Allagash White

In the spirit of patriotism, it being 9/11 and all, here is an American beer that has to be one of the most refreshing that I have tried in a long, long time. As the summer season winds down most of us choose to enjoy the dwindling warmer days outside playing in the sun. Whether you're relaxing on the beach, sleeping in a hammock or working in the yard; an ice cold Allagash White will never disappoint. As crisp as it is refreshing, the Allagash Brewing Company of Portland, Maine hit a homerun with this one. It's a Belgian Wheat beer that pours a little cloudy, but isn't complete without swirling the last sip at the bottom of the bottle to savor all the remaining wheat and yeast sediments. This one is exceptionally smooth and a solid 5% alc/vol. Who could ask for anything more? Uh...and oh yeah, God Bless America and stuff...

Web Chode Of The Week

Can you imagine the reaction of the guy this is dedicated to? Could he possibly be impressed by this guy's singing? I have very little knowledge in the ways of homosexual courting but I'm pretty sure this guy is a chode in any circle.

And where is he taping this? Is this his grandmother's bedroom? Where are the Janet Jackson and Celine Dion posters and why the fuck is that iron taking up half of his video? I almost expected to see a be dazzler sitting in the background, but he probably threw it away after it attacked his lip.

Random Movie Clip

Is it Johnny Cash in 1961's "Door-to-Door Maniac," or just a terribly uncomfortable outtake with the film producer's niece?

The Anna Nicole Horror Picture Show

"I've got an idea: Let's make an Anna Nicole Smith action movie!"

This sentence could come from the desperately horny or the depths of dementia. Instead, it came from the PM Entertainment Group in the form of "Skyscraper," an amateur adaptation of "Die Hard" with big, big breasts and acting comparable to a silicon turd, should such a perversion ever exist.

"Skyscraper" stars Anna Nicole Smith as an excruciatingly unwitting helicopter pilot who finds herself trapped in a skyscraper seized by terrorists. Realizing that only she can stop them, Smith proceeds to traipse and jiggle throughout the building, seeking a way out and a quiet moment to experience a gratuitous flashback of past sexual encounters/firearms training.

Despite its intentions, the movie is hysterical, due in part to its overzealous action sequences, awkward sex scenes, reproachable dialogue and formulaic plot. The only surprise found in this cellulose-laden celluloid is that its director, Raymond Martino, did not suffer a massive heart attack, aneurism and stroke simultaneously from the painstaking task of directing Smith. She is hopelessly fed her lines, likely along with Valium and Bon-Bons, and proceeds to regurgitate her own clumsy interpretation of the dialogue. As a result, the final featured takes must have been the lesser of many unspeakable evils. In this light, Bitter Humor salutes Raymond Martino as a man of infinite patience. Here's the proof.

New Kids On The Block Make Love Like Men

Puppy Love. How sweet.

Five O'Clock and All's Welles

Despite the obligatory fat jokes that plagued his twilight years, legendary filmmaker Orson Welles was a giant of the 20th century. His skill at film direction unsurpassed, his eye for imagery unparalleled, his turn at acting both menacing and thought-provoking, and his penchant for cheap wine all too human.

In all those old fairy tales and myths, people were best advised to stay away from giants. They're intimidating, inhuman and they can crush men underfoot like ants. When an all-t00-human weakness is revealed, it doesn't necessarily knock them down a notch but rather adjusts one's vantage point. They're seen differently, no longer as a giant, but as a fellow man. Orson Welles revealed this side in the latter end of his career, when direction went by the wayside and Paul Masson wine came by the crate. Notorious for his nitpicking of advertising copy and "dialogue," Welles simply refused to accept things as is, instead fusing his unique brand of delivery with ordinary commercial rubbish. Sometimes this involved drunkenness, as demonstrated in a series of Paul Masson commercial outtakes -- some of the funniest ever committed to film.



Watching a drunken Welles miss his cues, nearly fall asleep and slur his dialogue in front of an intimidated duo of commercial actors is simply hysterical, not sad. One of the greatest directors of all time shouldn't be admonished for a series of seemingly embarrassing commercials. For the money and probably a decent supply of wine, one could do a lot worse.

After all, we're only human.

Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps!

It's been a whole week and some change since the 2008 Summer Olympics came to a bizarre, acrobatic close, and far more important news has flooded the media, such as Michael Jackson's 50th birthday and pregnant 17-year-old Republicans. Whether or not there's a correlation has yet to be determined.

But that's one whole week without news of Michael Phelps, the gold-winning swimmer with the perpetually gaping mouth who paddled his way into the hearts and minds of millions, who proceeded to talk about his achievements nonstop, 25 hours a day, eight days a week. Sure, Phelps has accomplished more than the general public can even fathom during an "American Idol" commercial break, but since when has a vocal majority of Americans ever given a flying fish of a fuck about competitive swimming? Maybe four years ago. And before then, another four years ago -- only at the Olympics, when it's right there to be viewed.

There's no doubt these athletes have accomplished a lot, and their medals are well earned and quite deserved, but enough of these fair-weather fans' masturbatory pride, fawning over winning, rather than the actual winners, or even the sport, for that matter. Swimming. When was the last time you heard someone say, "Yo, Reggie. We're gonna get shitfaced, eat some tacos and watch the swimming match. They're doing the backstroke, so you'd better bring an extra case." Some people only care when it's convenient, sometimes relevant. Had Phelps earned the silver, or even the bronze, would America's aquatic son be hailed as such, or would he swim to the backs of people's minds, right next to that one guy, who did that thing at that place that one time.

A week or so ago, "Michael Phelps" was all you'd hear in the news. How soon we forget. Hell, there are bigger fish to fry. So, in that spirit, Bitter Humor offers a retrospective review of this time three weeks ago.

"Michael Phelps. Michael Phelps? Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps. Michael Phelps won a gold medal today. Michael Phelps. Michael Phelps won another gold medal. Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps! Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps! Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps. Award-winning swimmer Michael Phelps. Gold-medal winning swimmer Michael Phelps. Michael Phelps! Swimming. Michael Phelps. Phelps! Phelps! Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps."

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