And now another rant feature from the mind of Manor...

Everyone gets on my nerves.  However, there are those who fall into the area between "just ignore them" and "justifiable homicide," too annoying to merely blow off, but not worth blowing away.

The alternative?  Give them some "manual therapy" but don't leave any marks, that’s my suggestion.  For they are Suckas Needing A Pimp Slap...or S.N.A.P.S., for short.

October:  Rich Christensen--I’ve been a drag racing fan since seventh grade; and in a sport where tools are abundant, one stands out—Rick Christensen, starter/host of the Pinks and Pinks All Out TV series.

For those not into the world of rails and funnies, street racers occasionally compete for “pinks”—auto registration certificates—the contest kicked off by a third party who drop his arms to signal “Go!’  On a drag strip, each race is started by an automated set of lights known as the “tree."

The Pinks show takes place on a certified strip, but they do run for ownership—though two-thirds of the program is taken up by each team whining over how much of a head start one driver should get.  On All Out, the drivers compete bracket tournament style (you lose, you’re out) for cash, but have a friendly negotiation session before each race, wagering all or part of their prior winnings.  

Or to put it another way, since they’re on a site with a tree, arm-dropping Rick is pointless, other than moderating the Pinks bitching sessions.  As for All Out, Christensen’s sole purpose seems to be to bark orders at the staff—racing lifers who I’m CERTAIN would casually flip RC the bird if he weren’t also the Executive Producer.

Full disclosure:  SNAPS is time-stamped, a nomination associated with an event occurring the listed month; and, admittedly, I am using the excuse of an October rerun of a Pinks episode.  But what a rerun it was!  Right in the middle of one of the irritating squabbles between race teams, Not-So-Slick Rick stops, turns to a guy with that hip-to-a-drip shaved-head-and-goatee look, and exclaims, “Dude, you rock!"

Had he done so in the most facetious manner possible, Rick would have immediately been placed on my Hundred Heroes list.  But as it stood, it was almost surreal, a perfect blend of inanity and absurdly patronizing a stranger.

So does one bizarre moment of pandering warrant a smack in the mouth?  No, but you must understand the proverbial big picture.

The Barrett-Jackson collector-car auction is HUGE.  Tens of millions change hands each time; and the event is such a big deal, the Speed Channel provides live coverage for the multiple nights and weekend days each auction runs.  Set the Wayback Machine for the B-J auction following the first season of Pinks (2005), also on the Speed Channel.  Rickiepoo gets a little camera time to plug his program, and notes that, prior to the Pinks debut, “I was never a car guy."

That’s right, before a room stuffed with thousands of serious autophiles and a live national TV audience comprised solely of enthusiastic gearheads, our boy nonchalantly admitted all the acting excited, understanding mechanics’ tech talk, etc. was just faking it—and squaring his idiocy quotient, appeared completely oblivious as to how enormously dim-witted the casual comment was!!!

Publicly making a jackass of yourself, alienating potential viewers, not having the horse sense to keep a secret to yourself or even realizing it should be an embarrassment, acting all self-important around those who do know the sport, cashing in big on something you never had a passion for…Dude, you suck!

September:  John Mayer--As the official World's Most Conceited Man, I consider Kanye West akin to a brown belt.  He's got plenty of experience but lacks the true zen-like understanding to become a black belt in egomania--and I doubt he'll ever achieve it.  Too infantile and knee-jerk; an amateur who just happens to have a high profile:  that's about it.    

As for West's outburst at the VMA charade, I'm thinking he should now complete the trifecta, by blurting, “Glenn Beck doesn't like white people” at some wildly inappropriate time.  

(My intial reaction to being told of the Kanye The Klown show was, “Wait, MTV is saluting music videos, even though they havent actually aired one after nine a.m. since The Fine Young Cannibals broke up?!?  Isn't that sort of like the mayor of Brooklyn honoring the Dodgers?”)

So, what does this have to do with John Mayer?  In the wake of Kanye's spaz spasm, a wave of West's music-biz peers publicly called the buffoon out for his bratty behavior.  Not Mayer.  After all, “Everyone's Pal” wouldn't want to risk alienating one possible CD buyer by taking a stand on something…beyond sharing the popular opinion on one of the “hip” issues, that is.  Instead, the serial mack saw the flap as an opportunity to hit on yet another young single vulnerable cutie.  

While others were calling for boycotts and bans, our John-Boy announced, “Big love to my girl @taylorswift13,” which was followed by “A class act”--which is more than anyone can say about you, Mayer.  

I've always despised guys pulling the Big Little Boy act (as outlined here,in blue) and deeply resent the many women who fail to see the scam for what it is--a transparent ploy exploiting maternal instincts, solely to separate prey from panties.  Mayer not only plays the BLB to the point of nausea, he compounds the infraction by singing “sensitive" songs in phony-baloney hushed tones.  Factor in the post-VMA cowardly sidestep and subsequent pivot into a hook-up table-setter with a tenderoni (Whats the matter, Mayer, schoolyard closed?), and this low-stooping lothario is a lock for selection as September's most-deserving pimp-slap recipient.  

(But look on the bright side, John:  you can always use my palm-print on your mug as a sympathy ploy with the next susceptible senorita you're running the BLB BS on.)  

August:  Criss Angel’s followers—He can wear all the gothish gear he desires, but it would not change the fact that Criss Angel is more mega-geek than “mindfreak” (his self-description.)  The guy’s a magician, isn’t that proof enough?  And regardless of profession, just entertaining the notion goth gear makes one cool is an instant appointment to the post of Mayor of Geeks Junction.  

“Mock me not, infidels.  For I don the garments of Count Chocula, and have black fingernails no matter how many decades ago that stopped being ‘decadent.’"

Sartorial silliness and hocus-pocus posturing aside, Criss does deserve respect for all the work and sacrifice he’s put into getting where he’s gotten.  And as someone from the pro wrestling world, I admire his ability to continue conning the rubes.  

That, however, is not to suggest the whole Drama King thing doesn’t grate on my nerves.  But even though ads for August’s Five Lives Of Criss Angel series had me somewhere between “Oh, please” and “Oh, please, let there be a fatal accident!” the monthly pimp slap does not go to Mini-Houdini.

It goes to all the televiewers who buy into his shtick because they are moronic enough to assume “If it’s on TV, it must be true."

Psssssst, hey, lunkhead.  Directors can edit tapes to make it appear you pulled the Titanic out your ear while dancing in the Christmas show at Radio City; and camera angles and similar technical sleight-of-hand can make wires, harnesses and all sorts of devices invisible to the slight-of-brains.

And, get this; that poor guy who collapsed on House around the fourth of July?  He’s alive!  I kid you not—turns out TV shows are staged, and they have these things called actors!!!  You know, like “complete strangers” who claim they “never met (the trickster) before."

Can you believe that?  You should—after all, we all know that, if it’s in print, it must be true.

July:  The Jacko R.I.P. Jackals—Never before has a SNAPS nomination been sealed within the first week of its month, but I can’t imagine any July situation that will top this debacle for slap-worthiness.

In one corner, we had the creeps shilling freshly inked Michael Jackson “tribute” T-shirts outside the hospital where Michael was pronounced dead all of one hour earlier; later joined by human hatchery Debbie Rove(r), who suddenly developed a deep interest in her offspring.

Soon thereafter, the clueless-trying-to-look-informative-and-hip troops arrived.  Not bothering to do a stitch of research before making their proclamations, and knowing nothing but the barebones basics about the decedent, the hollowheads went on to enlighten us with a blitzkrieg of unfounded urban myths and misinformation.  

“Michael Jackson invented the moonwalk.”  “He was the first r&b artist to use a rock guitarist on a recording.”  Queen Latifah had to chime in, too, claiming Michael was the first black man to be an international goodwill ambassador type, no doubt delighting the widow of Arthur Ashe, every member ever of the Harlem Globetrotters, and numerous others who performed such admirable deeds but did so with a lower profile.

Predictably, the memorial service had its share of dubious “mourners,” sadly common anymore.  But come on, careerist John Mayer and, irony of ironies, Kobe Bryant???  What was this, the Duke Of Disingenuous contest?  (And where were all these hotshots to lend public support when MJ was in legal trouble?)

But, in my orbs, the most offensive element came when the race cards began sailing around.  Take, for example, BET Awards host Jamie Foxx claiming the gathered were “here to celebrate a black man” (as Michael’s father, Shameless Joe Jackson, sat beaming in a front row seat, accepting salutes from performers who rightfully should have had some pimp-slapping on their own minds, considering how MJ vehemently despised his dad.)  I even heard a well-educated man--after wholeheartedly agreeing Michael’s audience was a diverse mix of all ethnicities worldwide--insist that the lack of a demographic distinction among Jackson’s fans was a racial issue.  HUH????

Without question, Michael’s loudest message was a rally against racial divides; yet card-players, looking suspiciously like opportunists pandering to their personal fan base, brought up race while supposedly “honoring” Jackson’s memory.  Shame on all of you.

As well as all the other vultures circling around the casket.

June:  Susan Russell, idiot—Thought SNAPS is generally reserved for celebrities, every now and then a “private citizen” does something so slap-worthy, it trumps their relative anonymity.  

Susan Russell was a business manager for a Pennsylvania ophthalmology concern—at least before she got sentenced in June to 40 months in the slammer for her jaw-dropping greed.  When dishonestly claiming to work seven days a week between 2004 and 2007 wasn’t enough, Sticky-fingers Suzy upped her avaricious ante by cooking the books to log her in at 22 work-hours per day.  That’s right, according to her doctored records, the 46-year-old swindler was off-duty a total of 14 hours out of the entire week.

But it gets even better—according to evidence presented at her hearing, she eventually claimed to work 32 HOURS A DAY!!!!!! 

Then there’s the Russell Robbery Rebate program.  With Susan having skimmed $780,000 in “overtime,” it should be no surprise that there were occasional shortfalls in the corporate coffer.  What to do to cover for the discrepancies?  Why, resourceful Russell used her personal credit card to process selected company purchases…her Visa bills, of course, paid off with money stolen from that very same employer.  

It’s tough to decide which is more enormous, her insatiable gluttony for money or the sheer stupidity of believing it would never be missed.  As such, Susan gets pimp-slapped for both—32 hours a day.

May:  Jane Velez-Mitchell—Sweet Jane and her kinda cool 70s-Jane-Fonda haircut first came to my attention via her guest shots with the insufferable lynch mob leader Nancy DisGrace, and Jane seemed a fine counterbalance.  Unfortunately, once Velez-Mitchell got her own “Headline News” program, she appeared to have been inflicted with the Never Mind The Judicial System, I’ve Declared The Tot Mom Guilty And That’s That shrew’s obnoxious penchant for vastly overblown hyperbole, made worse by Jane’s decision to shrilly SHOUT EVERY WORD OUT OF HER MOUTH, as if unaware the microphone is not attached to the camera.

But where Jane’s SNAPS nomination came as a result of a May broadcast, wherein she (loudly) informed viewers “The Natalee Holloway case has changed America forever."

England concedes in the war for U.S. independence, slavery abolished, Pearl Harbor bombed, JFK assassinated, 9/11:  yeah, I can see how “white girl disappears” ties in with these milestones--forever, no less.  And, wow, who among us had even the slightest clue an attractive unescorted American woman who goes off partying with virtual strangers in a foreign land might become the victim of foul play?!?

Surely, the Holloway case was the first-ever occurrence of the above, and because of its deep historical significance, no American since has used poor judgment on foreign soil—especially during Spring Break in Cancun.

So, thanks, Jane, for bringing this to our attention.  It was a proclamation America will never forget…try though we might.

April:  Arlen Specter—By changing party affiliations, the Senator from Pennsylvania disrupted bipartisan this and that, raised serious concerns about something or other, and had a dramatic effect on the role of the pickle in the Big Mac.  And so the nincompoops ranted, on every media outlet encouraging halfwits to share their “educated” opinions.  

Let me make this very clear to all the bozos who pontificate on politics or think their preferred candidate is going to make a huge difference:  Every election boils down to the equivalent of selecting whether the suit-and-tie version of the Bloods or the Crips gets into office.  

There are two gangs in the US governmental system, each out for as much power, money and ego massaging as possible, and willing to do whatever they think they can get away with in order to grab it—and that includes screwing you over without a second thought.  Anyone who says otherwise either never actually worked for a government branch, or does and is attempting to cover their tracks via public denial.

I spent seven glorious years working for a very large municipality, and thus I got a first-hand look at how the game is played, not the view from atop a distant soapbox.  And if you believe politicos put the good of the country before self-interests…did I mention I’m selling these magic pellets that will turn your poop into gold bars?  

Think I’m wildly exaggerating with the Bloods/Crips analogy?  We had a secretary—read:  committeewoman given a patronage job she was inept at—who would (in a hushed tone, no less) regularly refer to “D’s.”  What’s that, you ask?  You know how the Bloods aren’t supposed to wear blue (the Crips’ official color) and certain gang members won’t even say the name of their rival group aloud?  (For example, the Mongrels refer to a Hell’s Angel as an “H.A.”)  Same deal here:  this woman’s Term That Must Not Be Uttered, the one replaced with a simple “D,” was “Democrat.”  I kid you not.

Okay, so neither of the national governmental gangs is tagging precincts they control nor throwing up hand signs (at least not yet.)  That doesn’t make them any less criminal—just more fake.  

(Incidentally, Arlen S., I have no intention of pimp-slapping you.  Just brought up your name to make a point.  Now, Phil Spector, that’s another story.)

March:  Stephen Colbert--Actually, this guy has long been due a sound pimp-slapping, and, well, “there’s no time like the present” (which, if you break it down literally, is a pretty inane expression, isn’t it?  Anyway….)

I used to find Colbert entertaining, back when his Report was still a rookie.  But then I began getting the strongest impression he was becoming yet another celeb doing a satirical shtick then becoming the very sort of nimrod he started out spoofing.  I’ve also got questions with regard to Colbert having the ability to turn it on and off—and take my word for it, if you’re portraying a headstrong character (like, say, Stately Wayne Manor) and can’t dial it down or amp it up when it’s called for, you’re not really very good at your job.  You’re just the proverbial one-trick pony, and one with a limited shelf life, at that.

Ever notice Stevie never seems to show up on any other programs, such as one of the myriad nighttime talk shows?  Could it be he’s nothing without a script?  (And only a jackass would be fool enough not to realize the humor coming out of a show is the product of a group of script scribes, and not just a matter of the host winging it.)  Or maybe the lack of invites to The Tonight Show and such is because Colbert has become un(col)bearable, a mark for his own hype, as suggested above.

Very revealing was the time Colbert guested on The O’Reilly Factor.  No doubt his worshippers expected some sort of monumental showdown, their little Oscar Wilde tearing the opinionated conservative to shreds with his rapier wit—and, pathetically, some probably even perceived that as to be what occurred.  The reality, however, is that Colbert choked worse than Mama Cass on the mythological “ham sandwich,” meekly sitting there like a seventh-grader who just hit a baseball through Mike Tyson’s window, not knowing whether to wet his pants or ask for an autograph.

And O’Reilly wasn’t even in attack mode.  

But what most annoys me personally about Colbert is…well, you know all that stuff about how his fans should vote to affix the guy’s name on everything at every opportunity?  THAT’S MY ACT, JACK!!!!!!  No need to take my word for it; just examine the Manorfesto, it displayed via a link on this site’s homepage for years before the bespectacled baboon ever got national exposure.  Any of it sound a little “familiar”…Nation?  It sure as hell should, considering it’s practically an instruction manual for what your halfwit hero is zealously doing today.  

Naturally, pilfering pipsqueak Colbert is too much a coward to invite me on his program and tearfully fess us to the truth before his audience of fawning imbeciles.  Then again, could be the thievin’ heathen still suffers from the aftereffect of licking O’Reilly’s penny-loafers and thus that big yellow streak running down his back is some sort of jaundice.  

February:  Dave Grohl—Maybe I just got the whole works wrong, but wasn’t grunge supposed to be the nephew of punk rock, disdaining all things mainstream being force-fed to Gen-X?  And weren’t Nirvana the harshest critics of commercialism and blind acceptance of old-guard values and expectations?

We drummers have sort of an unspoken fraternity, so I had no initial grudge against Grohl.  Why, a few years ago, I learned Dave wanted to be my best friend.  And everyone else’s BFF, too!

Suddenly, there was this personable chap popping up all over the place, in particular those frilly populist themed presentations whose primary purpose is to “move product” and “grow the brand” (e.g. awards shows, benefit concerts.)  You know, mainstream and reeking of commercialism, the very notions (I thought) Nirvana so vehemently condemned.  More alarming, Grohl came off like someone who had hired a publicist and “gone showbiz,” not simply begrudgingly accepting the perks of wider acceptance, but enthusiastically embracing them and aggressively seeking out more.

The “Who’s your pal?  Dave is!” campaign merely irritated for a few years.  Then the situation got decidedly worse.  In late ’08, The Foos served as guest judges on Top Chef, complete with snooty fork-waving.  Wow, nothing says “rock ‘n’ roll rebellion” like a Bravo channel competition between haute cuisine cooks, huh?  

Still, that was a venial sin compared to what was to follow.  Though it was hardly surprising to learn Grohl and gang were booked to play on the Grammys telecast—the very epitome of celebrating bland commerce over musical artistry and integrity—what sent Davey Boy ZOOMING into SNAPS City was the announcement that he’d be performing with Paul Stinkin’ McCartney!!!  Damn, Dave, when’s the duets-with-Manilow CD coming out?  

McCartney, the benighted buffoon most responsible for pasteurizing the raunch right out of rock’s roots, author of such cloying goo-goo dribble as “My Love Does It Good” and “Silly Love Songs,” sharing a mic with a guy who supposedly was way into it when his previous band played “Rape Me”?  Something smells around here…and it ain’t Teen Spirit, pal.

Grohl has two options.  Confess he was a fraud getting over on impressionable youth in his Nirvana days, or come get what he deserves.  But because of the whole drummer brotherhood deal, I’ve come up with a special delivery just for you, David—the paradiddle pimp slap!  

January 2009:  Pete Wentz—Fall Out Boy sold a lot of albums over the past few years.  Good for them.  But does that mean their bassist needs a publicist constantly sending out press releases every time the attention glutton puts a quarter in a parking meter?  

And is there anything worse than a rock star who gets the urge to express his (often unsolicited) opinions about every subject in the universe so we ignorant slobs in the unwashed masses can be enlightened—and the breathless gossipmongers who feel obligated to pass along these proclamations as through the rocker is imparting Really Important Profundities Sure To Effect The Entire Milky Way?

“Pete Wentz is opening a club… Pete Wentz is closing an art space… Pete Wentz has cracked the DaVinci Code…Pete Wentz declares murder ‘wrong’… Pete Wentz is on the cover of Out magazine, claiming he’s gay…Pete Wentz and wife deny pregnancy…(one month later) Pete Wentz and wife announce pregnancy…Pete Wentz blogs about socket wrenches… Pete Wentz’s nude photos ‘somehow’ appear online…Pete Wentz singles out ‘Best Dressed’ at the BET Awards… Pete Wentz reveals his cole slaw recipe…Pete Wentz prolaims Cayle Anthony’s grandfather innocent…Pete Wentz e-mails Obama his Cabinet recommendations.Pete Wentz weighs in on gravity....

You know what headline I’d like to hear some Access Hollywood chatterbox bleat?  “Pete Wentz shuts the hell up for two weeks”!!!

Little Peter’s latest o-pine-in-the-ass session concerns the songsmith, um, weighing in on late January’s non-story of the month:  Jessica Simpson has grown lumpy.  Yeah, this noted fitness expert’s take should be an insightful, objective observation we can’t possibly do without—considering the bloated babe is his freakin’ sister in law.  

(Hmm, wonder what the odds are Pedro issues a “Pete Wentz gets pimp-slapped” press release?)

December:  The Associated Press—I can’t be the only one who has overdosed on the 2008 Tina Fey Media Love Fest.  If you were fortunate enough to miss the grand announcement, the AP voted Fey “Entertainer Of The Year,” based apparently on her Sarah Palin imitations wowing the lynch mob delighting in savaging the candidate.  Granted, the impersonation was spot-on (and, IMO, overdone), but these were merely a handful of brief sketches—and what was the cumulative time of the lot, 20 minutes?  Furthermore, wasn’t Tina just a B-lister for the three quarters of the year before aping the Alaskan?

An argument could be made that she also had a hit comedy movie (albeit not a blockbuster classic) and a very-clever-but-drawing-modest-ratings network sitcom.  However, the very same thing could be said of Steven Carell in 2005, yet he didn’t even come close to pulling in the award that year.  

Conclusion:  it was all about the imitations (and the bipartisan distain for an easy target.)  No need to simply take my word for it.  The SNL skits were all the quoted gushed about in the story trumpeting the selection…a blurb distributed by, you guessed in, the Associated Press.

I’ve got no great personal grudge against Tina Fey, which is why she’s not the December SNAPS.  But, come on, Entertainer Of The Year on top of all the other groveling at her feet, for what was essentially a one-month sensation?  If so, let’s retroactively award the honor to that goofus Sanjaya from American Idol!

The real reason talented Tina became the media darling of ’08 was a combination of two factors:  the hysteria surrounding the hatred (and jealousy of) Sarah Palin; and a guilty conscience brought on by finally watching 30 Rock once Fey became “in,” realizing she’s been doing excellent work all along, then overcompensating in an attempt to make amends for ignorance.  Case closed.

November:  Kid Rock-- Have you noticed that whenever there’s a buck to be made or some face time to garner, this character turns up, professing to be a lifelong devotee of whatever is being spotlighted?  Initially, he adamantly insisted he was "a Detroit playa" fully immersed in the hip-hop culture.  Next thing you knew, Kid was jamming on “Sweet Home Alabama,” belting out a sappy arena-band power ballad and judging a TV country-music talent show.  The most recent irritating report was that cRock grabbed some spotlight on at least one stop on the Experience Hendrix tour.  It’s a wonder he didn’t attempt to join The Three Tenors when Pavarotti passed.  “Dude, opera is my life!"

But Kid’s deeply dubious autobiography is not why he is the November SNAPS nominee.

As they’re wont to do, VH-1 had one of those Storytellers specials this month; our boy, the featured performer.  Introducing his second tune, Rock took a moment to acknowledge some important people in the band’s ascension, a truly admirable gesture.  Mentioned the original guitarist and Little Joe.  Very cool.

Following that pair of hat-tips, perhaps to enlighten the trio of fans who haven’t heard the story 38 times, Kid explained how he spent a lot of his teen years on the street, and it was there blacks taught the lad many valuable life lessons.  So far, still cool.  But then he mumbled something like “So I want to say ‘thanks’ to black people."

In other words, he sent a shout-out TO AN ENTIRE RACE!!!  G-zuss Christ, could one possibly be any more pandering?

Don’t get me wrong.  It would have been really righteous if he name-checked “the boys from 52nd and Melrose,” my peeps from up the Hills” or anything even vaguely specific.  But this patronizing poseur was saluting every person on the planet of a particular heritage.  I don’t care what race, nationality or creed it concerns—such a gesture is just plain preposterous.

Are we supposed to believe Hank Aaron, Nelson Mandela’s nephew, Al Roker and Naomi Campbell had even an atom of influence on Kid’s life and career—or could give a rat’s patooty about what some rich cracker is spouting on a basic-cable TV show?  Can you see a fruit vendor in Kingston, Jamaica, telling his partner, “Remind me to send Kid Rock a dozen roses for tanking us on television, mon”?

So, cRock, step on over here and get yourself a  pimp-slapping.  But as I roll up my sleeves, readers, I just want to humbly express my deepest gratitude to every entity ever touched by water.  How about a big hand for H2O, folks?

October:  Isiah Thomas--I’ll be honest with you:  I never liked this guy, dating back to when he was an active NBA player.  Always struck me as one of those slicksters with the charmer smile that disguised a ruthless hustler at heart.  His hoops-biz career after hanging up the sneakers did little to change my mind, though it seemed the cracks were beginning to show and others were starting to see “Zeke” in much the same manner as your narrator had all along.  

The snake-oil salesman in Thomas may have been able to talk his way into a top position, but that didn’t mean he was actually equipped to do the job.

Nonetheless, no one gets a SNAPS nod simply for being a high-profile con.  Nope, in October, Isiah showed what a true class act he is, when paramedics were summoned to his home after receiving a 911 report about an overdose…and although Isaiah was the resident placed on the gurney, the marvelous dad publicly claimed it was HIS TEENAGE DAUGHTER!!!

Nice.  Rather than face the scrutiny and humiliation that would come as a result of his own screw-up, Daddy Dearest was perfectly okay with his little girl falling on the sword.  As if getting carted away over drugs, speculation over it being a suicide attempt, and everything else associated with the image of an overdose isn’t going to follow the poor kid the rest of her life.  And at an age when reputation and self-image is everything, imagine what it did to this girl’s psyche, knowing everyone in her world is tsk-tsking behind her back—and that the betrayer who caused all this undeserved grief was her own father.  If this teen doesn’t turn out to be a stoned porn starlet or religious zealot by the time she’s 21, it’ll be a freakin’ MIRACLE!

So, Isiah, step on over to the podium to pick up your award for being MVP—Most Vile Pop………….and an accompany pimp slap.

September:  Keith Olbermann--As if signing off with the signature phrase of one of journalism’s most iconic figures, Edward R. Murrow, isn’t indicative enough--of this man’s arrogance and delusions of importance--to warrant a pimp slap all by itself, the ESPN castoff really “stepped up his game” upon Sarah Palin joining the John McCain ticket.  To the point it became thoroughly obnoxious.

Oh, I “get” that stations like Olbermann’s employer, MSNBC, are just “pretend news” in theme and that Nancy Disgrace, Glen Beck, et al are abrasive windbags who bought journalism uniforms but never actually took a journalism course.  And although Olbermann could come off full of himself at times, the daily Bush-bashing was tolerable.  After all, taking heat comes with the job of being President.

However, where the bespectacled blabbermouth stepped into pimp-slap range was when he started incessantly burying people before they were even elected.  I may not possess the mystical wisdom one acquires from hosting Sports Center, Keith, but isn’t this approach akin to killing the baby to ensure he doesn’t grow up to be a bad person?

Olbermann’s “Rah Rah Obama” agenda through the early summer was about as predictable as fellow self-impressed pontificator Dennis Miller leaning in the opposite direction of the pseudo-hipsters, one blowhard negating the other.  Call it a scratch.  But as the presidential campaigns shifted into a higher gear, Olbermann shifted focus.  No longer was it “Backpats For Barack” hour, and “Pick On The Prez” became an afterthought.  Instead, Overblown turned vitriolic, half-foaming at the mouth as he incessantly—some would say obsessively—ripped into McCain-Palin over their every word and deed.

Accenting his diatribes with eye-rolling, furrowed brows and smartass smirks, Olbermann displayed about as much objectivity as Ronald McDonald upon being asked to select the best fast-food chain.  In fact, the piling-on got so overbearing, it had me considering a vote for McCain—and I don’t even like the guy!

Why single out Olbermann from the pack of hot-airedales?  Because this is a bright man, not some blithering yahoo, thus I’m of the belief this nightly pandering to the choir is little more than a highly calculated scheme having nothing to do with Obama, Palin or any other politico, and everything to do with promoting Keith Olbermann, Spokesman For Dupes Who Think Rolling Stone Magazine Is The Epitome Of Cool.

Though there is a temptation to K.O. K.O., he’s probably the type who’d be a big baby about it, calling in the cops and loosing the lawyers.  So instead, I’ll offer Olbermann a “Good night and shut the hell up” pimp slap from a hand of his choice..  (That way, there will be no nonsense about the “symbolism” of the blow coming from “the left” or “the far right.”)

August:  The Romantics--The Bouffant Boys, as I immediately dubbed them, donned black leather jackets in the late Seventies and, like the infinitely loathsome Sting, gleefully rode in on the coattails of punk/new wave despite being nothing of the sort.  Even more infuriating was the fact they squeezed out a couple of hit singles and headlined numerous venues—no doubt selling their sugary swill to the same losers who dropped $80 on a white shirt and skinny black tie and thought that made them “hip”—while truly genuine inhabitants of the punk/new wave scene went (and, to this day, remain) unnoticed.

A decade earlier, the r&b act Ruby And The Romantics made the national charts with “Our Day Will Come”…meaning the later quartet were so far from innovative, they couldn’t even come up with an original band name, let alone anything else!

Thankfully, the Romantics II’s reign was short-lived, their songs out of earshot forever—or so I hoped.  The same dolts who dug the foursome in the band’s heyday apparently are ad agency Creative Directors today, and thus America was “treated” to Romantics drivel as background noise for ads all over TV and radio this month.

In a word, “what I like about you,” Bouffant Boys, is nothing.  Pimp slaps for the lot of ‘em, I say!

(Yes, I know “Lust For Life” is easily number one on the jingle parade.  But at least it was once a terrific tune and there’s absolutely no question about Iggy Pop’s standing in the punk/new wave movement.)

July:  Punk-ass Pennsylvanian Elmer Zimmerman—SNAPS is ordinarily reserved for celebrities, names readily recognized.  But this month’s recipient is someone you’ve likely been fortunate enough to never encounter.  And if he’s lucky, he’ll never cross paths with me.

July’s maximum scumbag, Elmer Zimmerman, ran a kennel in Kutztown, PA, and did so in such an unsuitable manner, on the 24th, authorities ordered veterinary examinations of dozens of his animals.  Rather than comply, and being an ignoramus to the Nth degree, the creep callously shot 70 dogs to death—a heinous act not illegal in the Keystone State!—and dumped them on a compost heap.  (His brother Ammon gunned down ten more around the same time.)

Figuratively speaking, Elmer Pudd “cut his nose to spite his face.”  It’s just a screaming tragedy one couldn’t get away with taking the open end of Zimmerman’s rifle barrel and literally alter his facial features, spraying the limited content of his skull all over the wallpaper, with the same disregard he displayed for the pooches.

Makes Bawling Bret Favre’s “look at me” antics and Andy Dick living up to his name seem awfully pedestrian in comparison, eh?  And while I’d be delighted to pull the trigger in the scenario described above, I most certainly have no desire to do forever in prison over a worthless piece of puke like Zimmerman.  The most I can offer is a pimp slap…but I promise to put a WHOLE LOT of zing into it.

June:  Hulk Hogan--People frequently assume, because I am from the world of pro wrestling, I must in turn be a devout Hulkamaniac.  That's about as off-base as the assumption every fan of Hogan's Heroes has a fondness for Nazi prison camps.

Never liked Hogan--for a large variety of reasons, some of which would be difficult to explain to those outside the stretchin' profession--and within wrestling, I am hardly alone in my opinion.  Want an example of how much "class" the Immoral Hulk Hogan has?  Check out my magazine column text detailing how the jerk badmouthed a murder victim last summer, implying her death was justified.  http://swmswm.home.att.net/PS158.htm 

Hohum's more recent gasp-inducing session was on one of Larry King's softball fests, coming on the heels of Hulk getting busted by some VERY incriminating taped conversations with his spoiled son Nick during the kid's incarceration.

FYI, Baby Hogan was behind the wheel during a reckless-speed car crash that left his "best friend" John Graziano severely brain-damaged for life.  The Hogans claimed to be emotionally devastated over the Iraq War vet's condition, stating he was like a second son to them.

Said tapes, however, told a different story.  When not whining about the size of his cell or discussing how to cash in with his own reality series, "remorseful" Nick managed to mention poor John--at which point compassionate Hulk noted, "I don't know what type of person John was or what he did to get himself in the situation...(but) God laid some heavy shit on that kid, man.  I don't know what he was into," once again turning the victim into the "deserving" culprit.

Nick responded by branding Graziano "a negative person."  

Salt of the earth, these two, huh?  And, remember, this private conversation concerned someone they publicly declared was practically a live-in at their house and a fifth member of the family.

But wait, it gets better.  Addressing King, Hulk then whipped out the always-convenient religion card and courageously confessed he is gracious enough to forgive the Graziano family for being a teensy-weensy bit ticked off at the Hogans for (among other things) using dubious displays of "concern" as publicity stunts.  And if that alone didn't take enough gall, the Huckster tainted his forgiveness with a qualifier addendum, "You forgive them, for they know not what they do"!

That's right, not only did Mr. Ethics actually QUOTE THE BIBLE while magnanimously accepting an unoffered apology from the parents and siblings of the young man Nick's irresponsible behavior put on permanent life support, but in the process of doing so, Hulk also labeled the Grazianos as ignorant!!!

What a marvelous human being.

I've only got one response, and it's addressed to you, Hogan:  Whatcha gonna do when Stately's pimp-slap runs wild on you...brother?

May:  Kenny Chesney--Moments after the Academy Of Country Music announced its Entertainer Of The Year, Chesney publicly badmouthed the group for using a fan-vote system to determine the recipient of the award--the one he had just won for the fourth consecutive time.

Way to go, Ken.  Why not knock your supporters for being fat, stupid and ugly, while you're at it?  Or how about projecting a slide show of your mansion and pointing out how your faithful will never have a home like that or be allowed anywhere near yours?

But Chesney couldn't just express his opinion--admirably honest but diplomatically boneheaded, though it was--and let that be that.  Nope, a few days later, out came the pathetic excuses.  Spun his publicist, er, Karing Kenny on MySpace, "To me, (the award) is about the work that goes into it.  I don't ever want you worrying about the work.  I want you...being in the moment of the music."

And because he felt it necessary to use the "Boo hoo hoo, my job is so damn difficult and meaningful, expecially compared to yours" expression very popular among the self-important Hollywood set--that being "the work"--for the third and fourth times in four sentences, Chesney unconvincingly added, "That was my point.  Let the people who do the work, judge the work part of it."

It wasn't bad enough the guy's alibi is more porous (and easy to see through) than a pair of fishnet stockings; oh, no, Chesney had to actually stoop to referencing "being in the moment," a top candidate for new-agey mystic all-about-me feelgood hooey cliche of the decade.

To date, no one in South Park has exclaimed, "Oh, my God, they killed Kenny Chesney.  Sweet!"  However, until that occurs, "I don't ever want you (readers) worrying about the work.  I want you being in the moment"...of the well-deserved pimp slap this clown has coming, courtesy of yours truly.

April:  Miley Cyrus--I’m going to have to ask all readers under age 18 to leave this page at once, as we will be discussing frank adult topics.  

As you remaining grown-ups no doubt heard, April ended with an immense scandal—dare I call it a crisis?—concerning an incident sure to change the direction of the moral compass around the globe:  Miley Cyrus was photographed displaying--GASP!!!—her bare back.  Goodness gracious, next thing you know, they’ll be publishing a sketch of Hillary Duff’s naked ankle!!!!!!!!!

Did I go to bed in late April and wake up in 1892?  All this fuss over something you can see on any three-year-old on the beach and not think twice about?  In the Girls Gone Wild era, where you can find tens of thousands of waaaaaaay more explicit photos on every corner of the Internet?  And then after launching the obvious publicity stunt, “Hannah Montana” plays the innocent little angel cajoled by the big bad photographer?

First things first.  Though it may have been different in Morley Safer’s day, modern fifteen-year-olds are hardly innocent little angels.  Hell, Traci Lords was making hardcore porn at age 15, and that was in the Eighties!  Miley is a showbiz veteran and months away from being legally licensed to drive a two-ton weapon, so let’s cut the naïve cherub crap.

Secondly, only the sickest pedophile would find the infamous photo “arousing.”  The pubescent Christina Applegate, Alyssa Milano and Britney Speers gave off that “bombshell in training” vibe at fifteen; however, Miley’s image screams “Future sitcom ‘daughter’ of Ray Romano.”  And with the “controversial” picture carrying an eroticism factor of zero, this whole hubbub is hooey.  

And I’m not forgetting dear old dad here, either, as he rates a backhand for each pimp-slap Miley gets.  More disturbing than the “Where was he when these ‘lurid’ photos were being taken?” reasonable question, the man sports a freakin’ soul patch!!!  So, come on over here, Billy Ray, and taste my achy-breaky hand.

March:  Vulture, er, Victor Conte--I had no intention to go into steroids and sports two months in a row, but I just couldn't let this one pass without notice.  Get this:  the day his probation ended, Balco lab founder Victor Conte announced he was writing a book called Balco:  The Straight Dope on Barry Bonds, Marion Jones and What We Can Do To Save Sports.

That's right, what WE can do.  And to SAVE sports, no less.

Here's the guy who created designer drugs specifically tailored to evade detection by standard tests, concoctions which forever tainted numerous athletic achievements, made the all-time-record-breaking homer-hitter unhirable the very next season and ultimately put cutie Jones into prison for lying about the chemicals--all this while stuffing his own bank account.  But, suddenly, when he's got a book to shill, Slick Vic is deeply concerned about the well-being of others.  

Especially impressive--in a hustler's chutzpah way--is the patronizing use of the first-person plural...as if "we" were the ones encouraging cheating and perjury, and, consequently, "we" are expected to do the dirty work, rather than the guilty being forced to clean up their own mess.

Let's not overlook the "day his probation ended" phrase above.  Moneyed people don't get found guilty unless they're realllllllllly guilty.  And so even though being on the streets means he's no longer a con as in "prisoner," CONte's still a con in the grifter sense.

February:  Roger Clemens—I try to avoid the extremely obvious; but as of late, if there’s been a bigger jackass in the public eye than Roger Clemens, I have yet to discover that person.

For the record, I write pro wrestling columns, and thus it may appear utterly ridiculous for a person from that world to condemn alleged steroid and HGH abuse.  But my beef with the baseballer isn’t about whether or not he shot the sauce; it’s about the way he’s behaved since being accused.

As my fellow drummers will tell you, there is nothing more galling than hearing a loudmouth ignorantly conclude your fast hands are strictly the result of “doing speed” rather than countless hours polishing your craft.  So, I know how such accusations can really tick off someone who busted his hump to excel.  But as my fellow writers will point out, there’s an infamous Shakespearian line that goes “Methinks thou dost protest too much”…meaning, the more overboard one gets claiming his innocence, the guiltier the dope looks.

Here’s how these things work.  If you’re guilty and get caught, issue a public apology, and the gullible masses will believe you actually mean it.  If you’re innocent, behave like a responsible adult, not some privileged prat who just caught his wife with the pool boy.

Innocent or guilty, every aspect of Clemens’ post-accusation behavior—curt, defensive comments; body language; a self-called press conference “highlighted” by a hissy fit and denunciation of his own profession’s Hall Of Fame; attempts to intimidate reporters—has painted the pitcher as a typical pampered jock pouting when sycophants stop telling him how marvelous he is.  Brilliant strategy (especially since it practically builds the gallows if one is later proven guilty.)

But far worse than coming across as yet another in a long line of athletes who fancy themselves above the law, Clemens’ puffy-chested demeanor and histrionics are the traits of one of the most despicable creatures on Earth—the blustering bully.

And who better than a bully warrants a good pimp-slapping?

JANUARY 2008--Just the set the record straight from the get-go, I considered Heath Ledger a talented actor, and have no negative opinion about how he lived his life off the set.  No question it was a shame he died at an early age and left a young child to grow up fatherless.

However...Ledger was neither a performer whose very distinctive new style was and will deeply influence his and future generations a la James Dean nor an iconic figure (e.g. Bruce Lee) who left behind but a small revolutionary body of work.  Conversely, his film legacy didn’t extend long enough to qualify for “legendary” status as might be accorded a Cagney, Streep or DeNiro.

Heath Ledger was a skilled likable young man with a bright future.  But to hear the entertainment reporters pour it on as they tripped over each other to “outmourn” their peers…well, here are a few examples culled from randomly flipping around the dial.

*One "expert" correspondent compared Heath to Marlon Brando(!)

*A talking head on the same program commented on Ledger’s “combination of brawn and sensitivity,” her crocodile tears morphing the man into the modern Robert Mitchum.  With all due respect, Ledger might have worn an XL sweatshirt, but his look was hardly what is conventionally considered brawny.

*Another hyperbole huckster declared Ledger “irreplaceable” because “there’s nobody in Hollywood like him”—which must have absolutely delighted numerous Tinseltown actors fitting Ledger’s general description.

*A hushed-breath spoken headline stated, “Heath Ledger’s death even affected the White House!”  (In truth, the Prez’s people did postpone a planned drug program announcement because they didn’t want anyone thinking they were exploiting the death; but it’s not like George W. and staff brought in counselors to help deal with the overwhelming grief.)

*Solemn-faced reporters were doing inane live remotes from outside Ledger’s residence three nights after the fact.

*Since it might weaken the Tower Of Bathos they were building, commentators “forgot” the mother of Health’s child was estranged from the star…or they were so ill-prepared, they didn’t even know.

So, Larry King (who, natch, hosted a one-hour Ledger program), Pat O’Brien, the E! Network personalities and similar dubious public “mourners,” form a straight line.  It’s time to deliver a Three Stooges-style simultaneous multiple slap to the entire disingenuous lot of you.

December:  Tom Brokaw (with a backhand to Jon Stewart for good measure.)  Because credibility is a journalist’s greatest asset, once he’s lost it, it’s close to impossible to gain it back.  And it looks like Tom Brokaw took one giant leap down Barbara Walters Way with his History Channel documentary “1968."

Between considering Brokaw a top-line pro, and having a fervent fascination with the late Sixties, I was looking forward to the much-hyped December special.  Unfortunately, “1968” was the worst Sixties study I ever sat through.  It was bad enough the show was plodding along at an ant’s pace, treading over the same old shopworn material.  Then it happened.  

Ladies and gentlemen, Brokaw’s cred has left the building.

The subject:  the highly controversial Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, airing from 1967 until cancelled in April of 1969.  The celebrity fondly recalling the program and claiming it was a seminal influence on his future career path:  Jon Stewart, not being sarcastic.

That would be the Jon Stewart who claims his birth was in late October of ‘62, meaning, in the titular 1968, he was...hey, wait a minute.  Even if he were allowed to stay up until 10 pm at his age in order to watch the Smothers’ show, are we supposed to be gullible enough to believe a first-grader not only “got” the very politicized humor of the program, but also that it made a life-altering impact on the youngster?!?

I’ve already said my piece on the ludicrous myth of Stewart’s “brilliance”  and celebs spouting extremely dubious “memories” for a bit of face time.  Neither of those is the issue here.  The fact that I and millions of viewers can do the proverbial math placing Stewart on BS Boulevard means Brokaw certainly could do so as well—yet he still went along with Jivin’ Jon dusting the entire show with a coat of toro poop.

There’s absolutely no excuse for allowing fables into non-fiction.  One noted observer proposed perhaps Doubted Thomas was merely a hired gun doing exactly what the producers called for, in order to pick up an easy buck.  Could be.  But either way, it still boils down to whoring out one’s once-good name.

In 1968, it was popular to hold up two fingers in the “peace sign.”  Well, today, Tom, I’m holding up four fingers and a thumb…to propel briskly across your cheekbone.  

(Author’s note:  Lest anyone doubt the Daily Show fanboy factor was in play, DS regular Lewis Black was featured later in the special.)

1. November:  As if it weren't bad enough...

...her prima donna appearance contract rider is notorious for its "I will never touch 90 percent of this stuff, but I'm a big star so I'll break your stones insisting upon it anyway" demands.  (You can see it at the Smoking Guns site.)

,,,she dated Ben Affleck--unfunky personified--this launching the cloying celeb-couple's-names-combo affectation with "Bennifer," which begat "Bradgelina," etc.  What if I, Mr. Manor, were to hook up with a Janet?  Would we be known as "Janitor?"

...her J-Lo moniker is directly responsible for popularizing the first-surname abbreviation silliness.  Ballplayer Jimmy Rollins has become "J-Roll"; Lindsay Lohan, "Li-Lo"; Kevin Federline, "K-Fed"; the list continuing ad nauseum.  (With Howard Johnson's being referred to as "HoJo," what does that make a guy named Howard Morris?)

....she attempted to pass herself off as "still Jenny from the block," before boarding a private jet to attend the Oscars in a dress to be worn once, it's price enough to feed a family "from the block" for two years.

No, as if the above weren't enough to warrant a pimp slap already, Jennifer Lopez spent much of November refusing to confirm or deny her pregnancy, as if a frenzied public could barely bear the suspense surrounding this vital proclamation.

Psssst, yo Jenn.  Believe it or not, the vast majority of us could give a rat's ass.  When your son is born in a manger in Bethlehem, maybe then have your publicist give us a ring.  In the interim, cut the crap, shut your trap and come get your slap.

OCTOBER:  The “obvious” choice here is Britney Spears—but that, in fact, is wrong.  Those warranting a palm to the puss are the various media gossipmongers who keep covering her every move.

Through my gorgeous eyes, it’s obvious Brit’s doing all she possibly can to unload the tykes without looking like a heartless villain and consequently killing her career.  And whattaya know, she just happens to have a new CD coming out in a few weeks.  Furthermore, let’s balance the potential sales of a yesterday’s-news musical act long and far off the radar versus one getting relentless publicity daily.  How many of us would even know Ms. Spears has another album about to “drop,” if it weren’t for the fact it’s been mentioned as part of the 24/7 Britwatch?

I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Brit and K-Fed privately exchange high-fives every time one of the stunts in her “crazy” act garners headlines.  After all, more money for her means more for whomever takes care of the kids while she’s out living it up for a while.  

Guess who that is.

Readers who think Britney begs for several pimp slaps miss the big picture.  A pop sensation’s primary job is to constantly promote the product (which is herself.)  Consequently, if you’re sick of the overkill, don’t fault Brit, blame it on the limp-wrists at Inside Edition, Us Weekly, ET etcetera, for being gullible and lazy enough to keep buying into her shtick.  

Besides, even if my publicity conspiracy theory is way off-base, who doesn’t want an excuse to pimp slap that Ryan Seacrest???

September:  ABC executives--I nearly became an ad copywriter long ago, and therefore have an above-average appreciation for first-rate TV advertising.  I will buy a particular product specifically because I'm wowed by the cleverness of the ad campaign.  (You do, too, albeit not consciously.)  In fact, I switched to Geico and saved a bundle on car insurance.

And that's no joke!!!

As every American who watches commercial TV likely knows, Geico has run a series of spots informing viewers that converting to a policy with them is "so easy a caveman can do it."  These spots are half-minute masterpieces...however, they've become unwitting accessories to a crime against creativity.

Boasting about the high points of its new fall lineup, throughout September ABC plugged the debut of a prime-time sitcom--Caveman.

Is this what it's really come down to?  Have the network braintrusts become so bereft of imagination and courage, the best they could do was lift characters out of a freaking advertisement?!?

Railing against the cowardly copycatting of hit series is a lost cause at this point.  But at least the TV producers responsible for said cloning are ripping off an entire show as well as changing it up a slight bit.  Caveman simply expands 30-second ad spots to 30 minutes and omits any references to insurance.  And for this, a squad of suits pat each other on the back, congratulating themselves on their "creativity."  Well, I've got a little hand-contact gesture for you, too, fellas--but it's not on your spineless backs.  SLAP!

Author's note:  I have seen bits and pieces of Caveman and found the brief samples entertaining.  The quality of the show, however, is irrelevant to the above.

August:  Riki Rachtman--As previously stated in a brilliant On Manor's Mind column, unless you were the guitarist who wrote "Purple Haze," use of a cutesy re-spelling of a common first name is indisputable scientific proof you're a handjob.  So, right away, there's a problem with Riki Rachtman--compounded tenfold by the fact his name is actually David.

Although Riki was on Loveline as one of the highly untrained "experts" dishing out dangerous advice to pathetic lonely-hearts, my first recollection of the infection is from when he hosted Headbangers' Ball.  There was Riki, wearing this immense--and immensely ridiculous--bouffant right out of the Eighties Hair Band Handbook...even though he started the gig in 1990.

Upon finally catching on (the stint ran to 1995) that look had long become passé among metal maniacs, along came Riki sheered and covered in tattoos--i.e., very belatedly jumping on a crowded bandwagon once it was a long-established "thing to do."

Next, Rachtman dared tread on MY turf, getting an announcer spot with World Championship Wrestling in 1999; and, hey, whattaya know, very belatedly jumping on a crowded bandwagon once it was a long-established "thing to do."

Wrestling happened to be the hot fad of the late Nineties, and here was our boy feigning he's a hardcore enthusiast.  FYI, folks, I've been the sport's King Of Columnists for 23 years on an international level; and, trust me, I know when someone's phoning it in.

So what became the "in thing" the first half of the current decade?  Did you say "NASCAR"?  Well, guess who was on the TV announce team for this summer's big races?  If I didn't know better, I'd say that sounds remarkably like very belatedly jumping on a crowded bandwagon once it was a long-established "thing to do"!!!

I for one am looking forward to 2010, when Ricocheting Riki discovers Tiger Woods, and turns up at the Masters with a Nike swoosh forehead tattoo and advice on wedge selection.  In the interim, here's an artistic facial impression of my right palm, "David."

July:  Bret Michaels--Why do I loathe thee?  Let me count the ways.  

A member of a hair band (1) who performed a “power ballad” (2) and spent two decades milking it (3), right down to the Eighties wardrobe, (4) while musically stagnating (5) and behaving like yet another (yawn) faded rock star with arrested development (6)—that’s a sizzling six-pack of sickening…for starters.

And, hey, how about Kid Rock’s dad appearing as a celeb judge on the televised 2005 singing-competition series Nashville Star, devoted entirely to country music?  Nothing disingenuous about the Pennsylvania-raised pencil-neck being part of that, huh?  

Every rose has its thorn, and every thorn delivers a prick.  In this case, a very shallow one.

Michaels has been treading this path for ages, so why single him out for July of 2007?  Because of a midsummer night’s nightmare called Rock Of Love, VH-1’s equal-time, whitewashed version of Flavor Of Love (and hence the wildly creative title.)

For truth-in-advertising purposes, the program really should have been named Skanks For The Memories, considering the prospective brides recruited for this go-round.  Apparently, the producers conducted an exhaustive search of only the finest Interstate 95 off-ramp bars, seeking the cream of dollar-tip strippers willing to shed the sole atom of dignity they still possess before moving on to short-lived porn careers and neverending detox cycles.  In light of the “prize” they’re vying for, skeezers aren’t all that inappropriate.  

And, oh, the sincerity our boy Bret oozes.  You know, like how rockers really REALLY mean it when they end a set by exclaiming “We love you, (name of city).”  Especially impressive was Michaels’ candid confession session whereupon he soulfully confided he didn’t grasp much of an intimate one-on-one conversation between himself and a particular hoochie because he was too preoccupied staring at her knockers.  Ah, what a romantic.

There is one potential up-side to the shameless show.  Bounced bimbos are notorious for badmouthing their lost lothario; so, perhaps one ROL reject will come forward to confirm what has long been suspected:  Yanking off Michaels’ ever-present headgear in a moment of passion, she discovered there’s air where there was once hair.

Mind you, those of us living in this century know a follicle-free dome doesn’t rate a second glance, and is even considered stylish in certain circles.  However, since the appropriately initialed B.M. is acutely protective of his scalp status, it would be immensely delightful to watch the hustled get over so well on the hustler.

Will the above scenario ever play out?  We’ll find out soon enough.  In the meantime, Bret, here’s a firm pimp-slap…of love, of course.

Author’s note:  For those unfamiliar with The Bachelor and similar tragically popular hook-up series that followed its success, the formula goes like this:  Jiveass, who clearly has NO CONCEPT of what true love is, talks a bunch of crap to pathetic, emotionally disturbed member of the opposite sex, in a house packed with audio-video gear they pretend they’re unaware of, one sad sack eliminated weekly until the remaining “lucky” contestant wins the host’s heart forever.

That is, if you define “forever” as “until the lighting guy has finished unplugging his equipment.”  

Author’s later addendum:  I suppose a public apology is in order.  On a more recent “Rock Of Love” episode, Michaels was shown sans headgear—and sure enough, there was a full mane above his brow!  While I sincerely regret believing otherwise and leading readers astray, Bret’s northern exposure suggests he must wear the inane cowboy hats, bandanas, do-rags and combinations of two such accessories because he thinks he actually LOOKS GOOD in them—which makes him even more of a Sucka Needing A Pimp Slap!!!

Author's even LATER addendum:  VH-1 began promoting "Rock Of Love 2" in December of 2007, it going into production mere months after the initial season...and further illustrating how much "love" was involved in the travesty to begin with.

June:  Simon Monjack(-ass)--Being whipped is one thing.  In fact, it's one thing any anatomically correct male should never endure or tolerate--although plenty of them do.

If one elects to be whipped, so be it.  The unwritten rule, though, is "No matter what, never admit to it."  And if you've got even a minute shred of testosterone--or dignity--you sure as hell don't have your publicist send out a freakin' press release celebrating you emasculation--by Brittany Murphy, no less!!!

Read it and puke.

What kind of a...well, he can't be considered "a man" now that he's had his genitals removed and placed in a Mason jar.  What kind of a creature is so subservient, he (or she, for that matter) issues a public decree cheerily admitting he goes to sleep with the taste of freshly licked boot on his tongue?

I'll tell you what kind--the kind who needs his face used as a bongo!  And if "the other half" doesn't like it, I'll gladly throw in an extra pimp slap to the oppressor, on the house.

(Side note:  I find it rather interesting the alpha female here is Brittany Murphy.  Brit's former flame was Ashton Kutcher who, in news clips with Demi Moore, appears to be being led down the street via an invisible ring through his nose, eyes cast downward and ready to whisper "Yes, mistress" at her every command.

It's all in the body language, Ash; so maybe it's time to launch a candid camera show where YOU are the subject.  You can call it Whip'd.)

May:  Dina, Lindsay Lohan’s mother--First off, let’s establish it’s been quite some time since I was Lindsay’s age; but it’s only been hours since I was last in my hangout, where the median age of the patrons is twenty-something…so I’m not THAT out of touch with modern youth.  Also, I wasn’t exactly being fitted for a halo when I had the same number of candles on the birthday cake as Double-L.

And if there’s anything I can speak of with absolute eyewitness authority, it’s the subject of “Party Goods Tolerance.”  Swallowed, shot or inhaled, no matter what the substance, there’s one consistent truism:  Some people can handle their intake better than others.

The fact that the gorgeous actress’ playmates aren’t popping up in the ER suggests Lindsay’s crew isn’t Motley Crue II as it applies to conspicuous consumption.  Taking the “you do about what your friends do” rule of thumb and everything else into account, Doctor Manor hereby concludes Miss Lohan happens to be one of those people who has a lower tolerance than her peers.

It’s nothing to be ashamed of, kiddo.  The genetic luck of the draw blessing you with exceptional talent and beauty came up a little short on the (vastly overrated) party gene, that’s all.  No need to explain yourself to others.

But what’s YOUR excuse, Mrs. Lohan?

I’m sure there are worse cases, but this seems to be the most high-profile example of a disturbing post-Woodstock fallout across America, that being the avalanche of parents whose highest priority is retaining their Cool Card.  

Somewhere along the line, the navel gazers decided the same desperate (and failing) attempts to convince others they are indeed “cool” should also apply to their kids.  “Look, baby Dylan, we smoke pot!”  Children, being manipulative little monsters, quickly learned that presenting a “World’s Coolest Dad” mug on Father’s Day was a license to get away with murder the other 364 days of the year.  And thus the beast grew.

Clearly, these parents are so self-absorbed, they can’t even see the obvious:  The brain of a child is not yet emotionally or physically developed enough to make mature decisions; sometimes being a parent involves being uncool; and, no discipline is just as bad as an overly strict upbringing.

Are these notions really that difficult to grasp?  Perhaps a brisk pimp slap will help restore focus.

As Lindsay’s parent and business manager, Dina Lohan stands out as double trouble.  The lean blonde…how do I know?  I’ve seen photos…of Dina hitting trendy nightspots herself…with her then-underage daughter.  Great role-modeling, eh?

Let’s say—and this is extremely hypothetical—Missus L actually deserves a “World’s Worst Mom” coffee mug, she’s such a failure as a parent.  You’d think, just clinically looking at the situation as an agent-client relationship, one would get in the kid’s face and do whatever is necessary to snap Lindsay out of the spiral, if for no other reason than a concern over future commissions.  It doesn’t take any maternal instinct to figure that out.

Lindsay is truly gifted though apparently fragile; and it would be thoroughly depressing if she were to continue on the same path as Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Brian Jones, Kurt Cobain, et al.

How much is that Cool Card going to be worth then?

Postscript:  On June 6th, E! Network announced plans for a pseudo-“reality” show featuring Dina stage-mothering her two youngest children.  “Thanks, babe,” said Satan shortly thereafter.

April:  Don Imus--Sure, everyone's taken shots at I'mus (as in "the contraction of 'Ignormamus'" for his choice of words while describing the Rutgers women's basketball team...but that's not why he's April 2007's SNAPS Ot The Month.

Truth be told, that hoop squad--like most girljocks--doesn't conform to the common perception of what constitutes physical beauty.  One point for Imus.  Conversely, their job is to score more points than the opponents, not walk the runway for Versace.  One point for the ladies.

But the tie-breaker here goes to the gals--because who the hell is Don The Dunce to speak disparagingly about anyone else's appearance?  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!!!  (If Jesse and Al will "allow" me to use that expression without insisting I fire myself.)

How utterly ridiculous is it for someone who lived in New York City for decades to be prancing around dressed like the Marlboro Man On Medicare?  And let's not overlook the seeming fetish for hiding his Adam's Apple, with the turned-up collars, absurd bandanas and chin tucked beween the collarbones while speaking.  (Pretentious posturing or concealing a tracheotomy scar?  You make the call.)

There's a chance the bigoted blowhard was attractive when he was the basket-belles' age.  But, wake up, Donnosaur, that was when JFK was running for President and, to put it frankly, today you look like Keith Richards' older uncle!  Hell, I've seen better heads in guillotine baskets.

Not to mention on hoze.

March:  Andre Rieu--One look at the perennial PBS fundraiser, with his frilly collars and 1972 version of "long hair," is all it takes--all it takes me, anyway--to envision the violinist being one of those types who, behind the charming facade, is a curt peacock fancying himself quite the stud...and likely having that self-image reinforced regularly, thanks to his position of power and the weakness of potential "competition" in his circle.

Coming from the world of professional wrestling, I'd ordinarily praise a person for getting over on the general pubic.  But there's something about Andre The Orchestral Giant that says he'd be much improved by my palm briskly and repeatedly applied to his cheekbone.  Maybe it's because he doesn't know when to reel it in.

Case in point, February and March 2007 newspaper entertainment sections contained large ads for AR's "Home Coming Tour."  It's bad enough he stoops to the irritating practiced of hackneyed rock stars, hustlers who can't seem to hit the road without first devising the least creative moniker imaginable for their endeavor (as if a tour even "needs" a name.)  But Andre has to make the whole cliche immeasurably worse by his choice of descriptives.

Uh, when exactly did Philadelphia become Andre's "home"???  Okay, say he somehow moved into town a few years ago and I was simply unaware of it.  It still means the name is fraudulent in every other American city he's visiting.  And let's face it, we all know the friggin' fiddler's home isn't even on this continent!

Had Rieu been living in an orbiting space station for an extended time, I'd be cool with the explanation "By 'home,' the reference is to Planet Earth."  Or even if he called it "The 'No More Seeing Me For Free, You Cheap Bastards' Tour," that would've been fine--make that commended--by Monsieur Manor.  But, no, the best he could do was "The Home Coming Tour."  Bloody brilliant.  What's the matter, "A Very Special Evening With Andre Rieu" already been used?

In fact, I'm extending this particular assault to also include any performer who ever actually did fill the blank in "A Very Special Evening With ______."  You've played hundreds of gigs; so, in actuality, there's nothing remotely "special" about the advertised one at all, you bogus bag of boogers!  Christ, even Andre did better than that.  After all, he does have a home somewhere and he will be coming to it eventually.

February:  Justin Timberlake--So, you're "bringing sexy back," are you, boy-bander?  NO YOU'RE NOT--it never freakin' left!!!

The kid comes off fairly personable and has talent.  And I'll give him Grifter Points for getting away with making an entire and very lucrative career out of being a naturally-white-Michael-Jackson knock-off.  But rather than keep a low profile in hopes of not blowing his cover, Timberlake apparently will attend the Annual 4-H Donkey Shaving Contest in Pugsley Falls, Montana, if there's a publicity op in it for him!

Open up the newspaper, and there's an update on which A-list trollop he waved to in a parking lot last night.  Flip around the cable TV circuit, and here's an ad for this week's Self-Congratulatory Celebrity Fake-Love Fest awards special, with musical guest Justin Timberlake; while on Channel 44, they are breathlessly reporting on "JT's" latest undertaking, appearing in a film as--I'll try my best not to giggle while typing this--a tough guy.

(Evidently, Pee Wee Herman was deemed too old for the part.)

Now, as far as this silly "sexy" business goes, it never fails to amaze me how celebs CONtinue to CONvince weak-kneed women they are hot hunks because, well, their publicity says so.  Prince deserves maximum credit for being an exceptional musician; but when did a five-foot-five fop become any woman's idea of sexy?  I'll tell you when--when his publicist told gaggles of gullible gals so.

Take away the star status, put him in a public setting with his pursed lips, lacy cuffs and purple toreador pants, and the only strong sexual-based reaction you'll see is insecure macho bullies running out to buy cars just to have a tire iron with which to bludgeon the "sawed-off sissy."  (I'm not condoning, just truthifying.)

Undoubtedly, the most hysterically absurd attempt to promote a client as a hunky he-man is the one launched by David Copperfield's p.r. machine.  Yes, that David Copperfield, the corny magician who, unfortunately, has yet to make himself permanently disappear!  I kid you not, he's marketed as a stud.  Now get up off the rug you've been rolling upon in convulsive laughter and ice up that slap-sore thigh.

January 2007:  Howie Mandel--There's only one facial-hair adornment worse than the "Attempting at age 29-plus to look young and hip, and failing miserably at both" goatee--and that's the "soul patch."

The name alone inspires an upchuck of Olympic-pool-filling proportion.  (BLLLUGGGK.  There goes yesterday's Hot Pocket.  And here comes last Friday's pizza.)  In fact, the only thing more pretentious that wearing a soul patch is the term itself.

Howie Mandel, you may have been forced to notice, has a patch.  Worse still, he's combined it with the goatee's hip/young/failing-attempt counterpart, the shaved head.  Worser, he used the creaky--not to mention extremely dubious--"I did it for a film role" excuse for the makeover.  Worsest, Mandel claims he only retained the look after the (wink wink) "film" wrapped, because his wife dug it to death.

How convenient for Howie:  He gets to look like a git for the sad sacks who actually think he's with-it and groovy; and can blame his wife when knocked by anyone who sees him as a horse's ass.

Here's another fun fact about the fellow.  In 2002, the USA Network debuted a new hit series Monk, it's titular character having an extreme case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (aka OCD) and intense fear of germs.  Next thing you know, then-C-List Vegas act H. Mandel had a publicity stunt, er, I mean public announcement:  He was plagued by--wait for it--OCD and was a major germaphobic.

Wow, what remarkable timing.

Makes me wonder what Mandel would have done had the hot premiering series been Banacek, in which the central character was blind.  "Ladies and gentleman of the press, we are grieved to inform you a ricocheting air-rifle BB ruptured Howie's right eye.  And then it happened to his left."

Far be it from extremely naive me to suggest perhaps Howie was stooping to a disgraceful, distasteful attempt to cop attention.  After all, I did see him on that celebrity poker show, wearing rubber gloves so as not to catch any cooties off the cards.  But isn't it interesting how the gloves were gone when he got the game show gig, where exuberant contestants regularly make physical contact yet we never see the host so much as flinch at all that bouncing bacteria?

I just wonder how Howie will react to my unwashed palm crossing just in front of the "really cool" hoop earings.  Squeal or no squeal?

sidebar:  Howie had hair in a 2000 movie, played a showbiz manager in a 2001 TV movie and a rabbi in a 2004 TV movie (i.e. certainly no need for the bald/patched look) and did cartoon voiceover (ditto) that same year.  According to the Internet Movie Database, he had no movie credits between then and when Deal Or No Deal launched in 2006.

December:  The Sing-Along Throng--I have no complaint about sporadic instances where songs are more or less custom-made for a bit of audience participation.  So if, for instance, you are inspired to belt out the backup singers' "Turn and face the strange" before David Bowie croons the word "changes," you needn't worry about my boot being winged in your general direction.

In fact, I tend to be fascinated by the whole Triumph Of The Will manipulative facet of a concert, and get a titter out of imaging what I'd be coaxing the lemmings to do had I achieved my immensely deserved rock stardom.

The S.N.A.P.S. in this instance are the pathetic prats who have appointed themselves "substitute lead singer"...and decided they should warble every word of every tune.

If you want to see a Sing-Along Throng in action but wisely lack any desire to lay out three figures to attend a large-venue concert, tune in one of the PBS pledge-pumpers featuring what's left of acts who had hit singles circa 1955-68.  There you'll witness the most self-absorbed, delusional generation ever to soil the galaxy--the first wave of babyboomers--mouthing along en mass, no lyric left behind.

Never mind the rest of the population, Isaac; Lulu flew all the way over from England to sing "To Sir With Love" solely for YOU, and in fact left a note at the box office expressing how extremely grateful she'd be if you made it a duet, preferably off-key.  After all, you ARE the center of the universe, and it would be absurd to disagree with the notion everything is about you and you alone, or that others buy tickets because they want to hear you rather than the artist.

Selfish moron.

And don't go thinking you're off the hook here, Twenty-Somethings; there are Throngsters of every generation.  You have no idea how many times I've heard youthful loudmouths attempting to out-shout the Beastie Boys track playing on a gin mill juke--complete with the "guest performer" doing the whole hip-hop posturing trip.  Caucasian, please!