national lampoon

NATIONAL LAMPOON: An Oral History of Space Jam

It’s the 20th anniversary of cinema’s greatest work about Looney Tunes vs. space monsters starring Michael Jordan, a hot mess that should by no means work, considering it’s the same era that gave us Extreme Toonz. But did! To that end, here’s my PA’s-eye-view of how the film got made over at National Lampoon.

Also, the Merrie Melodies era was superior. You know it, I know it.

Lohan posing sexily for other magazines

I wrote and ‘shopped this for National Lampoon last year and it’s finally up.

Copied it below as well since they’re undergoing some site changes.

Few joys on God’s earth compare to the delight of seeing a woman naked for the first third any time. When a lady chooses to reveal herself to a man, she gives him a sensual gift that says, “I am doing this for the money.”

How terribly cynical, then, to learn that Lindsay Lohan‘s Playboy spread, which hit stands recently, was intended not to sate the internet’s obsession with redheads, but to help cover the legal costs of what I can’t be bothered to look up, but confidently assume is something to do with drunk driving. Or maybe just to make a million bucks. Again: I don’t have time to check every little central topic of these articles.

The fact is, rather than lift up the flapping sails of a publication that has long since ceased to try, Ms. Lohan could have enlivened several magazines with a co-operative purchase of her posturing skills, and most of them wouldn’t have even required nudity, which is always more fun when it’s a gratuity and a surprise and in church. Here are some of those magazines.


You have taken the Royal Wedding too far, America

For my first National Lampoon article, I pontificate on America’s backslide into aristocracy and serfdom via celebrity worship. No, that’s a lie. I make cheap jokes at a happy couple.

Full text below, but you’ll make me more money if you read it on their site.

America, we need to talk.

In just a few short hours, Prince William the Charming of the House of Tudor Pain Windsor? is set to marry his fetching young bride, Kate Commoner. Expectations run high for the event, with a record-breaking audience and Aslan himself rumored to be officiating. The former is what has the people who love you worried: you’re a little too into this royal wedding thing.

I know, you only get a couple of these in a generation, and you want to savor the fairytale. But there’s a word for people who invest themselves this deeply in strangers’ lives, though only a judge has the legal authority to label you with it. Many creepers may feel completely normal in their zeal here, as at least three magazines sit on the newsstand right now calculating the circumference of Ms. Middleton’s thighs. The last time a planet celebrated a state affair like this, Darth Vader had just thrown the Emperor down an air shaft. But to be fair, Palpatine wore an absolutely head-turning Pierre Cardin cassock to the event.

That’s your hitch – you want a fairytale: cute girl, good heart, humble origins—swept away by a charming, handsome, wealthy pilot with a little summer home called Wales. What gal—or totally butch internet humorist who nonetheless just wants to be pretty and adored for a day and maybe to slip safely into slumber in strong Saxon arms, arrrrgh! When is it my turn, Lord?!—Wait. Where was I? Yeah, what gal wouldn’t identify with that?

And thanks to The King’s Speech making the super-elite affable until their annual late summer devastation of the underclasses, this prince seems like an alright type for a man so rich he does not need a last name. He’s literally the planet’s front-running William. If there were a phonebook for everyone on Earth, you would find his name listed between Will.I.Am and William Aa, who is a nice guy, but not nearly a catch for a lovely bit o’ bird like our Kate, who—oh hell, now I’m doing it.

The problem is reality, like being royal, is more complicated than it seems, but only half as much fun. This whole fairytale notion imposes a hazy fantasy on what’s probably a much more interesting and lovely story. But you know, it pulls millions in ad sales and merchandise, so it’s what you get.

You know America seceded so we wouldn’t have to pay attention to this kind of thing, right? Self-determination was only half of it. We just didn’t want to be beholden to cheering and roaring like aristocrats’ personal lives had anything to do with our important industries, which were, at the time:

1) Dumping tea into the harbor

2) Accruing staggering piles of debt

These are seven-day-a-week occupations that brook no time for lollygagging and hey-nonny-na. To your anvils and wagon wheels, men! Resist the pressure to adulate the upper class, lest you lose all spark in the tinder of your souls to rise up and crush them beneath your hammers and or wagon wheels again!

And anyway, that kind of attention should be saved for Jennifer Aniston, who still can’t find love, poor thing.