June 15, 2004
Time to Bestow a Velocifist
Semiannually (or when the mood strikes me) I like to take an unfunny comedian to the woodshed. Someone whose very existence claws the cosmic chalkboard of my psyche. Previous honorees have included Joey Bishop, Bronson Pinchot, the undead Tony Randall.
Heady company, I know you're thinking. I was also thinking perhaps I should institutionalize this honor. So I'm going to call it the Velocifist. I believe I can find a metallurgist to craft some nice brass fists about the size of Andre the Giant's paw that I will send the recipient. More focusing than those rectal beads, when inserted properly. Just a thought.
Tonight's honoree: Albert Brooks.
What a pretentious popinjay. Someone obviously told this fatuous onanist once upona that he was a funny guy. Probably his circle jerk buddy in high school, after Albert's glutinous ass had been rat-tailed to welted sausage stuffing by the strapsniffers.
Brooks' problem is that he always positions himself as Everyman, fighting an epic struggle against the vagaries of a nonsensical Universe. Unfortunately, he usually comes off as Otherman, the freaking loser who insults my intelligence with his contrived refusal to cope with those very vagaries the rest of us seem to have no problem with.
I give you Exhibits A through D: Lost In America, Broadcast News, Defending Your Life, The Muse. The reverse genius of Brooks is that he sucks as both writer and actor, allowing him to fail on so many levels at once one is left with repulsion tics, or the occasional Comic Tourette's Syndrome, wherein one barks obscenities at the screen while the moviegoers around you channel your indignation, and curse themselves because they were shallow enough to believe taking a date to an Albert Brooks film would actually get them laid. And hating you for pounding that particular rivet home, but hey, that's just gilt on the lily. Bonus question: any of you women out there ever give it up after a date took you to a Brooks flick? Quod erat demonstrandum.
Yes, somehow, in one of those spins of Fortuna's Wheel, a putz like Brooks will win Life's Lottery, leaving the rest of us scratching our collective heads, and wondering just what the hell happened.
Fuck Albert Brooks.