No music video or hilarious short this week, instead a trailer I shot for the inevitably hilarious Liverpool Improvathon (which once again, I will be live-blogging for 33.5 straight hours), and a promo I edited/effected for UKeffects.

Pat Buchanan fired,
Rest of world goes on unchanged

Pat Buchanan: Disney-in-training

Buchanan, host of something somewhere, was fired for being a racist, homophobic, anti-Semitic asshole.

Fair enough, I hear you say, but he had only been portraying the role of a giant doosh in the hope of winning the coveted Walt Disney A-like award, which is handed out to hateful cockshitting spunkholes every year, on the first of Cuntober; the day of Disney’s birth.

Shortly after his firing, Buchanan posted this song on his blog:

“This is the greatest song of all time, about the greatest man of all time.  I look forward to the freedom my firing will bring, allowing me to spend more time on each and every one of the activities mentioned in the ditty.
Also, I hate Jews, black and gays. Have a good weekend!”

He may or may not have said.

 Whitney Houston dead,
Crack sales plummet.

Huston, 7 days after her death.

The dead diva’s burial attracted celebrities from all over the show, from other singers and actors to professional racist bumhole Mel Gibson, and parking attendants that once sung on American Idol.

The entire service was live streamed because MTV realised if they put on any more reruns of Jersey Shore the entire population of The United States would die of televisually transmitted STDs. TVSTDs, if you will.

Absolutely nothing else has happened this week.  Fuck celebrities for being boring over the last seven days.

It’s (a slightly late) Movie Monday!

I believe that the completion of this mind-blowing, eye-popping, ass-kicking, cat-scanning, fuck-punching, effects-spewing, ball-straining, brain-melting music video now officially makes me King Pimp Of Music Video Awesomeness.

I have been led to believe this is a real title in the industry.

Steven Spielberg was proclaimed King Pimp once.  After receiving the honor in 1982, he decided to shave his beard off and everyone realised that without it, he looks like a terrified sheep.

The title was rescinded days later.  Sheep are not pimps.

Not by a long shot.

Anyway, you’re here for a video:

And so, I win.

Remember to hire me, because I will make your mind implode with my spectacular fantasticness.

And I say that with all humility.

It’s that time of year again!

Oscars?
Nope

Grammys?
Nope

VMAs?
Nope

Hilary Clinton Transvestite Lookalike Of The Year?
Nope

It’s the BAFTAs!

“The what?”  I hear you ask.

The BAFTAS are the British Acadamy of Frolicking with Trepidatious Anxiety‘s way of giving back to the film community.

Whilst also trying to make up for the fact Britain hasn’t had a home-grown film industry since the 70s.

Yay Britian!

John Hurt is an outstanding achievement.

Apparently.  He’ll be receiving the John Hurt Award for Outstanding Achievement in Being John Hurt.  Which is fair enough, because I’m sure you’ll agree he is the best John Hurt around.

At least the best John Hurt that is often referred to as “The White John Hurt”.

His current achievements are certainly  better than those of Mississippi John Hurt (The Black John Hurt) ,who came in second, having died over 45 years ago.

His runner up certificate will be shot into the heart of the sun, where it is believed all Blues musicians go when they die.

Marilyn vs. Maggie

Is this really news?

Does anyone care that two dead chicks are being played by two alive chicks in two movies that I haven’t seen?

What do you mean Thatcher’s still alive?

I would possibly care if it were a fight between zombie Marilyn and pensioner Thatcher…
But it isn’t.

It’s not even a battle between nude Playboy Marilyn and  Margaret Thatcher being in a totally different room so I wouldn’t have to look at her hideous melty old lady face.

Anyway.  That’s happening.

More celebrity news after the jump…

You know what?

BAFTAs are boring.  Oscars too.

Awards are just dumb - and that’s coming from me; the holder of 30-something awards for filmthings.

Other than being given a gift bag full of free things, and getting some shots in the papers, they mean absolutely nothing.

This isn’t a joke,  it’s a cold hard truth.

Now back to the frivolity:

Did you know celebrities have birthdays,

just like you normal people?

Burt Reynolds had a birthday today – which you would know, seeing as Burt-Day has become an international holiday.

He would have come to the Burt-Day party you arranged for him, but he was too busy kicking ass to stop by and blow the candles out on a cake shaped like his moustache.

But he’s not the only one who’s IMDB profile age was forcibly increased by a digit as they succumbed to the passage of time:

Twilight wankstain Taylor Lautner turned 14 today.

He was given a pink bicycle which he proceeded to fall from and cried until his mother brought him his blankee to make it all better.

What I’m saying is that Taylor Lautner is a pussy.

It’s also Jennifer Aniston’s birthday today, which gives me an excuse to sign off the column with this:

Who's your favourite Disney character? Mine is 'Donald Du'.

Now I’m not one to complain – especially about Disney – but my first complaint?  That I have to watch this movie the Walt Disney Corporation, in all their wisdom, decided that it was not necessary for their audience to see the words on the screen.

(See image.)

(On the left.)

(Next to these words)

(Where the image is, stupid.)

This would be fine, if the first forty days and forty nights (because Disney was a Noah fan.  And a Pedophile. And a geriatrophile. And a molester of small pets. And medium sized pets. And also large pets.) of this movie were not CUM SWILLING, FUCK PUNCHING, WHORE STRANGLING, CAT RAPING WORDS ON THE JIZZTITTING SCREEN.

(I should have probably mentioned beforehand ; this column is rated PG, as in Parental neGlect for letting children read this.)

Of course, the missing letters could be blamed on a shitty transfer to DVD.  But they can also be blamed on the existence of both Miley Cyrus and Hitler. I for one choose the latter.

After a month of credits, we finally get to start the movie; except it’s not a movie, it’s an image of a large parcel on a table. This wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, if unintelligible meth-head Donald Du(ck) didn’t turn over the tag on it and read the Mexican Spanish, as if it were his native tongue.

It’s a ‘birthday gift’ from his ‘friends’ in ‘Latin America’.

Did all those words need sarcastic quotation markatations? Probably not; but if I’m to successfully imply that Donald Duck is a mule for the drug cartels it might as well be done sarcastically, because I hate to break the news, but he’s a fictional fucking character, and so any drugs he does successfully import will also be fictional.  And for that if nothing else, I’m sure you will concur he is a cunt.

Donald Fuck opens the box to discover three smaller boxes inside. And inside those three boxes are another three boxes. And in those three boxes are another three boxes containing despair, regret and a longing for a swift death.

More of this Disney Deconstruction after the jump…

Rumors of Snooki's pregnancy may or may not have been the fault of this image.

Fuckaduck opens the first box and it contains a movie projector.

“What’s the movie of?”, I hear you not ask in the slightest.

The movie is of a penguin. As you know by now, Penguins are on my list of 648,121,004 things I hate.  Just above Snooki.

(See right, not above)

(There is no image of a penguin above the image of Snooki. Don’t go looking for one – you’ll be here all day.)

Doosh-nald takes out a projector screen and proceeds to get himself tangled up in it – because that is precisely the type of shit that Disney Cockscrapers Incorporated think is funny.

Too harsh, you say? Bear in mind that Disney is the company that until this week denied it’s employees the right to grow not only beards, but body hair of any kind.

For over 80 years Disney employees have had to remove every hair – not by shaving, but by plucking them one at the root one by one.  This is why Disney only releases a movie every two to three years; because the animators spend 15% of their time drawing, 80% of the time on hair removal, and 5% on masturbating to dirty drawings they’ve created; Baloo fucking a tree and so forth.

FACT.

But that was in the past.  As of this week, Führer Disney’s ruling has been overturned, and now rather than being hairless, it is mandatory for all who work at Disney to grow full beards if they are to be allowed past the front gate.

(not) FACT.

Returning to the movie:  Unable to get the screen working, the movie begins to play on Donalds ass, while the narrator proceeds to address him directly.

Actually conversing with him.

Somebody needs to send Disney a memo about how film works, because once again they seem to have spent too much time hating Jews and manually masturbating caged animals for their ‘juice’ to learn about the medium by which they are striving to create for.

The narrator goes on to tell us that Donald has more bird-cousins than there are coffee beans in Brazil.  I do not believe that is correct. In fact, I’m pretty sure Donald has no cousins, being a fictional character.

Being God-fucking-awful at his job, the narrator passes the buck to “The Professor” who continues to narrate… taking us to The North Pole, at which point I instantly start doubting his qualifications:

“The north pole is where the ice and penguins live.”

Ice does not ‘live’. It simply ‘is’.

“Penguins love a day at the beach.”

There is no beach at the north pole.  There is only death.  Cold, painful death.

And polar bears.

And fucking penguins.

It’s after those and a number of other nature-based inaccuracies that we are brought to a penguin he tells us is called ‘Pablo”.

No penguin has ever been named ‘Pablo’.

Bona-fide source of factual information Yahoo Answers tells me the best names for Penguins are Hubble, Miffy, Puddles and Piccolo.

Not ‘Pablo’. Not by a long shot.  You know why?  Because penguins AREN’T FUCKING MEXICAN. Pablo’s main problem is that he is cold. Cold, and does not remember being warm.  Because he’s A FUCKING PENGUIN.

“Between chills, Pablo had a burning desire to spend his life on a tropical island.”

Was that the plot to Surf’s Up?  Did they crib it from here? No wonder it was a stupid fucking movie.

The penguin spends the next four thousand years trying to get to the island, while the Professor comments sarcastically;

“Well, that was a hot idea.”

What a dick.  I hate him more than I hate penguins.  He now lives above Snooki.

In my list.

Not literally.

He’d die of airborne venereal diseases before he had a chance to do any ‘professing’.

Pablo makes a boat from ice and gets all the way past Latin America to a tropical island, when his boat starts melting.  We’re talking weeks of travelling to and then past the equator, and only now does his boat start melting.  Remember, this is A FUCKING PENGUIN we’re talking about, and he’s worrying about a boat rather than swimming.

Spoiler alert: he gets to the island in the end.  When he gets there (this being an American production) the first thing he does is to enslave the native population, in this instant, a turtle who brings him drinks…

Whilst being waited on hand and foot, Pablo has the fucking audacity to complain that he’s TOO COCKSHITTINGLY HOT.

What a fuckhole.

Next,

we’re in Columbia, and told that a bird carries ‘bagpipes under his beard’.  The bird proceeds to whistle like a piccolo.

Children growing up seeing this movie will go on to believe that bagpipes have a tooty-toot whistley sound, and will be devastated and mentally scarred by the awful, awful truth.  Thanks again for the lies, Disney.  Keep up the great fucking work.

“What a time two toucans have making love”

Do I really need to know this shit?

More importantly, do the children of America need to know about toucan-sex?

Do they want to?

They do?

Ew.

Now, my ‘research’ tells me that this movie was intended to improve relations between America and South America.  Did it?  Well, there are now people at the border of America shooting immigrants on sight, so I guess that’s a.. uhh… yes?

Next segment of this fucktarding spunbucket is narrated by my gardner a Mexican, as it follows the adventure of him as a boy hunting ostriches..in the mountains… when he decides that ostriches don’t live there… so he hunts condors instead. Except he doesn’t find condors, he finds… and I am not making this shit up… He finds a cum-gargling DONKEY BIRD.

Donkey Birds - just another one of Disney's catalogue of lies.

Donkeys and birds do not crossbreed with birds.

Trust me, I’ve fucking tried.

Other experiments I’ve conducted prove:
Lions won’t impregnate sparrows.
Otters won’t fuck salmon.
Monkeys can’t fertilise daffodils.

Anyway, they take part in a race and something happened.

Maybe they won?  I stopped paying attention.

“What became of me and the flying donkey bird? “

Nobody cares.

“Why we were never seen again!”

I don’t know if that particularly counts as a moral…the first story had the lesson ‘be happy with what you have’, which is fair enough if you’re a loser who never wants to succeed or excel or profit at anything.

This story leaves us with the idea of discovering a mythical creature, misusing it for profit and then never be seen again.  That is not a moral.  Nor is it a climax to a story.

The gardner Mexican might as well have said ‘and then I woke up and it was all a dream I had while my uncle was diddling my peepee.’ Much better moral. Probably.  At least children would be more vigilant of potential molesters.

As we all know from statistics, a kindly uncle is just a pedophile in disguise.

Oh God Of Fuck,

that was only the first of the three fucking presents.  He opens the next one and a bird starts dancing.  It’s a Mexican bird, who speaks Mexican.  Lots of Mexican.  Many, many words.  then says a little bit of English… and then more Mexican.

Well, it seems like it’s time for a BALL GRATING MUSICAL NUMBER.  This section is Narrated by a Mexican. In Mexican. But the musical number is with an American singer.  Have the Disney Cocktards never heard of a Mariachi band?

The song goes round and round asking “have you ever been to (insert name of Mexican place)”.  Each time Donald responds “No!”, and each time I lose more of my will to live.

Now there’s a train. Why is there a train?  I don’t care. I’ve given up.  We’re only 28 minutes into this movie, and there’s still another 40+ minutes to go.

Suddenly, the movie mixes live action with the animation.  Why?  There is no logical excuse other than stretching out the run time, and reducing the amount of work the animators need to do on the movie so they have more time to pluck their hairs out.

“Use a little black magic”  decrees the Spanbird for no reason whatsoever.

I think someone slipped Donald some acid, because he’s freaking out and turning all manner of shapes and colours.

“You kill my head” says the Mexi-bird.

I don’t know what that means, but I’m starting to wish someone would kill the rest of him also.  He is now a giant, and Donald is a dwarf, and the Mexicockatoo is a giant. Did I say that already?  This movie is making my brain hurt…

We’re now treated to multicoloured kaleidoscopes of Donald freaking the fuck out, as a Bandito Bird shoots at him and the other bird. Why did this happen?

'The Birdman Centipede' was not as successful as it's human-based sequels

“We are three caballeros… Three gay caballeros!”

That explains that.

Everyone knows gays are in a permanent state of tripping their balls off while imaginary flocks fire pistols at them.

“You’ll find us beneath sombreros”

Well, yes.  Until you take them off. Then we will not find you, and the world will be a better place.

And it gets better. The two Mexicocks continue:

“Ay Carmba!”

“What means Ay Caramba?”

“I don’t know!”

That could also be the answer to the question “Why does this movie exist?”

An answer that would/could/should be given by every single human being – not only those alive at the present moment, but every human being who has, does and shall ever live.  That will be their answer.  There is nothing redeeming here, nothing in the slightest.  I can’t even describe whether the backgrounds were nicely drawn, because I clawed my eyeballs out and stuffed them into my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear the fucking song any longer.

More dancing.  Live action dancing. In what looks like a gypsy trailer park.  If this movie is to be believed, Mexicans do nothing but dance all day.

Which is true – that’s why it takes them so long to pick up my dry cleaning.

The animated birds join in with the dancing, donald chasing hos women across a beach.  They’re now on a beach. No more gypxicans.

And then they’re in space.  How did this happen?  No fucking idea.  There’s a giant chick’s head in space… she’s singing… I don’t know why.

Donald is freaking out about seeing a big ladyface in the black… maybe because he’s getting a boner for her while the gaybirds are on either side of him.  He’s spent the movie pretending to be queen’d up… but peer pressure is like that – that’s how I ended up spending most of my twenties in back alleys with three to five cocks inside me. Not out of choice or because I liked it, but because that’s what all the cool kids were doing.

That last paragraph may or may not have been true.

More dancing.

Donald, trying to maintain his homo-facade, disguises himself as a flower.  There is no logical explanation for this, nor anything that has happened in the latter half of this movie – it’s as if they only had two short stories for this film, and decided to fill in the blanks with … uh… dancing whores and confused sexual identity.

And then it’s over.  With neither rhyme nor reason.  It’s just finished.

And thank fuck too.

——————-

Next month; it will be joy and merriment aplenty, as I stab my eyes and ears until they function no more to prepare myself for Make Music Mine.

As always, if you’ve enjoyed my ramblings in this column, check out the previous Disney Deconstructs.
Also:  you can celebrate me and my words by buying one of my books, available from only£1/$1 at Amazon UK, and Amazon US.   Hurrah!