely to have access to health care than are whites. Two, minorities who do have access to health care are less likely to receive full treatment than are whites. This is an issue that's been studied, controlling for disease, history, diagnosis, and even economic factors. A black person presenting the same condition with the same history and possessing the same finances is less likely to receive extensive treatment than is a white person with the same situation. It would be hyperbole to call this genocide, but surely the injustice falls into the same category.

And isn't private insurance in itself socialized? I mean, it pays for the care of all by spreading the costs across a large group of people. Why is it so much better to have it administered by a group of people with a profit motive? Isn't it the worst system to have these patchwork quilts of coverage, failing to spread the costs and benefits across the larger population?

And what's with people leaving weird, nonsensical comments in my fucking blog? Goddamn it.

Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters is really good, by the way.

I began a new temp job today, working for this place that scans documents into the computer. Two kinds of documents, it seems. On the one hand, they do health care billing forms - HCFAs, UB92s and the like. On the other, they scan the forms filled out when you return shit to the Gap. Having worked these sorts of jobs before, having large amounts of personal information fly before my eyes (today I scanned around 6000 of the Gap forms, each with name, address, phone number) has made me devise my ingenious serial killer plan - to be the guy who uses his random data processing jobs to pick his victims, bouncing from assignment to assignment and victim to victim. It's brilliant - there'd be no connection between the victims, so you couldn't get traced that way. Plus, it'd be a great commentary on something. So I guess it's better for a book. Or I could start dancing naked in the middle of the night, screaming "I am Christ!"

There's a guy at the job who looks like Fred Leuchter, which is creepy. He doesn't have the accent, though, so I don't think it's him, unless he's thoroughly de-mass-holed himself. At the Tivoli I saw The Weather Underground, a decent documentary, and in the theater lobby there was a stand up cardboard cutout (like those of stormtroopers and Han Solo) of Robert McNamara advertising The Fog of War. When I was picking up Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters and Survival in Auschwitz at Subterranean Books, in between lost and forlorn gazes at the pretty, pale cashier with an enormous and alluring red afro, I saw a flyer advertising a preview of Fog on Wednesday, which I'll try to go see.

Errol Morris' theory is that people create these narratives of their lives, that they imagine themselves as protagonists in some drama. Fred Leuchter saw himself as a champion of a controversial cause when he thought he'd disproved the Holocaust. Morris said that while Steven Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan had as its thesis that anybody can be a hero, the thesis of Mr. Death, the Leuchter documentary, was much more interesting, that anybody can think himself a hero.

After seeing Capturing the Friedmans, I think that some people feel the need to create stories about their life that are nothing but suffering. Put in here the people with memories of recovered abuse. Put in here that girl I once knew who had a weekly relationship drama with a guy whom we all discovered later had no relationship with her at all. The key elements are horrible trauma and a complete disconnection with reality. Think of those awful tales of completely innocent parents who have to deal with children they love who now have fallen into the notion that the parents horribly abused them once upon a time.

I also put in here those people who tell tales of alien abduction and rape. I've always loved these stories. They've kinda peaked in popularity, though. The archetypical big head big eyes grey skin alien became a logo. The X-Files and Perfect Dark. I have been reading tales of the much less hep kind of alien abduction, the ones that involve giant lizards. It's funny, but there really is a bias against these stories in the alien abduction community. These people have standards? But I guess they do. Anyway, Whitley Strieber really set off the grey-style explosion. After digging through the video vault in the basement, I pulled up an old copy of Communion, which was alright but not as scary as I'd remembered it. Though its extended hypnosis sequence got me thinking about the connection between that and the recovered memories of sexual abuse.

I couldn't find, unfortunately, The UFO Incident: The Barney and Betty Hill Story. This is a TV movie starring James Earl Jones as the Barney half of the biracial masshole couple who set the standard way back in the day for the alien abduction scenario. They had all the classic elements that would feature in episodes of Unsolved Mysteries in years to come. They had "missing time." They had big eyed aliens. They had medical examinations. In the tv movie, Barnard Hughes even puts 'em under hypnosis to tell their stories.

In reading up on the lizardmen, who tend to be associated with a hollow earth and are sometimes Nazis, I was struck by how much of a crossover with occultism there was. I guess I always knew that aliens and UFOs and the lot were always caught up in New Age type bullshit, but had never thought about it. Always a fan of context, I began to wonder if what these people experienced, at least what the non-outright-fakers, would be comparable to the fabled mystical experience. That is, they're all just pomo William Blakes. It's just that God is a lot less fashionable of a holy thing than Willy from V pumping your gramma full of cold, cold, reptilian gism, so nobody cares.

I don't fully understand how people make the leap to believing in utterly bizarre, completely fanciful tales that explain their lives as unending torment. But I think it's fascinating. I am a bit of a misery junkie, though. Which reminds me that I would very much like to read a book or see a movie which portrays a female victim of domestic abuse as perversely adoring the abuse. Last year we had Monster and, even better, Thirteen, giving us excellent and engrossing tales of female self-destruction, so I think the time is right. Maybe this could be worked into a Hamlet or something? Oh well, until that day arrives, I'll just have to satisfy myself reading Jim Goad and watching Seventh Heaven.

But I know that Ruthie's huffing household cleaning products when nobody's looking.

Extra Credit Assignment (+15): Identify the serial killer referenced in the first graf.

Blood, guts, viagra, and breasts. Such was the Superbowl. Fuck the Superbowl, and fuck MTV. Nelly's tribute to the midwestern vocalic r and Kid Rock doing a song from back when Kid Rock was big. Fucking au courant. And then, as a main event, Janet Fucking Jackson. Truly, MTV is hep and cutting edge. It's a fine tradition they're upholding, a tradition of boldly breaking new ground, a tradition which goes way back to when they wouldn't put black artists on their airwaves. Now they deserve to get their asses fined. And let's have Mike Powell especially nail Janet Jackson. Figuratively, of course.

Before I get too far, let me make one thing clear. I am a fan of the boob. I like the breasts. They're great. Wish mine were smaller, but I would be overfilled with joyousness to see them spilling out all over the place, and even on TV. Janet Jackson's tit, though, is another matter.

It was completely intentional. Had to be. Nobody wears snap off clothing - that's the first thing. That boy band fag was intentionally denuding her - that's the second thing. MTV and everybody were saying before the show that there was a shock at the end of Janet's performance, so they knew - that's the third thing. The flaccid, nasty, pale thing that flopped over the bustier - that's the last thing.

Janet Jackson is fucking nasty. It's gross enough that she looks like a female Michael Jackson, whatever the gender identity fuck that means, but now she's old and fucking grotesque. Much like Michael, though to a lesser degree, Janet has slowly morphed into an inhuman robot. Now, some women age quite gracefully, the years adding layers of cool, mature confidence which only enhance their beauty and make them all the more desireable. I often think of Isabella Rosellini as one of these cases. I remember thinking "Eh, awright" in Blue Velvet, and then becoming more and more entranced with each successive appearance on David Letterman. Ah, how Dave would elaborately enunciate those blessed syllables...eeeeesuh BELLuh...

Janet Jackson, on the other hand, now looks like a Transformer. Browsing this fine archive of screenshots from the original Transformer cartoons, I couldn't decide whom she most resembles. Perhaps Optimus Prime?

Or Megatron?

No, I think that she most resembles the ever-petulant Starscream...

I have never wanted to see a Transformer naked. It was so repulsive to see that sickly white sack slip free of her dress to flop around. And then there was that freaky pasty.

The pasty, though, turns out to be a nipple shield. I got this link from Metafilter, and if you scroll down the page you'll see an array of nipple shields. These are things designed to be worn between a nipple piercing and the areola of a pierced nipple. They sort of force an extension of the part of the nipple that isn't the areola and therefore deserves a better name than part of the nipple that isn't the areola. The nipple shield is fucking ugly, and it's further evidence that the incident was planned. Whatever that device is, I know that if you breathe heavily on it, it will reveal Janet's alignment as either Autobot or Decepticon.

Judging by the trowel-applied purple blush on her cheek, I'm guessing Decepticon.

But the awfulness doesn't stop there. So Justin Timberlake, a reasonably hep guy and reasonably attractive at that, is forced to cavort around the stage, feigning sexual interest in the battleship-assed Jackson. And then the little shithead rips off her top in a staged movement designed to simulate the humiliation of Janet Jackson, not unlike David and that one fucking cunt from Real World Los Angeles. Using the display as an act of humiliation just lacks taste.

But no, it's just a bit of playful eroticism, no? I mean, Jackson was clearly in on the whole act, wasn't she? So therefore, it's just a little bit of teasing fantasy, just getting a wee bit of kink on. To those who would call it an erotic fantasy, I only say that this

is about as far from erotic as the lint accumulating in Bea Arthur's crotch.

And so I'm torn. Should the FCC levy fines against CBS for the display? On the one hand, I like the exposure of tit, but on the other hand I have the dislike, though not necessarily punitive dislike, of the context. But then it's MTV. And it's Janet Jackson. And it's nasty. And they fined Howard Stern for far, far less than this.

So I say fuck em. We live under the rule of law, and even though I find these regulations ridiculous, it's worse to be inconsistent in their application. Fuck those bastards. And while we're at it, let's fine those fucking viagra commercials that show aged football players throwing balls through tires, a symbol about as juvenile as the train entering the tunnel at the end of North by Northwest. Except instead of thinking about the extremely handsome Cary Grant fucking the extremely hot Eva Marie Saint, we have to think of some old, bepaunched ex-footballer laying track in some dried up old hag of a woman with a black eye and a crooked arm from a spousal abuse fracture that never healed quite right.

And so in closing, I would like to observe that as I was preparing this blog entry, I wrote down a few notes, then took a short break to have some delicious Indian food at a nearby restaurant. As I munched on a spicy butter chicken dish that pushed me one curry closer to an eventual cardiac arrest and the blissful release of death, I completely lost track of what this joke was going to be, but I feel that it nonetheless sums up my feelings on this awful incident and its place in the grand tragedy of human existence:

I like to think of Michael Jackson as a Fresca drinker.

In the movie Arthur, Liza Minelli tells Dudley Moore that when she was ten, she thought the moon was in love with her because, no matter where she moved, the moon always followed her. When I saw that for the first time, I was outraged. Not being much older than that myself, I thought it preposterous that a ten year old would think such a foolish thing. What I didn't realize at the time was that I was a really fucking smart ten year old and as a result of being really fucking smart, I knew that Minelli's scenario was impossible. Most people, however, aren't really fucking smart and don't understand things that aren't explained out to them in simple details.

This is a crab. This has sex with kids. Genetically, paedophiles have more genes in common with crabs than they do with you and me. Now that is scientific fact. There's no real "evidence" for it but it is scientific fact.

I recently saw the DVD for Capturing the Friedmans. It's a documentary about papa Arnold and son Jesse Friedman who were wrongly convicted of child molestation in the late 80's. The film has been marketed (link grace a Goldtoe) as a Rashomon about child abuse. The film's tagline is "who do you believe," and this is the question the audience is meant to ask upon seeing the film. The Friedmans strenuously object that they're innocent of all the charges, which is set against the investigators' opinions of their guilt and the fact that Arnold was a pedophile. The DVD release is quite amazing, in that the second disc makes it absolutely clear that the Friedmans are innocent, presenting information not in the theatrical release that's quite damning of the prosecution.

But today, the number of children having sex with adults is beyond belief. If you define a child as anyone under 30, the figure is over 86%.

For some historical context, back in the 80's, there was quite a hysteria about large-scale child molestation. There were multiple prosecutions alleging that small groups of people would regularly and fantasticalyl involve groups of children in bizarre sex practices. This is not unlike the hysteria over the nonexistent ritual Satanic child abuse. For some reason, lynch mob/witch hunt type mentalities develop whenever there are suggestions of child molestations. The UK does the same thing. Most famously, an angry mob confused about Greek word roots spraypainted a pediatrician's office with the epithet "pedo." This hysteria was well satirized by Chris Morris in a Brass Eye special, the transcript for which is here and is the source for the italicized quotes. Another more serious depiction of the problem is the HBO movie Indictment: The McMartin Trial, which features James Woods and Henry Thomas as a boy accused of touching more than ET's finger and thereby America's heart. Indictment, which deals with an unsuccessful conviction for child abuse, is a good backgrounder on the problems involved with these types of cases.

Even our most drastic measures don't work. Last month the notorious paedophile Sydney Cook was blasted into space to spend the rest of his life aboard a one-man prison vessel posing no further threat to children on Earth. But it was revealed that an 8-year-old boy was also placed on board by mistake and is now trapped alone in space with the monster. A spokesman said "This is the one thing we didn't want to happen."

There are two big problems with the witness testimony. First, children are terrible witnesses. When interviewed, they want to please the authority figure interviewing them and so, if they sense an agenda, they'll try to conform to it. An interviewer will ask a kid, "Did so-and-so touch your such-and-such?" and the kid will respond, at first, "no." And then the interviewer will ask something like, "Come on, we know something -or somebody- went down, you can tell us. Didn't he diddle your doodle?" and so on, so that the kid understands that he's meant to answer "yes." Even if it means disregarding reality, the kid will give the answer that he knows the interviewer wants. Plus, kids just have terrible senses of reality. They think there are monsters that live in closets and moons that are in love with them and all sorts of crazy shit. They're little kids, so making stuff up isn't quite a leap for them.

We even have footage that would be too alarming to show you of a little boy being interfered with by a penis shaped sound wave generated by an online paedophile.

But what's worse is that they'll often, and certainly in the Friedman case, use hypnosis to "recover" memories. Hypnosis is bad news. It doesn't really work to "recover" memories, and more often than not creates new tales in the hypnotized person's brain that the mesmerized thinks to be valid memories. The brain is not a perfect, tivo-like recording of what happened. Events are processed by the brain and stored in a quirky manner that is both unreliable and open to tampering by techniques such as hypnosis.

You are a paedophile. You are a nonce. You're a perv. You're a slot badger. You're a two pin din plug. You're a bush dodger. You're a small bean regarder. You're a unabummer. You're a nut administrator. You're a bent ref. You're The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. You're a fence vole. You're a free willy. You're a chimney bottler. You're a bunty man. You're a shrub rocketeer.

Now, I know about all this shit because I make it my business to know lots of shit about dopey random subjects like this. I've seen Indictment and I've read the Brass Eye transcript and I've read about "recovered" memories and hypnosis and I've seen that one Frontline about the Florida pedophilia cases prosecuted by Janet Reno. But lots of people don't know this, and the extremely abbreviated presentation of these issues in Capturing the Friedmans may not be persuasive enough to these individuals. They may leave the film thinking that there's an issue concerning the innocence or guilt of the Friedmans when there is none.

Children today often have mobile phones but so too do paedophiles using text message slang. And because they're on edge they dial wrong numbers so watch out for these. (holds mobile phone showing P2PBSH) Pipe to pipe bushman - code for two paedophiles having sex with each other while watching children from a shrub.

For a demonstration, go to the imdb comment pages for Indictment and for Capturing the Friedmans. On the Indictment page, you'll see comment after comment about this horrifying miscarriage of justice, about how depressing what happened was. This case, let me remind you, did not result in a successful prosecution. That is, justice was correctly served. Now go to the Capturing the Friedmans comment page. Notice a difference. For one, there are actually comments that talk about the film being horribly biased against the legal system. One nutjob even lobs in some bullshit "why do they hate America" style rhetoric. That's plenty fucked up. But what really gets my goat are the comments like "clearly something went on, but we'll never know..." These are people who are taking the normally quite sensible approach of finding some middle ground between the presented perspectives. The only problem is that they're wrong, there is no middle ground in this case, it's a clear-cut hyped hysteria charge.

DBL means dusty blonde lulu and that's a male paedophile disguised as a lion.

While these people are ultimately to blame for their error, the filmmaker had a much more convincing case to be made in favor of the Friedmans' innocence. He made the mistake of assuming that people knew about the problems of child confessions, about the hysteria of child abuse cases in the late 80s. He knew about the police tactics of piling accusation on accusation. On disc two, it's revealed that the prosecution began picking up random people and threatening them with prosecution if they didn't turn evidence against Arnold and Jesse. The second disc of the DVD release has further information about unreliable witness interrogations and the poor credibility of the child witnesses. This was footage left out of the documentary in favor of more salacious but less informative shots of David Friedman tearfully confessing to the camera that...well...he's upset. Quite the revelation.

We're after your help too. (points to monitor) Security footage of a paedophile disguised as a school. He's been getting away with it in Sheffield for 12 years. Do you know him? Have you seen him? Please call.

Another shot depicts the father of one of the supposedly abused children assaulting Jesse at the courthouse. Interesting? Sure, I guess. I mean, I've seen brawls break out on film before, but I guess it's still neat to see. Is it substantive or does it pertain to the real issue, the innocence of the defendant? No. Then it's wasted film time.

So, who is Jes North? In 1986, Jes North was convicted for multiple acts. We believe his story is too upsetting to transmit. We only do so now with that proviso.

For an example of how to do things correctly, you can trust Errol Morris. First of all, his documentary The Thin Blue Line is about the best bit of wrongful conviction filmmaking you'll ever see. Second, but more interesting for this case, is his film Mr. Death. That film deals with a fellow who designed state execution equipment and then went on to become a Holocaust denier. Early versions of the film had little material refuting the testimony that Mr. Death gave regarding the Holocaust. Morris just assumed that people would know Mr. Death to be wrong and would dismiss his evidence out of hand. But when he discovered that this was not necessarily the case, he added more strong rebuttal information to the film so that the viewer was left with no conclusion other than the Holocaust's reality.

He was allowed to write articles for a magazine edited by a man who, at that time, had a 9 year old nephew with a nice pink arse and no hair on his balls. The orgy of slywinking usery was only brought to an end by a stairwell noncebashing which left North braindead and quadraspazzed on a life-glug.

The director and, oddly enough, creator of Moviephone, however, saw that the audiences were divided by his film and decided to make it into a marketing gimmick. Instead of fulfilling his ethical obligation to make a strong film supporting the innocence of the Friedmans, he slapped the grammatically incorrect tagline, "Who do you believe?" on the movie and brags about how they would edit the film to make the audience wonder whether the Friedmans were innocent. It's a shame that in making an incredibly significant contribution to the public discourse about the Friedmans' case, he pulled his punches. Plus, it's "Whom do you believe," not "Who." And moviephone sucks dick, too.

There is a parent riot currently in Leeds which started after a paedophile in a microlight committed an overhead perversion at Headingly stadium. But police helicopters soon chased him into pylons where he crashed screaming like a pig in a war.

Oh, and I had another Star Wars: Episode 3 dream last night. In this one, C3PO was being sent off to live in a colony of gay robots. I compiled a list of the five most ludicrous things about episode 3 and was ready to confront George Lucas with the list, but he ran off quickly after the press conference.

And you - leave the kids alone - or else. Now a quick recap for you :- paedophiles, crabs, simple. Hold that thought.