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The Worst of the Worst In a warm-up for Loosie's coveted Hero of the Year award, we announce our Antiheroes of the Year. In a banner year for bad things and bad people, selecting a list of antiheroes was an arduous task, the rough equivalent of picking out the worst couplet in D4L's "Laffy Taffy". So bear in mind, then, that beady-eyed botards such as Michael "Heckova Job" Brownie, Judith Miller and TomKat have not been overlooked because they're creatures undeserving of being fed to AIDS-infected rats -- we just didn't have time to write about everybody.
It’s been a tough stretch for the supreme force in the universe. After being credited with assuring Bush’s second term at the end of ’04, the last year has seen Him blamed for a lethal Asian tsunami that tragically resulted in the temporary suspension of Ms. Jones from Hot97’s morning show, the transformation of New Orleans into a Water Safari of food-finding whites and looting blacks, and a massive earthquake in Pakistan that Americans labored heroically to ignore. Then He was involved in the surge of intelligent design, a thinly-veiled attempt to pack textbooks with scientifically-proven theories about how people can turn into pillars of salt. This is all nothing new, of course -- throughout the centuries, untold generations of hunchbacked theologians have wrenched out clumps of gnarled hair trying to understand why God, if he exists, is clearly a dick.
He’s less of a man than he is a paunchy, balding bag of snakes.
In a perfect world, 50 Cent would croon the hooks on every album, star in every film and play the pixilated lead in every video game. We’ll call it G-Utopia, a magical land where children suckle Formula 50 Vitamin Waters from their mother’s nipples, women pleasure themselves with Fitty-molded dildos and men drive to work in 50 Cent cars powered by 50 Cent gas while eating 50 Cent bearclaws. In a busy ’05, the South Suicide native praised President Bush as “a gangster, like me”, got Criscoed-up on his album cover and instigated strategic squabbles with The Lox, Fat Joe and The Game. And in expanding his aural empire, 50 assembled the most unlikable band of characters we’ve seen since the Third Reich (and Heinrich Himmler cheffed up a better pad thai than anything we’ve had from Lloyd Banks’ kitchen). Yes, the “Yayo Dance” is admittedly gangbusters, but it just doesn’t make up for The Game’s endless namedropping, Prodigy’s unseemly boasting about Mobb Deep’s new lease on life in the G-Unit stable and Ma$e’s return to studio thuggery. We don’t have any beef with the music; we’re just weary of the men behind it.
What if being in a coma is awesome? Maybe Schiavo was just lamping like, “Oh, hell yeah, not being in a persistent vegetative state is for the birds -- I can just lie here rolling my eyes around wildly and guzzling from my feeding tube and no one’s going to ask me to do shit.” Then that cruel, cruel husband had to play God and remove the medical apparatus that kept her alive for the past decade. Sadly, with a storied lineage that extends from Paris Hilton to Jessica Simpson to Bill Frist, people will always pay undue attention to brain-dead white women.
After self-righteously proclaiming his innocence in front of congressional lawmakers during the steroid hearings, Raffe not only benjohnsoned his legacy by getting caught with dirty urine, he also ratted out his teammate Miguel "also a roider" Tejada as the source of his non-lethal injection. If you wrestle through a dictionary to define “played yourself”, there should be a picture of Palmeiro, all defiantly innocent and ridiculously mustached, that peers back at you as a wingdings-fonted tear rolls slowly down his cheek. Let this be a lesson to mankind: treat the words of Jose Canseco as divine gospel.
Westchester District Attorney Jeanne Pirro’s brief campaign for U.S. Senate ended this winter with an NYPD officer telling her to “shut the fuck up” as she giggled on a cell phone at the funeral for one of our city’s finest. After her grand declarations to turn the 2006 Senatorial campaign into a catfight between a pair of pant-suited, chisel-cheeked dames, Pirro curled up into a mere wet kitty and used the transit strike as the opportune time to feebly announce a switch to the state Attorney General race. Perhaps if Pirro had been as skilful with her timing in the start, she could have avoided morphing into a mute for forty-seconds while first announcing her candidacy. For New Yorkers, it took only four short months to sand down Pirro’s peach-caked face and expose the gaping black hole and cartoonish accent that is her character. Lacking convictions on every imaginable policy outside of throwing the book at online pedophiles, Pirro chose, instead, to introduce voters to a bizarro world where her tax-evading hubby brokered backroom deals with top party officials behind her back. Still, Pirro might just win the Attorney General race next year because any publicity is good publicity, even if it’s feces snowball to the face publicity.
From the moment we heard about a Halloween sex assault that included smoke bombs, chloroform and a fake fireman, we knew we had the makings of a classic antihero candidate. If you add in boobs – which Braunstein wisely did – you’ve got the elements of a small boy’s daydream conjured up in a treehouse sanctuary over gobbled fists of Lemonheads and quaffed pouches of Capri Sun. “Okay, here’s the plan: first we’ll throw a smoke bomb at her, then we’ll knock her out with chloroform.” That homeboy had jheri curls, wrote for Women’s Wear Daily, funded his flight from the authorities by selling blood and eventually stabbed himself in the neck when captured just made the story even more sweet. At least when he’s absorbing kicks to the ribs, face and crotch in a grimy Rikers dayroom, he’ll be able to soften the liver-bruising blows with fond memories of getting to third base with an unconscious woman.
You have to admire Harriet Mier’s balls – in a ferociously partisan climate where her nomination was bound to get scrutinized like a Murder Inc. text message (“ja, got idea 4 song! holla at lil mo asap. ;-)”), she thoughtfully considered her experience as a Texas lottery official and decided that becoming a Supreme Court Justice was the perfect job for her. Yep, Harriet believed in herself, and that’s what’s important, kids. It’s of no real import that she subsequently became nationally known as an incompetent spinster with an awkward Downs Syndromey grin, a wardrobe of Walmart-crafted formalwear and a mysterious stance on abortion. Her nomination was so thoroughly bungled that conspiracy theorists view her as a sacrificial pig left upside down to bleed in hopes of lubricating the path to confirmation for for a true right-wing lunatic like Alito. Read more articles in Life » |
What if Rupert's acquisition of the Wall Street Journal is just the beginning? Coming to grips with being famous on the world wide web. A reexamination of St. Patrick's worthiness as the don dada of Irish sainthood. The War Report: Storch versus Timbaland, Chimps versus Humans, Dick Cheney versus Iran. Compared to the thrill of going to war, getting out of one is a tiresome and humiliating business. The Game's new album is pretty good, Fabolous hires a private gumshoe and all Republicans are gay. |
