Hey folks, Fred the Tuckpointer here with one you’ll never believe.  Last time I blogged, I was telling you all about how my neighbor Don got a letter from the crummy IRS telling him he owed big time.  I’d been seeing all these “tea parties” on TV where a bunch of people who hate President Obama get dressed up and protest being taxed.  I told Don we had to go.   At first he seemed interested, but when the day of the event came he told me he’d rather be tarred and feathered and chickened out.  Turns out Don’s got some “liberal sensitivities”.  He probably likes the Steelers, too.  While he stayed home trying to figure out a payment plan to Uncle Sam, I went to Conservapedia to get the real scoop about Tea Parties. The more I read, the more I liked the idea – back in the day, the colonists revolting from England got together, dressed up as Indians, snuck on some ships and dumped a bunch of tea into the harbor.  The lesson: Money Talks.  That got the Brits’ attention, and we proceeded to kick their ass.  200+ years later, the conservatives were going to do the same to Obama and all the shit he’s trying to run past us.   Being the patriot I am, I knew I had to do this tea party proper.

To start, I needed a costume.  Time to go old school – I decided to dress up as an Indian.  Now here’s the beauty of living in the greater Cleveland area – our baseball team mascot is also an Indian!  So I already had my costume from all of my Tribe gear.

A side note: they need to fire Wedge and Shapiro ASAP.  I can’t believe how bad they were this year.

Anyway, I pulled out the Chief Wahoo mask from 10 cent beer night and was set to go:

Sweet, huh?  And since I was going as the Chief, I figured I could call some shots.  My wife Sadie says its all racist and crap, but c’mon…its tradition!  Ol’ Chief Wahoo never hurt anyone.

I got to Public Square bright and early on the day of the party, and it was already packed.  There must have been a hundred people there!  Everyone else  had signs, but I didn’t know I was supposed to bring one.  Some lady from the Fox News truck told me to go and make a sign, so I ran over to the drug store and got some poster board and a marker.

Now here was the hard part – there was going to be TV there, and I wanted to make sure the IRS saw my sign and got the message.  So I wrote “Tuckpointers Hate Taxes” and ran out to join the crowd.  Some speakers got up on the mic and started us off with a prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance.   Then things got a little weird.

The next bunch of speakers didn’t say anything about taxes at all.  The first guy, some preacher, talked about how Obama was the AntiChrist and wanted to abort everyone’s kids.  That went on for a while.   The next lady said that Obama was from Kenya and couldn’t be president, that he was also some Muslim killer and wanted to convert me.  I figured everyone had some grievances to air, and that taxes may not come up for awhile.  Rather than sit out there listening to some dude drone on, I ducked into Johny’s for a cold one.  A few beers and some wings later I came back out – same lady was talking about Obama’s birth certificate.  I gotta hand it to her, she was prepared.  Slides and everything.  I went back in ’cause the Browns were on.

Around 5 I was pretty wasted.  I went back out to check on the party, but it seemed to be breaking up.  I asked a couple of people if they ever got around to taxes and representation, but couldn’t get a straight answer.  I decided to make my own statement.   I grabbed my sign, and ran for the F50.  It was time for my secret weapon.  I figured there wouldn’t be any ships in the lake carrying tea for me to chuck overboard, so I stopped at Sam’s on my way downtown and picked up a few cases of Lipton.  I pulled them out of the truck, threw up some, then high tailed it back.   Most everyone was gone at that point, and the Fox people were packing up.  I had once chance.  I opened a post box near the fountain and started pouring in tea.  When I saw people finally paying attention, I yelled “Give me liberty and cut taxes for the top 2%!”  Suddenly I felt this sting in my stomach and smelled burning hair.  Then I was out.

Turns out some cop tasered me.  I woke up in the paddy wagon, where he yelled at me for a while.  I had to go to jail for a little bit and call Sadie to come bail me out.  She wasn’t too happy about that, screaming that we didn’t have the money for the bail on her salary and all sorts of other crap.  That night I flipped on Fox 8, but I didn’t see myself in the segment.  I lost my Chief Wahoo mask, and didn’t even get to go back for the rest of my tea.

So…it looks like I’m on the couch for awhile.  But no worries…I know I made a difference to those 4 people who saw me and my act of defiance.  Taxes suck, and there’s no other way around it.  Next time, I’ll steer clear of Johny’s…gotta keep a level head when so much is on the line.  So till then, Fred the Tuckpointer signing off.

Tyra Banks is on the job.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this shitstorm of a a television show, Tyra’s specialty (correction: one of her many specialties) is inventing simple words to describe a more complex concept.  Usually, this involves taking 2 key words from said concept and mashing them together, then repeating 50-75 times over the course of her hour-long show.

My new favorite? Mantrum.

To quote the wordsmith herself:

“When a man gets all upset, like a child, it’s not a tantrum.  It’s a Mantrum!” (emphasis mine).

The show then went on to show various video montages of boyfriends getting very angry at their girlfriends.  This part wasn’t so funny.  In fact, it’s not funny at all– it’s men with either profound insecurities or serious anger issues who are having a difficult and potentially dangerous time expressing themselves.  But don’t worry ladies!  When your man starts to get all smashy, it’s just a Mantrum! According to the show, the best way to deal with it is to talk to him like he’s a small child.  I’d like to hear from ONE man who doesn’t feel better when his girlfriend emasculates him in public, especially on national television.  Now, clean up the mess you made in the front yard like a big boy, and I’ll make you a peanut butter sandwich.

Hi Everybody!

My name is Molly, and I’m a new clogger to the blog!  Like that political wacko John who posted below, I have known Schadenfreude for years and am psyched to be able to contribute to the site.  Like John, I’m also interested in media criticism, and I especially like to write about feminism and representations of women in pop culture.  It gives me something to think about while I watch The View and other daytime lady talk shows, which I enjoy far more than any girl in her early 20s should.

So, it’s great to be here, everyone.  Now let’s start the Labor Day festivities.

**BREAKING**
The Supreme Court of New York has ruled in favor of a disheveled and geeky young actor wearing an ironic T under a hoodie, who claims “I was Michael Cera first.”

Jesse Eisenberg, 25, star of the film “Adventureland,” displayed his signature bad posture and said something witty without any inflection when the verdict was read. A handful of pregnant teen-aged girls sporting pony tails and Converse low tops rolled their eyes with delight in the back of the court room.

Eisenberg asked the court to recognize that in the 2005 film “Cursed,” he played a bumbling nerd with touseled tresses who, after being attacked by a werewolf, develops self-confidence, a wrestling prowess, and hair product. When the title curse is lifted, he goes back to being a lanky loser — but gets the girl.

“Then Michael Cera comes along, and is in a few slightly more successful movies playing basically me,” Eisenberg stammered for a small audience on the steps of the courthouse. “Michael Cera, Michael Cera … Everybody loves Michael Cera. Say the name Jesse Eisenberg and people are like, ‘Is he that weird guy in our chemistry class?’”

Eisenberg noted that he had long been a fan of the Smiths — and also some obscure indie bands “Michael Cera has never even heard of” — plays acoustic guitar, and regularly carries a backpack.

Cera did not respond to dozens of  calls made from a hamburger-shaped phone.

Just a scant nine years after Michael J. Fox starred “Teen Wolf,” Jack Nicholson made his own mark on the genre with “Wolf,” a film that probably would have been even more successful if it had been considered the third of the “Teen Wolf” trilogy.

Nicholson plays a mousy book editor who is fortuitously bitten by a werewolf the same week that he is demoted, his position filled by his weaselly metrosexual protege, played by James Spader, who is also sleeping with his wife. 

Now filled with the “passion of the wolf,” Nicholson’s senses are heightened: He can read without his glasses, he can smell the tequila his co-worker drank for breakfast, he can leap shrubs in a single bound, snap the neck of a deer, and drink from its neck like its severed artery is a spigot. He can insult Michelle Pfeiffer straight into bed.

And when James Spader dares to make idle chit-chat with him at the urinal, Nicholson turns his spray on his enemy’s suede shoes. “I’m marking my territory,” he tells the pretty-boy, before cruelling adding to the insult by identifying this batch of urine’s vineyard: “Asparagus.”

If “Teen Wolf” is the puberty allegory of this trilogy, “Wolf,” it seems, is the Viagra metaphor.

Comic-con.

For two weeks every summer, the sleepy town of San Diego becomes the center of the geek universe.

Movie studios hawk their tentpole films for the following summer. Video game companies show off their big games for the holiday season. TV studios give fans unprecedented acess to their favorite stars.

Other sites will keep you in the know with the latest gossip, the color of Hayden Panitierre’s underwear, and other such things.

Not here.

Sandy and Steve had an inspiration for coverage befitting Chicago’s favorite comedy group. Sandy wanted someone who would be able to find one of Hollywood’s greatest actors and ask the tough questions.

So, they called in a convention vet who has the contacts and insider knowledge to get the job done. That’s me, James Alsup

During my quest, I’ll take photos and videos of the parts of Comic-con you don’t see on TV or YouTube videos. So sit back and enjoy as I bring you

Comic-Con 2009: The Search for Marc Singer.

Casting for “Real Housewives of Chicago”** is starting.

Except I think you need a bitchier attitude and at least two kids to ignore. But it still doesn’t hurt to give it a shot. This info from SunTimes:

According to Towers’ (Productions) casting director Becky Cattie, the hope is to find women who could give this formula ‘‘a new twist,’’ showcasing a ‘‘really unique group of ladies to represent the Midwest.’’

The production team is seeking ‘‘a dynamic group of ladies leading extraordinary lives. … modern housewives who juggle busy lives and look great doing it! No wallflowers please.’’

If you want to be considered, e-mail Towers at casting [at] towersproductions [dot] com and include your name, age, a photo, contact information and the area where you live.

Also include some personal background details — married? kids? occupation? social life? — and why you think you and your friends would make great TV.

** = Not ‘officially’ Real Housewives. Just a show EXACTLY like it.

Twilight’s Kristen Stewart appears nude in her upcoming movie, seen here in a shower scene. As you can see it’s a pretty steamy scene. Stewart plays a Catholic School Cheerleader who’s been very naughty…

Schadenfriends, please forgive me for the exploitative subject line and first line that will appear in any Google search. I just get a kick out of the fact that I did the same thing a year ago with Bond Girl Gemma Arterton, and to this day when I check the sites stats, that post is usually the most active, which makes me smile, and isn’t entertaining me what it’s all about?

Newcomers who’ve come to Schadenfreude.net lured by my ruse, please, check out the site, our most popular tags are bits, pictures of Miles, and updates on Rush.

George Burns. Is George Burns’ star in front of

A) A head shop

B) A Hip Hop Clothing Store

C) A Homeless clown playing the accordion

D) A lingerie shop

B) A Hip-Hop clothing shop. Some days the walk of fame might as well be on Broadway and Wilson.