Ludacris

Deadman/party functions more or less like a judicial body. We hear cases (well, we don’t actually hear them), deliberate, and hand down a verdict and opinion. However, if we ever feel compelled to expand our powers to include a legislative branch, our first order of business will be to mandate a Ludacris verse on every song ever recorded. The man is a net benefit to every track he touches. He makes the good ones great and the bad ones tolerable. What’s that you say? Ludacris already has a verse on every song? Well, he is certainly prolific, but to date, he has limited himself to hip-hop and r&b tracks. We propose giving Mr. Bridges free reign over all of recorded sound. You’ve heard him with with Usher, Fergie, and Nate Dogg, but how about Bob Dylan featuring Ludacris or Symphony No. 1 “Titan” by Gustav Mahler featuring Ludacris or Singing Birds: Nature’s Relaxing Sounds featuring Ludacris? Sign us up.

In addition to his guest appearances, Ludacris has a solid solo catalogue full of the kind of songs you hope to hear on the radio every time you get in the car. We remember fondly the days and weeks following the debut of “Area Codes,” turning the knobs with baited breath hoping to catch it. Hip-hop could use more songs like this (“Throw Some D’s” is but a distant memory) and we hope Luda’s new album can deliver some of what has been missing.

We think the most appealing thing about Mr. Bridges is that he seems to really love rhyming. These days Hova is always doing his hip-hop CEO schtick, Kanye is reminding us what a damaged artist he is (can you believe he didn’t finish college?!), and 50 is, by his own admission, more interested in formulating some new Vitamin Water variety than rapping. While Mr. Bridges has ventured into some other projects (he nearly stole the show in Hustle & Flow), we like to imagine that he spends most of his days thinking of shit that rhymes. We appreciate a guy who likes his job and takes some pride in his work, so take a load off Mr. Bridges. It would be our pleasure to fill your cup like double d’s. Luda!

Adam Sandler

Oh, Adam, you used to be funny. Well, sort of funny. Opera man, Cajun man. And who could forget his advice for low-cost Halloween costumes? Look at me! I’m smiley boy! I got a big smile on face! Give me some candy! Unfortunately, since Mr. Sandler left SNL, he seems to have heeded his own advice and crafted a bunch of obnoxious films on his own facetious maxims. Look at me! I’m Mr. Crazy Hockey Golf Man. Give me some money! Look at me I’m Mr. Alcoholic Mentally Challenged Company Heir. Give me some shares of your company! Hi, I’m the same guy as that last one only now my name is Mr. Deeds! Hi, look at me! I’m Mr. Crazy Guy With Water Wings! Give me some… uh. Okay, we never watched Overboard!, but from the box alone, we can rest assured it blows.

And of course there are his more serious roles. Like the when where Drew Barrymore plays some hot retarded chick, that was, like, hit over the head with a boom mic on the set of E.T., or something. Or who could forget Spanglish? Where something happens with, uh, that chick that looks like Penelope Cruz when she’s, like, cleaning up after these white folks. Or the wonderful lesson the world gleaned from the ending of Don’t Mess With The Zohan, that Jews and Muslims can live together without going all Gaza if they just move to New York and open up competing electronic stores on opposite sides of the street.

Of course, Paul Thomas Anderson may have channeled Sandler’s intrinsic quirks into a semi-interesting character. But come on now, not even can Jesus forgive making a career out of shouting that weird voice that all grown men seem to take on when they talk at babies or dogs, during the course some ‘half-witted misfit saves the day and gets the girl’ plot. And even if Adam hadn’t made it big in show biz, he’d still probably be the type of guy that goes to bars in track pants and talks your ear off about the new lazy boy he just bought with his stimulus check. Hey Adam, if you have that magical remote from that one movie we didn’t bother seeing, now would be a good time to press slow motion. We’d love to see those jowls ripple with impact.

Lance Armstrong

At first we figured that Mr. Armstrong should be commended for racing minus a testicle, but when we stopped and thought about it, we wondered what difference one testicle would really make in a sporting contest.  Though John Updike could probably write a novella about this supposed lack of masculinity, he is not on the editorial board of deadman/party and we don’t count living a new life as Juan Bahl an achievement worthy of a beer.  But, beating cancer is cause enough to put the highball on us, much less beating cancer, going on to win the most prestigious bicycle race in the world seven fucking times in a row and then retiring only to return after a few years of selling bracelets with the goal of winning the next available Tour.

Unfortunately, he is from Texas, counts Geroge W. Bush among his friends, gives a very awkward interview and was engaged to that useless flap of skin, Sheryl Crow.  Then again, anyone who has to spend more than 3 minutes in the company of that screechy waste of space deserves a shot.  How about a beer in celebration of the break-up and the ensuing courtship of a 21-year-old?

We know that any man willing to ride a tall bike with the crusty, smelly artists who create them would not be above sharing a few Lone Stars with us.  He has also been spotted in the T-shirt of everyone’s favorite cycling shit-talker Bike Snob NYC (who would be the subject of a beering if we weren’t convinced he was a nebulous cloud of gas), which proves that Mr. Armstrong can, at the very least, read and has a sense of humor.  Two things that make for an excellent drinking companion.  So let us raise one high and toast your soon to be eigth Tour de France win. USA! USA!

Woody Allen

Kids in the Midwest must decide at an early age whether they are New York people or L.A. people. This decision is not based on any actual experience but rather a combination of nebulous feelings about the two places and the notion that being either a Rockford person or Toledo person just will not do. Of course, as these kids enter adulthood, chances are they will never live either of those places, and may never even visit. Still, we think that a small part of every Midwesterner has a soft spot for one or the other. For us at deadman/party, Woody Allen’s one-two punch of Annie Hall and Manhattan sealed the deal. We were New York sympathizers. In our minds, L.A. was the kind of place where stupid, vapid people went to have stupid meetings about making stupid movies. New York on the other hand was a land where you could just have drinks with Alan Alda and Michael Caine, stumble into a Marx Brothers movie, and go home with a girl way too young and hot for you, Gershwin playing all the while.

On the negative side, we have two problems with Mr. Allen. First off, he has made some pretty crummy movies. However, in a world where Dane Cook sells out arenas and Epic Movie passes for a blockbuster Hollywood comedy, it seems like a waste of breath to get too upset about a little stinker like Curse of the Jade Scorpion. Second, and perhaps more importantly, we are more than a little creeped out by Mr. Allen’s relationship with Soon-Yi. He is 34 years older than her. None of us at deadman/party are even 34 years old. If you told us that our future wives would be born seven years from now, we would be incredulous. Oh yeah, and Soon-Yi was kinda/sorta Mr. Allen’s stepdaughter. Yikes. Anyway, at least it wasn’t his adolescent cousin or a sheep and it is not like he is particularly secretive about his sexual proclivities (what was Mariel Hemingway in Manhattan, about 12?). Mr. Allen has made some of the greatest movies of all-time, he wails on Dixieland clarinet, and he has completely destroyed any compulsion we have ever had to go to L.A. He gets a beer.

Rachel Maddow

Before we welcome Rachel Maddow to the sausage fest that is deadman/party, we must get a few choice words and phrases off our chests in order to maintain the level of respect, tact, and decency that you may or may not expect from us. If you are now, or ever were a gender studies major, or if you ever even contemplated taking a feminist theory course in college, nay, if you even know what feminist theory is, we advise you to skip down to the next paragraph. Deep breath. Here goes: fists of fury, double-headed floppy dong, biscuit bumping, scissor grinding, rug munching, nappy dugout, ffm, four fingers, peacock feather, Lilith Fair, Rosie O’Donnell, bowfinger with a lapping motion. Forgive us if the following is incoherent; by the time we start the next sentence we’ll have typing fingers still dripping from a cold shower.

According to Ms. Maddow’s Wikipedia page, she was the first openly gay recipient of the Rhodes scholarship. Today marks another occasion of cardinal importance: Rachel Maddow has just become the first openly female recipient of the deadman/party brewski grant. In the world of cable news, journalism is a drink served tepid, one part testosterone to two parts editorial rhetoric. And yes, we too find amusement in Bill O’Riley’s depiction of a libertarian version of Bruce Banner, this close to losing it, or Keith Olbermann’s Sportscenter-cum-pundit pontificating. But we sense some unrequited sexual frustration in the latter’s obsession with the former. Come on now, if we locked Bill-O and Keith-O together in a cell, how long do you really think it would take before they started playing stinky pinky or a game of soggy cookie over a cup of prison fruit cocktail?

So maybe Ms. Maddow’s sexuality is a factor in our decision to put the Schlitz on our tab, but only for the fact that she doesn’t have to hide it behind religious convictions or a well-tailored pinstriped suit. And even if her eyes didn’t squint in the cutest way when she smiled, she’d still be on our list for gratis libations. Yes, when she preaches to us, she’s preaching to the choir—as we wear neither monocles nor mullets (well, ironic mullets don’t count)—but we still demand our liberal, pinko agendas be disseminated with grace and wit. And grace, as we define it, forgives even the most unflattering lady pants suit and occasional vocal fry. In any event, Ms. Maddow—can we call you Rachel?—have a seat and pick your poison. I hear they make a great signature martini here. Ah, we kid, we kid!

Rick Rubin

It seems odd that a man behind the board for some of our favorite albums (Reign in Blood, Liscensed to Ill, Danzig) should bear the brunt of our fists, but competent production of a handful of classic albums is only a small part of the bubble of praise that floats around Rick Rubin.  On the list of artists he has produced there are very few, if any, obscure bands.  Is this because of his celebrity or his unwillingness to show initiative and take chances?  It is pretty easy to produce hit albums when you only work with proven hit machines such as that deplorable Floridian Tom Petty and the musical embodiment of tough metro-sexuality, Linkin Park. But has anyone heard that Mick Jagger record?  Or the Dixie Chicks album after they cursed G.W. Bush?  Or the latest Metallica abomination? Or the new Jakob Dylan?  Or the one with the guy from Semisonic?  Or those Weezer Albums that aren’t good? Or that Melanie C album?

You might ask, “And what of his highly touted work with Johnny Cash?”  Please allow us to retort.  Once the novelty of hearing Mr. Cash’s voice sing worn out grunge tunes has faded you are left with over-produced pap.  Note the way in which he pumps the piano, drowning out Mr. Cash’s rasp on Trent Reznor’s teenage suicide poem “Hurt.”  What about how Fiona Apple and Mr. Cash refuse to sing in harmony (or even the same key) on their Grammy nominated performance of a song not well suited to Mr. Cash’s voice, “Bridge over Troubled Water?”    Is that really ‘genius’ production?  The type of production that gets the producer named more often than the artist in reference to the album?  It seems to us a man once famous for his stripped down style has become a joke by reducing himself into a shitty producer with very expensive toys.

But the aforementioned is only a minor annoyance relative to the single handed creation of the rap-rock genre and prolifigation of the funk/punk/rap genre.  Mr. Rubin put metal guitars in the Beastie Boy’s single “No Sleep til Brooklyn.”  He was behind the Aerosmith/Run-DMC collaboration and general annoyance, “Walk this Way.”  (Doesn’t anyone connected with Aerosmith, however remotely, desereve a kick in the groin?) He also produced BloodSugarSexMagic which is a landmark in the ‘we don’t have the time or talent to write some actual funk but we will poorly rap/skat over the top of it’ genre. Can anyone imagine how sweet life would be without Limp Bizkit, Crazy Town, 311, Staind or Linkin Park?  We can.

Gene Simmons

We are not the least bit ashamed to admit that we enjoy blasting some KISS jams on occasion. You’d be hard pressed to find a better Friday night than one that starts by emptying a sixer of special edition camouflage High Life tallboys to the soothing strains of “Strutter” or “Detroit Rock City.” Hell, in our weaker moments we’ll even listen to “Beth” (if we are reasonably sure no one else is around). But while drinking with KISS on the hi-fi is one of life’s great pleasures, the prospect of drinking with Gene Simmons in person ranks somewhere between having our nipples hooked up to a car battery and sitting in between Carlos Mencia and Nancy Grace on a transatlantic flight on the list of things we would like to do.

It is difficult to find an appropriate place to start the criticism of a man completely devoid of redeeming qualities. Annoying, abrasive personality? Check. Obnoxious politics? Check. Absurdly inflated sense of self worth? You better believe it. Hell, we’re not even sure if the guy is any good at bass (Alive! features a re-recorded bass part because Simmons biffed so many notes in the actual live recording). We suggest Mr. Simmons follow the example of his fellow spooky makeup-wearing rocker, Alice Cooper.  Mr. Cooper has a sense of humor about his persona and has aged gracefully, doing charity work, golfing, opening a restaurant, and still putting on a great show. All the while Mr. Simmons and his disturbing tongue are still out trying to pick up chicks (“Wilt Chamberlain I will catch you!”)

Perhaps the most telling indictment of Mr. Simmons is that we have overwhelming feelings of sympathy for anyone who has the misfortune of interacting with him. We feel sorry for Shannon Tweed for leaving the glamorous world of Showtime soft porn to settle into domesticity with the man described by Al Franken as “the most awful person I’ve ever met.” We feel sorry for Terry Gross for having to put up with the disgusting advances of a man who manages to walk the thought-to-be-impossible line of thinking he is God’s gift to women while looking like the bastard child of Frankenstein and a Nassau grouper. Most of all, we feel sorry for Peter Criss, Eric Carr and Eric Singer, who have collectively spent the better part of thirty years behind the drums having to look up and see Mr. Simmons’ bare, hairy thighs staring back at them. It is for the honor of these people, our own satisfaction, and the general good of humanity that we must punch Gene Simmons.

Criss Angel

We’re not going to lie, a few of us wanted to be David Copperfield when we grew up. One of us even wanted to be the Dickens character, but that’s another story. (Are we above punching a dead man for penning a bible-sized novel we were forced to read in high school? Probably not, but again, that’s a different story.) The point is, we eventually turned ten, and realized that men that pretend to cut themselves in half are decidedly wankers. Not so for the likes of Criss Angel.

We’ll spare Mr. Angel from the fashion police. So he dresses like Tommy Lee’s gay body double. What of it? The fact of the matter is this: he isn’t even cool enough to be a weirdo. Weirdos have chutzpa. This fucker just spent the entire check he got from making a Lamborghini disappear on jeans at Hot Topic so that the weirdos would let him sit at their table in the cafeteria.

And when did acting like a sexual predator on crank start going hand in hand with making shit disappear? The look in that man’s mascara-outlined eyes makes us not want to risk having kids. If you go to the registered sex offenders website for Las Vegas, you’ll notice a red dot will momentarily disappear whenever Mr. Angel performs a vanishing act. When he wears an open fur coat with no shirt you can actually see the tip of his wee mind freak peaking above his skull and crossbones belt buckle. We thought you Vegas showbiz types had some class! At least David Copperfield had the decency to wedge his porcelain Buddah into a cummerbund when on stage. But then again, today’s illusionists don’t all have private Bahaman Islands on which to do their bidding. Don’t worry Criss, we’ll be gentle with this lick, and give you fair warning. After all, we haven’t forgotten how Houdini died.

Phil Collins

Some people blame Phil Collins for the dissolution of Genesis, but we here at deadman/party couldn’t give less of a shit, for not one of us is a bearded, longhaired archivist at the local university library, rather we are people unafraid of the occasional pop tune or Motown cover, just so long as it is not in the hands of Michael McDonald. Sure, sure, King Crimson rules it and bong-rips are pretty awesome too and musical integrity and blah blah blah.  We just happen to not take ourselves too seriously and like to get loose to the get-up rhythms of “Easy Lover” on occasion.  Only a soulless tin-eared cretin would deny the slow majesty of “In the Air Tonight” and “One More Night.”  Coincidence that they rhyme?  We think not.

And we have never seen a man with better style.  From his burnt-butter mullet, through his double breasted suit and down to his Converse all stars, there is nothing the man does not look good in.  Mr. Collins is the only man besides Lionel Ritchie that we will allow to wear a sweater sans undershirt.  Not only will the ladies at the bar be obscuring his view of the football match, he will have us all in stitches.  The “nicest guy in rock and roll” has displayed a keen sense of humor from time to time (probably a requirement for someone too short to ride the teacups) but putting a paint brush and paint can on top of your amp in honor of your wife’s affair with the decorator is downright devilish with a touch of sad clown. What more cold you ask of a drinking buddy?

To paraphrase Jack Donaghy, we do have two ears and heart.  All the better to appreciate Mr. Collins.

Robert Mugabe

Belly up to the bar, Robert, your money is no good here. Shit, your money is no good anywhere. We’re putting the Schlitz on our house tab tonight, a’ight? Broads, if you see one of the world’s most reviled world leaders doing body shots of Crunk Juice and white farmers’ tears from the navels of nubile co-eds, you’ll have to dress to impress to get down on it. We are letting off some serious steam after an endless week of crippling nations or pathologically vigorous masturbation, and we intend to get crazy69stupidXXXdrunk’doutlolz.

The case for Mugabe boils down to two points:

1. The name Mugabe sounds like an exotic toast, exclamation, or at least something you’d hear in that, like, African chorus part of Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long,” and we’d like to shout it while lifting our Zima sixer to the heavens. We’d wager that having Robert around would only heighten the hilarity.
2. He’s got more personality than that teetotaling wallflower F.W. De Klerk (Seriously, stay out of Dodge, De Klerk.) and isn’t as preening as Qaddafi–the Carson Kressley of Libya. Solid, gritty, none-too-flashy egomania has some dignity to it, some class, and that appeals to our Middlewestern sensibilities.

Sure, Mugabe isn’t the best drinking partner: As a child he kinda kept to himself so maybe he’s not the most vibrant, social butterly, and to date he hasn’t eaten any of his foes which would make for solid conversation. (What does human ass taste like…LITERALLY? Get it?!? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, Mugabe!) However, wethinks he’s got some yarns that would do nicely at the local watering hole, and, hey, we can appreciate that. Robert, come and get beered, won’t you?