Do Me, Edward R. Murrow.

First things first: I just figured out how to put a counter on the blog so I can get confirmation that I'm the only person in the world that looks at this page. I made it firey and badass, as is my nature. I feel it's the sort of counter Ann Coulter would put on her blog if she had one. Wishfulthinking.net

Secondly, there's no way I can't mention the supposed fetus nestled in Katie Holmes' uterine lining. I have been a vocal opponent of Ms. Holmes since she ditched Dawson in the series finale in May of 2003, and she has done nothing since then to reclaim my affections. If this baby actually IS Tom Cruise's, and I suspect it was actually the result of a drunken night of passion with Chris Klein, then it has to be in vitro. That would make this the most absurd publicity stunt ever, bypassing the time Gwyneth named her child after produce in the hopes of resurrecting a movie career that she stole from Winona. If Tom WAS directly involved in conception, it's only because Katie got him drunk and convinced him her vagina was another guy's asshole. Prove me wrong.

"I heart rectums."

Unless a French bulldog pops out of her vaginal canal, this will hopefully be the last time I need to mention these creatures.

Tonight, I had the honor of attending yet another blogger event, because I have mad connections like the wolf. John Hindraker and Scott Johnson from Powerline had a free sneak preview of the George Clooney movie, "Good night, and good luck," tonight at the 86th Street Loew's Orpheum, and I managed to snag two tickets. The Crazy Russian was slated to attend with me, as she displays blatant Commie traits, but she decided to walk home from NYU yesterday. She lives near Coney Island. I suspect a full week is going to be needed to recover. Dismissive shake of the head. Abbi was nice enough to replace her on short notice.

We were the only Democrats in there. It was insanely scary. The entire theater was full of white guys in their 40s with short, carefully groomed hair and suits. I was wearing the puffy vest. When the lights went down, it was infinitely less frightening.

It's a BADASS movie. I officially give it 3.57 stars. I have never criticized a movie for being too short, unless you count Scary Movie 2, which I don't. However, "Good Night" clocks in at around 90 minutes. It gets its point across very nicely, but I would have liked to see Joe McCarthy wither and die before the credits. I never get what I want. For those of you who don't get life, "Good night" is the story of Edward R. Murrow and his crusade to expose McCarthy as a cunt. I should write blurbs. I bet I could make mad money doing that. It has one of the best supporting casts I've ever seen, with a sober Robert Downey Jr, who has NEVER looked hotter, the always kickass Patricia Clarkson, Frank Langella and Jeff Daniels...not peeing on Jim Carrey. Wait, I need to go find a picture of Robert Downey, he's way too hot in this movie to forego a visual.

Does NOT do him justice. He belongs in the stud notebook, despite his penchant for dope dust. Remember when he was in Weird Science? And Bill Paxton got turned into a pile of shit? Haha.

How he ever rebounded from that, I will never know.

Anyway, David Straithairn is amazing, he deserves props et cetera. When the credits started rolling, the crazy conservative people starting booing and yelling, "Fry Murrow!" I wet myself a little.

What we should ALL be keeping an eye on is Ann Coulter's reaction, especially since this picture exists:


One day, I'm going to get my picture taken at Woodrow Wilson's grave. Someone find it for me.