Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Mark Chua has forsaken his Bressed Homerand




By Great Beaver Rice Wok Spirit, Japanese Semi-Aquatic Rodent God





Mark Chua, you have forsaken your bressed homerand. Rong have you journeyed from our shores, and rong have we awaited word of your travers. It was not untir I frew on the western wind in search of you that I found you here, demeaning yourserf for a racadasiar rapscarrion.

Where is your pride in your homerand? Have you not forgotten the gratuitous sirriness that this senseress charratan has resorted to, over and over again without fragging? For shame, Mark Chua, for you have desecrated the tender rine that rinks you to your bressed history.

Bryan Bishop is an evir force and I suspect that Chris Harmer is nothing other than a rackey, who he wirr use to craim power. He is crearry royal to Bryan Bishop, and that is enough reason to stand against his rise to a powerfur prace in the rearm of poritics.

By not only supporting his poritical campaign for Mayor of Horrywood, you have forgotten the roverly rand that birthed you; doing so on the very forum of such a hated enemy such as Bryan Bishop is armost unforgiveabre. You should be ashamed of yourserf, Mark Chua. The Great Beaver Rice Wok Spirit frows about your serfishness and your sharrowness.

Certainry the next Cora that I pee in will be yours.


The Great Beaver Rice Wok Spirit once battled a young Jesus for the timber in a forest and won.

Lies And Lunacy: The Story of the HTG Mayoral Race



By Mark Chua, Bryan Bishop Adventure Island Investigative Journalist




With the conclusion of the HTG mayoral election and Mayor Chris Harmer's victory, numerous exit polls paint the picture of a fluid race. Considering that environment - so much power on the line with no clear frontrunner - it's no surprise that some campaigns took desperate measures to try and eke out a victory. But what is shocking is just how dirty some campaigns got.

Within hours of winning his party's nomination Hulk Hogan appeared on television to threaten rivals Harmer and Pamela Anderson. "Chris Harmer... Pamela Anderson... whatcha gonna do when now [sic] that Hulkamania is coming at you?" Thankfully there were no incidents reported, but who knows what would've happened without the increased security provided by HTG's beloved philantrophist Bryan Bishop. Unfortunately the negative campaigning didn't end with a simple pseudo-threat.

Rotor, the foreign campaign manager of Pamela Anderson, held a press conference touting Pamela Anderson's policies and decrying personal attacks. But only a few moments later he embarrassingly exposed himself as a bit of a hypocrite when he laid out the choice between Pamela Anderson and Hulk Hogan. "See: you've got an easy choice. Will you vote for aggressive, slandering egomaniacs who bring nothing to the table? Or the caring, postive, dynamic Pamela Anderson?" Many of HTG's pundits felt this was a nail in the coffin of the underperforming Anderson campaign. Bringing up Hogan's losing battle with steroid abuse and roid rage was just seen as bad form.

With Anderson's momentum all but gone it quickly came down to a two way dance between Chris Harmer and Hulk Hogan. Hogan had the advantadge in the squared circle but not in the town hall meetings. Harmer began a whirlwind tour across the city talking with the average citizens, offering self-deprecating humor, wisdom, and hope for change. "I vow to force the Flip Brothers Pizzeria to sell pasta as well. I mean, come on guys..."

The Hogan camp sensed a dangerous tide and its campaign manager, a mysterious man known only by the letters "DCE" lept into action. "Even as a slumlord... I mean apartment manager..." It took no time for the Hogan campaign to make light of Harmer providing low income housing to the poor in the form of his Reel Life Apartments. Harmer campaign manager Teufel tried to get the electoral process back on track. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," Teufel pleaded, urging all to talk about their policies. But DCE would have none of that.

Not long after there were brand new posters on every wall in HTG bearing the image of Jesus Christ and the words - "I Will Not Cast Stones... But I Will Cast My Vote For Terry "Hulk Hogan" Bollea!" The Hogan camp had nefarious tried to both appeal to the evangelical votes while suggesting the Savior of Christians wasn't too fond of Harmer. Even worse the image of Christ used was a stereotypical pale white man instead of the correct Middle Eastern image of Jesus. This was another misstep by the Hogan campaign as this brought forth allegations of racism and support of white supremacy from the HTG chapters of the NAACP and Rainbow-Push Coalition.

With the Hogan campaign in a tailspin they began lashing out at anyone and everything. Campaign manager DCE exploded at the eleventh hour when asked about Hulk Hogan's recent divorce proceedings. "The last I checked divorce is legal in Mr. Hogan's home state as well as in the HTG Community!" he snarled. "Just because his wife is delusional and looking for a large pay-day as Mr. Hogan's career is coming to an end, does not make Mr. Hogan a bad person. Besides if you are casting aspersions due to divorce, look no further than Ms. Anderson." Targeting a wife of twenty plus years and the mother of the candidate's two children as well as taking shots at the by then irrelevant Pamela Anderson was the deathknell of a campaign that had started out so strongly.



Many predicted a strong victory for Chris Harmer, but something strange happened. Something insidious. The end of voting had been desiginated days in advance as January 6th, 6 pm PST. But at 7:52 pm election offical Marlowe had a startling announcement. "The polls will only be open for another four hours! They'll close at the end of today."

How could that be? On what authority? On the authority of the corporate interests that manipulate the city from the shadows. They and their flunky Marlowe clearly didn't like the pro-Harmer results of the election and executed the classic tactic of extending polling time in unfriendly voting territory to try and change the outcome to a more favorable one. When the polls finally closed Marlowe had another trick up his sleeve. "The voting is now complete to determine the leader of HTG Hollywood through 2008," Marlowe announced at a press conference. "The tallies are now being counted. Early tomorrow we hope to have city officials make the announcement on whom the winner is."

An entire extra day to tally the votes? Most experts agree that based on exit polling clearly showing Harmer as the winner, that was just twenty-four more hours than necessary to thoroughly and fairly count the votes based on the city's population. There were also rumors of HTG police setting up barricades in the streets of heavily minority populated neighborhoods of the city. Head of the HTG Chapter of NAACP Shane Alexander furiously proclaimed, "This is just like Florida 2000 all over again! Have we learned nothing?"

One concerned campaign manager spoke up. "Elections extended past the predesiginated cut off point, delayed vote tallying. With the troubles this election's had I wouldn't be surprised to hear African American citizens were being prevented from voting. Whoever wins the election needs to revamp our electoral process immediately," Harmer political wunderkind Teufel sagely advised. The Harmer campaign also showed off its exit polling from January 7th, 6 pm (the original cut off date) showing Harmer the clear winner and also exit polling data from six hours later (the aritifical cut off date) still showing Harmer the winner.


Exit Poll - 6 PM

Click on Thumbnail for Full Image




Exit Poll - Midnight

Click on Thumbnail for Full Image

The underhanded plots exposed and Marlowe's past history of trying to blackmail Harmer friend Bryan Bishop with threats of exposing possibly incriminating comments being re-explored the shifty election offical started to play a new tune. Appearing before reporters nervous and sweaty, Marlowe unleashed a whopper of a flip flop. "Nope, no votes were taken after the ending point. And there's no delayed vote counting. Voting officials are merely investigating alleged wrong doings on the part of an unnamed campaign manager." No one was buying the lame excuse.

"I'm not buying that lame excuse!" exclaimed concerned and well-respected HTG citizen Cassy Havens. With no one fooled and possible civil unrest on hand, the shady electoral commission headed by Marlowe finally announced the results, results which matched up with the exit polls we were able to get our hands on, I might add. "The votes are in; a new mayor is announced!" announced Marlowe. But HTG's spryest senior citizen had one last underhanded trick under his sleeve. The results could only be seen by visiting lame news site "What's Happening?" of which he owns a controlling interest. But even that couldnt' put a damper on the celebration that swept throughout the city.

54% to Hogan's 38% to Pamela Anderson's 7% was Harmer's margin of victory - a clear majority and resounding mandate to clean up and reshape HTG into a thriving city free of corruption and crime. Of course, that will be no easy task, but that's for another time good readers.

You may think this all sounds too far fetched, too insane. You may look at where this story is hosted and laugh. But is there any forum left? The Powers That Be have muzzled and neutered every independent news source - The Pit, The Times, Carson Daily - all dead and gone or pitiful shells of their past selves. All have been watered down only to leave us with What's Happening?. Friends, this may be a strange forum, but it's also the only free voice left in this decrepit, corrupt city.

Godspeed, Chris Harmer. Godspeed.


Mark Chua has entered witness protection after writing this article.

Monday, January 7, 2008

Oh My God, Fake Elections? Oh My God, Dude


By Eddie Bishop, Brother to the Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island


Oh my God, dude, you're at like work and shit and I so guessed your password. "IloveTabitha." Who the fuck is Tabitha? Is that that Mexican chick? Dude, you don't want to go out with a Mexican chick, her brothers will steal your tires while you're in bed with her! HAHAHAHA! God I'm funny.

So anyway, what is this? You're still doing that fake screenwriting thing? Man, what a dumbass. I'm so going to post on it just to make you look stupid. Hey, look at me, I'm Bryan Bishop, I'm a big fat dumbass. Hur hur hur I like boys. Ha ha! Now they'll think you're a huge fag.

Let's see, what is this? Hey, it's Pamela Anderson. Man, I'd tag her shit. And Hollywood Hogan and some child molestor. What is this? Mayoral Election? Oh my God, dude, oh my God. There's a fake town and shit? There's a fake town that goes with the fake screenwriting? Seriously? Shit, dude, that's weak.

Oh dude, I'm so votin' for Pam Anderson. Look at those tits! I don't care if they are fake, I want to just bury my face in 'em. You can't get hepatitis from doing the MOTORBOAT! HAHAHAHAHA! "WEDDING CRASHERS" REFERENCE, GET IT! GET IT! Ah, you're all a bunch of dumbshits.

Dude, if you're going to be such a dickstain, why don't you change your name so people can't google this and find your dumb ass? How about "Princess Bluenuts?" HAHAHAHA! Oh man, you are such a dumb fuck. And I'm totally drinking like three of your beers. If you want beer so bad, why don't you get TABBY to get you some more! HAHAHA! BRYAN AND TABBY, SITTIN' IN A TREE! F-U-C-K-I-N-G! HAHAHAHA! You'd get bark all over your ass, dude.

So yeah, anyway, I'm going to sign off now, "bros." Keep it "real" and keep doing what you're doing, while I keep doing what I'm doing: being hot shit and cooler than all of you. High five... NOT! Oh my God, dude, you totally thought I was going to high five you. Oh my God, dude.


Eddie Bishop is still a big jerk face.

Sunday, January 6, 2008

I Will Bring You The Truth And Ten Sided Dice




By Justin Graham, Level 37 Blademaster of the Plains of Azeroth



Prepare, my friends! Hark, thou who hast awaited long years for a magic missile of truth. With my +6 Typewriter of Journalistic Integrity, I, JGraham, will imbide my wisdom upon you, much as the nature goddess Elune imbibes her druid magics upon the Night Elves in my favorite MMORPG, "World of Warcraft." Truly, friends, a time of greater awareness is nigh!

Much as Tiberium is the mana of the "Command and Conquer" series of real-time strategy games, such is truth my own source of energy. And now, know that I am fully loaded and will cast a circle of protection to keep you safe from the lies that may assail you like so many of Tolkein's Warg-riding Goblins.

Some may say that Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island is less a mass of land and more a stretch of dry land plumbed from the depths by the force of his ego, much like the lost city of R'lyeh is plumbed from the darkness of the great abyss by Cthulhu. I tell you, nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, it is his own watch post from which he can gaze down on us, like Kami and Mr. Popo from the popular anime classic, Dragonball Z.

Here, he watches, and when the time comes, he descends upon us like Wonder Woman, to lasso both truth and integrity from those around us. His jet is not invisible, though he does fill out the bustier very well. Those who would say that Bryan Bishop is a bad person are the same people that prefer Data to Quark.

One day, Bryan will truly break through the veil of mistrust that surrounds him. That day will be richly rewarding, like the Knights of the Round limit break from Final Fantasy 7. On that day, I hope all of you feel as low as Brisco County Jr. did when John Bly shot his father in the premiere of the classic series, "The Adventures of Brisco County Jr." For indeed, you will be as useless as the Path of Sorrows card in Magic: The Gathering. And that's pretty worthless indeed.


Justin Graham fled to Bryan's Island after murdering someone for calling ".hack//SIGN" slow.

Saturday, January 5, 2008

Where Are My Tanks?





Joseph Stalin, Imperial Grand General of the Flamethrower Tank Brigade



Where are my tanks? They were just here. Have I stepped through the pages of history just to have my tanks pilfered? What is this? Is this some joke because I am a Russian? Ho ho ho, very funny, everybody. No, seriously, I need those tanks. They're full of gasoline. Do you have any idea how much that gasoline cost? When I was in Soviet Russia... what? No, when I was in Soviet Russia, gasoline did not buy me. That is foolishness! Utter foolishness, and I will have none of it. So, where are my tanks? Oh, you know? Oh, very funny. "Under your mustache." Ho ho ho, again with the funny jokes. WHERE ARE MY TANKS?


Joseph Stalin saw the pain of the world from Heaven and returned to help.

I Filled 'em Up With Skittles and Shoved 'em Off a Bridge!



By the Joker, Grand Imperial Strategist









HAHAHAHA! But only the PURPLE and GREEN skittles, you know! HAHAHAHAHA! WOO HOO HOO HOO! The clown prince of crime strikes again!


The Joker narrowly lost out on becoming the Minister of Sanity.

JOOOOOOOOOKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!!!!




Joseph Stalin, Imperial Grand General of the Flamethrower Tank Brigade




*Shakes fist angrily*


In his spare time Stalin enjoys eating the newborn of the continental HTG.

Hulk Hogan Infects Libyan Children With AIDS!



By Matt Drudge, Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island News Correspondent




Developing...


No one's wanted to spoil the joke by telling Drudge his fedora's stupid.

Chris Harmer Will Not Be Used To Install A Puppet State If He Wins The Mayoral Election


By Tony Snow, Minister of Truth

All of this nonsense about Chris Harmer being used to install a puppet state in Hollywood Town is nonsense. There is no credible evidence supporting this. There just isn't. And for those who say we've been funneling money to Harmer... funnel is such a harsh word. We've just been giving him money, because we like him. He's a fun guy. It's not so he'll gut the military and leave the doors open for us to swarm in with our flamethrower tanks. Absolutely none of you will die. This is nonsense.

Furthermore, you don't have to worry about being rounded up and put into work camps. We're absolutely not going to have any of those, because that would be wrong. But just in case somebody, who totally won't be us, might set up a work camp, please be prepared with a nice pair of work shoes and coveralls. I mean, just in case something happens.

But nothing will happen. More than likely. And it won't be us. Like, that's totally something Hogan or Pamela Anderson would do. Anyway, we're not going to invade. At all. If we were going to invade and you wanted to help by telling us who would give us trouble, well, feel free to send an email to us. I mean... we won't use it, but it would be cool to have, just for, you know, giggles.


Tony Snow swore a loyalty oath to Bryan after he cured him of cancer.

I Had A Gay Love Affair With Hulk H-- What The Hell, Bryan?


By Shawn "Chocolate Thunder" Wenger, Minister of Bicycles

What the hell, Bryan. I am not going to say I had gay sex with Hulk Hogan just to lessen his chances of winning. You selfish son of a bitch! What about my friends, my family? Did you ever think of that? No, you didn't. God, if it wasn't for all the underage prostit -- if it wasn't for all the money, I'd walk out on this shitty job right now.

No, I'm not going to say -- goddamn it.

In fall of 2005, Hulk Hogan and I engaged in a lengthy love affair. We had sexual intercourse numerous times, and I was totally the chick in it -- WHAT THE FUCK! Byan, you son of a bitch, don't make me say this! Don't... oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, put the gun down. Please, this isn't worth it. We can talk about this. We can -- Um... the love affair continued off an on for several months and I was totally the girl. Hulk Hogan raped me. This is absolutely true and not made up to make him look bad. I swear!


In his spare time, Wenger totally gets rogered by dudes.

Friday, July 13, 2007

The Secrets of Monkey Island



By Sea Captain Manchuria, Privateer of the Bryan Bishop Adventure Island Imperial Navy


May 18th, 2007

Foggy day. Light breeze, that swayed the mist hovering above the town. The stench of opportunity was in the air. I can always sense it -- the smell of dirty laundry, and sure enough, it came flapping by -- a Union Jack flapjacket with the stifling aroma of septic tanks, piano keys, and destiny. I grabbed it with a thrust of the arm and the clench of a fist. It was mine.

In one pocket was an unidentifiable sticky red substance that looked like blood, smelled like blood, and tasted like blood. In the other was a cryptic message, one that sent shivers crawling up and down my spine like the sun-warmed deckhands on my towering mast.

"Dare you discover the Secret of Monkey Island."

Of course, I nodded.

May 28th, 2007

Disguise is ready. Needed to infiltrate the subject incognito so I put on my perpetually oversized Chris Harmer pirate-wench garb and boarded the legendary Ship Of Fooles.

The captain is legendary. They told me the best way to get what I wanted was to grease up his ego 'cause he swung both ways -- was bipolar, like glaciers and snow.

I sucked it up and braved it out. I'll make him spill.

May 29th, 2007

The sun streamed in through the flapping curtains, along with the smell of cannonballs, seamen, and decks (all-hands-on). Now was the time. He was still asleep so I helped open his lips for him.

"Monkey Island?" he asked, now fully aroused.

"You know it."

"Well, it's been going well. Like clockwork. It's been everything I could've hoped for." He chuckled. "Well, you know. Given the talent involved."

I perked up, and he noticed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, this is sort of a secret, and we're trying to keep this on the down-low." He leaned in even closer and breathed into my ear. "It's Uwe. How much can you expect?"

He laughed, but I could feel the tingle of nervousness in his throat.

I'd found it. Uwe Boll. Sultan of Schlock, Film Protector Target, consensus reigning Worst Director on the Planet. This was the dirty secret of Monkey Island.

But that wasn't all.

May 31st, 2007

A ruckus in the captain's quarters. Loud. Threathening. Mysterious.

I quickly dashed my way into the familiar secret passage leading to the bedroom, strained my ear against the floorboards, and listened. The captain was in full bellow, harking curses and insults at another person.

"I can't believe you did that, you red-coated fiend! You back-stabber, you Unionship-jacker!"

I tried to make out the other person, but there was no response.

"You have the hairy balls and the bullocks to do this to me?! FOR A WOMAN?! Don't deny it! Don't you dare deny it, it's all over the paper!! What about our agreement?! Our history!?"

A clinkle of teacups interrupted the good old captain. "It's only a couple of pounds, old chap," the mystery man replied.

"You've doomed us, I tell you. You've doomed the production! Monkey Island will sink! And so will our..."

"YOUR money." I couldn't see it, but I could swear there was a twinkle in the stranger's eye. "Your bloody money, old chap. And she's not just a woman. She's a woman who's my fiance, with a mighty fine arse. So cry me a river, and sing me an anthem, you bloody old buggery fool. I'll see you in two months in my and my woman's new mansion."

"Why, you little pinky-waving..."

"Oh, and stop calling me sweetie, 'captain'," he sneered. "The name's Trax. Marcus Trax. Or perhaps 'Daddy', to you."

Stunned at this development, I launched out of the secret passage and to my slave quarters, pored over the day's paper. Doomed productions? Anthems? Hairy balls? What could it all possibly mean?

And then I spotted it. A new Wormtail Production, released by none other than Marcus Trax's corporate empire, on the same day as his very own Monkey Island. Trax was ignoring good ethics and protocol and lining his own pockets. He'd be double-dipping into the slush money, while the good old captain stands there, getting his pocket-picked with a knife sticking out the back of his chest.

Treachery cuts deep. Especially by the British.

July 9, 2007

It was a dark and stormy night. The sea was sloshing against the ship like the raging ocean sloshes against large boats. My eyes were about to close, as I was about to fall into a slumber, when I heard it. A wail, the sound of despair from outside.

Fearing the worst, I stood up lightning-fast, put on my Chris Harmer costume, and moved like an iceberg towards the door. I burst out onto the deck, and that's when I saw him. The captain, soaked from head to toe. I couldn't tell rain from sea from tears.

"Oh. Oh, it's just you," he sniffed, the epitome of defeat. "I'm sorry if I woke you. It's just... Oh screw it, you understand me! You'll lay by me to the very end! I'm ruined, Chris! RUINED!"

I asked him why, but he just broke down some more.

"I put my faith into that man! I put everything into his hands! Everything! My entire summer, my money, that property, my love..." he sobbed. "...ly ship! I gave him my tentpole, don't you understand?!? MY POLE!! MY BELOVED POOOOOOLLLEE!!!"

I sighed and I stiffened as the stunning image flashed through my head. "I'm sorry about that. I heard about the Anthem issue, but..."

"Oh, it's not just that! I wish it was, but it's not! I was nearly over that! He had his woman, his love, I can surely relate! But yesterday... He told me... He told me..."

"He told you what?"

"HE WAS FAKING IT!! HE DIDN'T FINISH, HE NEVER FINISHED!! I couldn't... get him... to finish..."

The rain drummed on, along with my heart, as my pulse beat pure pity for that broken man.

"He's only halfway done the movie, it's as if he was saving it all for her! He only gave me his half-ass, don't you see? He only gave me half an ass! I'm ruined..."

And the rain drummed on.

"I'm ruined..."

And the rain drummed on.

"I'm ruined..."

July 12th, 2007

The sun was shining again after the rain. It was the last day of my voyage on the Fooles -- about time, since my costume started chafing.

Ship of Fooles would reach its destination tomorrow and who knows if all was well. I hadn't seen the dear captain in three whole days and have heard little news on the production.

I had spotted Uwe Boll, however, and tried to prod some answers out of him, but he only prodded me back with his fist two or three hundred times.

In the distance, back on the land, I could make out a huge celebration of some sort on shore. I took out my telescope and peered through. On a giant parade float was none other than Marcus Trax and his fiance, Polgara, boasting arrival of their digital lovechild.

I scanned the shore some more, for any sign of Guybrush Threepwood, or monkeys, or giant cotton swabs -- no avail. Monkey Island was nowhere in sight.

Two lattes, six burgers, and three bathrooms later, I finally caught up to the dear captain, who was trying to avoid any contact whatsoever.

"I'm feeling much better now, as you can see," he sighed. "I disappointed at his lack of commitment, but I try not to take it personal, you know? I... I don't know if I'll ever be able to trust anyone again, but I'll try, I'll soldier on, like I always do. You understand, don't you?"

He looked into my eyes, searching for an answer I didn't want to tell him.

"You understand. Right?"

I looked down where his hands were clamped on mine and then blinked one or two times. I sighed. "I... I'm not sure, captain, I'm not sure if I understand. I'm just a fool, after all. We're all just Fooles."

"Fooles," he whispered. He closed his eyes and let go of my hand. "You're right, Chris. You're right."

We both looked off into the sunset, picturing it as it fell towards Marcus Trax's head. He put his hand on my shoulder, but I didn't mind, 'cause I couldn't feel it through the padding.

"What is us Fooles, Chris?"

I shrugged. I really didn't know. But if there was one thing I was sure of, it was this. "We'll always have Monkey Island."

He looked at me, then nodded. And we both laughed.


Sea Captain Manchuria's first command was a freight container that fell off a cargo ship on its way from China to the US.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Where Did That Investigative Reporting Go?: An Investigative Report



By Mark Chua, Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island Investigative Journalist




It's no stretch to say that Hollywood: The Game has been in its dark ages for some time now. No, not regarding the movies, nor the players -- HTG has been in the dark regarding EVERYTHING, and it is in the midst of the most crippling information and media blackout in its era. That's right, HTG journalism is dead.

Sure, the journalists and publications are still here. The untested, horn-tooting Alex Love is in the reigns of HTG's flagship paper, The Hollywood Times, the ever-present fluffster, Marlowe, operates the advertnalistic What's Happening, and the PJ "One-Word-Vocabulary" Flip heads up the M.I.A. Hollywood Pit. There's also the Carson Daily, which is not daily, and really only puts up awards, and fellow Bishop-Imperialistic mouthpiece, The Hollywood Star, but of all these "active" entities, none of them seem to be willing to get dirty. None of them dig up the real facts, nor interview the real people of the Hollywood underbelly.

It's a shame, especially when browsing through the ruins of the former glory of The Hollywood Pit . Remember when mc48 bravely busted Ben Affleck in his crazed abduction spree? Or when Marty uncovered Trans-Atlantic Film's suddenly-missing $300 million bank account and their trip to Africa ? Or when Experimenter #2 released documents containing the REAL reason Sureshot lost his studio? How about when fearless Publius infiltrated the depths of The Alexander Corporation, discovering the rampant dysfunction that led to their downfall? Where are the stories that rock the world? The ballsy journalism that leads to public enlightenment? These stories used to arouse interest! Intrigue! Emotion! Lord knows Hollywood has been the same seedy, crime-ridden cesspool it has always been, the difference is, nobody has the guts to infiltrate it.

It's clear the questions are still being asked. Just last week, The Hollywood Times posed an issue that has been plaguing Hollywood for centuries. The report was hailed for being the best article HTG has seen in a long time. Tough questions were posed and addressed.

"Where Did That Blockbuster Go?" "Did productions budgets get out of hand? Were there cast or production issues that stopped filming? Did the studio heads pull the projects? Were there union issues that needed to be dealt with? Did the cast and crew become ill after eating the Flip Brothers Pizzeria catering?"

The answer? The conclusion?

"Well, we may never know."

It is articles like these, as well as the lazy, soulless, advertinterviews strewn across the press-room floor that brings back the sweet nostalgia of the brave journalistic souls of the past, as well as the bitter stench of awareness that Hollywood journalism today continues to be dead, buried, but worst of all, forgotten.

So where did the investigative report go? Here are the facts:

The investigative report was last seen thriving in The Hollywood Pit headquarters, before its deed was handed over to one Ritchie Steven, and then subsequently to Justin Graham. Graham then was involved in a horrific car accident, crippling him for several months, forcing him to abandon his editorial duties. Upon healing, Graham, valiantly attempted to revive The Pit and exhibited three fleeting glimpses of journalistic balls, before succumbing to inertia. He could not go on.

The Hollywood Pit and their glorious journalistic history was then inexplicably whored off by the aforementioned (mentally?) handicapped and auctioned off in a two-man battle between PJ Flip and soon-to-be-Hollywood Star-editor, Trax. In a show of capitalist muscle (and alleged brotherly favoritism by HTG President and ex-Pit Editor Ritchie Steven, which nobody had the journalistic balls to investigate), PJ Flip won and publication was transferred over to him.

In a total corporate makeover, the next Hollywood Pit came out emasculated with a fancy Flash-y coat, useless animations, and conspicuously lacking a soul. The Hollywood Pit has been dead ever since, and remains buried under PJ's enormous vocabulary up to this day.

From these stunning facts, and this comprehensive analysis it's clear where the investigative report went.

The investigative report is right here.

Bimperialism forever. It's where the balls are. Or at least for today.


In his spare time Mark Chua sells American military secrets to the Red Chinese.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Ed Havens Tells Bible Stories

By Edward Havens, Imperial Minister of the Bryan Bishop Adventure Island Flock

You see, in the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth. Now, the Earth was formless and fucking empty. Darkness was over the fucking surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. BOOM! Like a bullet out of a fucking .45. And God saw that the light was good, and He separated the light from the darkness. God called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." Makes sense, doesn't it? And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.

After a good night's sleep, God woke up the next day to look upon his creation. He examined the formless Earth he created and thought it to be too plain. God's special friend stumbled out of the bedroom and looked around as well. The friend said "You want to make a waterworld? That's pretty boring." God said, "You're right. A waterworld would be very boring. I shall create an expanse between the waters, to separate water from water. Water dissolving and water removing. There is water at the bottom of the ocean. Carry the water at the bottom of the ocean. Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!" So God made the expanse and separated the water under the expanse from the water above it. And it was so. God called the expanse "sky." And there was evening, and there was morning—the second day.

After a somewhat restful night of sleep, God awoke and started examining his new creation some more. After a great deal of thought, he said, "Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear." And it was so. God called the dry ground "land," and the gathered waters he called "seas." And God saw that it was pretty fucking good.

Then God said, "Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds." And it was so. The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the third day.

The next day, God said, "Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark seasons and days and years, and let them be lights in the expanse of the sky to give light on the earth, and twice a year, we'll adjust time so that there can be a little more light towards the end of the day to enjoy life and liberty and the pursuit of happyness." And it was so. God made two great lights—the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night. He also made the stars. God set them in the expanse of the sky to give light on the earth, to govern the day and the night, and to separate light from darkness. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the fourth day.

Now, on the fifth day, God's voice was getting kinda scratchy. He'd done all this creating of heavens and Earth and water and stars and shit. So he thought to himself, "Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the expanse of the sky." So God created the great creatures of the sea and every living and moving thing with which the water teems, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And God saw that it was good. God blessed them and said, "Be fruitful and increase in number and fill the water in the seas, and let the birds increase on the earth." And there was evening, and there was morning—the fifth day.

Now, what very few people know is that, on the sixth day, God actually took a half day. After all, who the hell was going to yell at him? He's the boss, you know? He created a lawn chair, created a mini-fridge with some beer in it, kicked off his sandles and just soaked in his creations thus far. He examined the Sun and the Moon, the heavens and the Earth, and he was pretty pleased with himself. God thought to himself, "I did a pretty damn good job. But I've got all these creatures under the water, but nothing on the land. I need to get some living creatures going, according to their kinds. We need some livestock, some creatures that move along the ground, and some wild animals, each according to its kind." And it was so. God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. Then God wondered why the announcer, who he hadn't really created yet, kept intoning what he was thinking and repeating what he was saying. So God turned to the announcer and said, "Let me make man in my image, in my likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground. But give them a better nose than the one I have. Mine has a deviated septum and it makes me snore at night. It keeps Mr. God's special friend awake at night, and he keeps kicking me when it wakes him up." So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. With a better nose. God blessed them and said to them, "Be fruitful and increase in number. Especially you really stupid ones. Overfill the earth and subjugate it. Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves on the ground. Shoot it or stab it or blow it out of the air or sea. Just make sure you have enough for dinner each night." Then God said, "If that's not good enough. I'll give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air and all the creatures that move on the ground—everything that has the breath of life in it—I give every green plant for food. Except for the ivy. Don't eat the ivy, and for My sake, don't roll around in it naked." And it was so.

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth day.

And on the seventh day, God looked all around the heavens and the Earth and the land and the sea and all the creatures he created, and God's special friend turned to God and said "That'll do, pig. That'll do. Now create me some place where I can make something to eat. We've been cooped up on this cloud for a week now with nothing to eat and I'm fucking hungry, you selfish piece of shit." So God grabbed a couple beers from his mini-fridge, created a kitchen for his friend and hit Play on the universe He created. "Let's see what happens, Landon."


Ed Havens was walking by and said "God bless you" when Bryan Bishop sneezed. He was hired right then and there.

Thursday, March 8, 2007

The State of Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island (Is Quite An Undertaking)

By Bryan Bishop, Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to welcome you to the bi-monthly state of the union for Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island.

A lot has happened since the inception of this Newsblog. We’ve made many new friends, and found many new followers. We have also lost Robert E. Marlowe due to the shrill whininess of… er… the perfectly reasonable demands of the Garofalo Commission. We wish his family, who we are required to repeat that we made no attempts to find, our deepest shrugs of indifference. I mean, we just started. He’s like that guy on Lost, the one who got the shrapnel in his belly. Hell, Marlowe wasn’t even Boone-worthy yet.

Anyhow, we have a great new number of initiatives in the works, designed to make Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island And even more fun place to --


What the --

Oh My God Dude, Oh My God

By Eddie Bishop, Brother to the Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

Dude, what are you doing in here, we’re supposed to go bowling with Rhonda and Steve, what… what are you doing, dude? Why are you covering up the monitor? Is it porn? Dude, you totally let me have to see if it’s porn. Dude.

Dude. "Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island?" What the hell is that? Is this what you’ve been doing in here these last few weeks? Let me read. Stop it, dude, or I’m totally going to whale on you. Huh, who’s the black guy with all the medals, isn’t he like… dude, that’s Ghost Dog! That movie owns.

Dude, you totally gotta get out more if this is what you do in your spare time. Shandra was like three months ago, get over her already and come out into the real world. Oh, you guys never heard of Shandra? Bryan caught her in a Tahoe givin’ some guy a BJ, and he starts crying like a little bitch. Oh my God, it was funny as shit.

And then he’s like crying and shit and drinking Boone’s Farm and I’m like laughing because he’s such a pussy. And then he tries to hit me and kick me at the same time. Swear to fuckin’ God. He punch-kicked me. PUNCH-KICKED ME! I fell over laughing like a motherfucker, oh my God.

Oh yeah, man, if you think he’s bad now, you should have seen him in high school. He was so clueless. Until he turned seventeen, I had him convinced that girls had penises. Swear to God. Ha ha!

Hey Bryan, you want a headlock? Can I put you in a headlock? Ha ha! I’m totally putting him in a headlock right now. I bet he starts crying. Cry, Bryan! Cry, you little bitch! Ha ha! I don’t care if you tell Mom.

What do you mean you’re going to let some dude stay on your couch? Dude, I’ve been on this couch for months? You gonna act like a little bitch just because I made fun of you in front of your internet friends? Dude, fuck you, that’s bullshit. Who is he? I’ll kick his ass. Matt Atwood? I’ll be damned if some fuckin’ tree hugger is taking my couch away. You can blow me, I’m not going anywhere.

Oh my God, the first time he got a tug-job, it was so funny, he comes home and he asks me in this quiet voice, "Is it natural for stuff to come out?" I’M SERIOUS! I could have busted a nut myself laughing.

Oh yeah, him and Shandra dated for like years. He was so starry-eyed. He came home and said, "I made love!" Like it’s an episode of Passions or some shit. I asked him what he played… get this… Purple Rain. Bryan Bishop lost his virginity to Purple Rain.

All right Bryan, all right, I’ll get off of here. But my God, dude, you are so wasting your life. Ha! Later, motherfuckers!


Eddie Bishop is a big jerk face.

Alas, A Maiden Fair, Chapter One

By PJ Flip, Poet Laureate of the Isle

Twas in the season of great and noble tidings, when man and beast are in harmony with the will of the warmest stirrings of the heart of man, when I set out upon my carriage, perchance to spy a lady. I had long been pining whilst working through my studies in the rectory, and I thought it would be quite a thing to break my long stretch of erstwhile solitude by setting out henceforth in search of a young beauty to whisper sweet promises to as the water chortled by across the whispering stones of a secluded brook.

Ah, and as I struck out across the moors, reigning in my team as the wheels on my carriage went snicker-snack, I thought back to olden times, before the mosses undertook the bottom of the village bridge, before so many festive Christmastimes had gone by, before I had laid bear my heart to the frigid Widow Terwillinger, and tasted the mournful kiss of her disdain. How I wished to go back to my younger days, racing through the fens and braes in my short pants, my freckled cheeks rosy with good health and good cheer, skipping merrily along the cobblestones of old Solihul.

Ah, but the gray skies assailed me as I rode on, the angels in heaven had taken it upon themselves to chill me with a most unpleasant wind, As if the great clock of the seasons had turned back its hands and placed me in the most threadbare confines of a great December empire. I could cry for the warm embrace of Gaea and her merciful tidings, but t’would be in vain.

Then, did seem the heavens themselves opened up, casting down a ray from the very cheek of the Almighty to a distant hillside, where I saw a white figure elapsing the afternoon with incantations and revelry, unawares, perhaps, that I had seen her from afar. I called my stallions to a halt, wanting to thrill her with surprisement, and embarked briskly for the underside of the distant mount, which rose from the mists of the great plain like the shoulder of a half-buried giant, stirring himself to his waking.

I came to her in the bones of the great church, large moss-clad stone arches, the rusted remnants of an old friar’s crucifix. And there she turned to me, lips pursed, hair a deep chestnut brown, eyes brown and filled with a sense of longing that shook me to the very core of my being. I gazed upon her, her finery, her chaste maiden’s way of sitting, pail hands clasped in her lap, eyes glistening with timidness and the excitement of such indecent, reckless abandon to be alone in the wild with an wanton vagabond, to find herself looking back to me, bosom heaving, as I held out my hands to her, poetry springing to my lips. I had but one thing I could say to the maid, one phrase grafted by the anvils in Heaven, cast down by angels themselves to let me win her heart, her body, her very soul. I opened my lips, falling to one knee, and let my inner being spring forth, to conquer her, and make one angel my very own. She gazed at me breathlessly. I spoke in the tender stillness of the coming night…

"Hi."


Hello PJ is a top selling product line in Japan.

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Al Gore Is A Rapist and A Pyromaniac!



By Matt Drudge, Bryan Bishop's Adventure Island News Correspondent





Developing...


Matt Drudge saw the last ten minutes of "All The President's Men" and thought it looked cool.

There's Raisins In My Toast

By Marlowe, Official Old Coot of and Envoy to Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

There’s raisins in my toast.

What the hell you want? My story? My story’s ain’t none of your goddamn business. Here’s my name:

Me and Pete Rose were borne in a nest and raised by a pair of Bald Eagles, named Sassy and Dexter. Of course, those were the days before Sassy and Dexter morphed into Edward and Cassy Havens. They can change back whenever they want. They’re witches, you see. Witches! Witches of Eastwick!

Wicks.

You don’t see a lot of candles anymore. Now it’s all about the goldarn light bulbs. Light bulbs! Anybody else notice how much light bulbs look like swastikas? That’s because the Japs and the Krauts want us to rest easy. I knew me a Jap back in the war, and I know he’d never bow over with two atomic bombs. Have you seen Japanese pornography? Them peoples are fearless!

What about the war? Yeah, I fought. I was a Confederate. No, I ain’t racist! I love all races and creeds, ‘cept the Catholics. They always talk about the slavery and the state’s rights. They forget the third issue. Age of consent! Why do you think the Confederates got so many people backing them? 470,000 at Gettysburg! It was because they didn’t look down on you if you buggered a fourteen year old. And brother, you haven’t lived until you’ve buggered a thirteen year old.

Anyway, back to mah story.

Me, the Lindberg Baby, and Heddy Lamar all joined in the 20th Ontario and marched on Berlin in 1932. Of course, back in those days, it was called Constantinople. We laid siege to the city, and ended up putting the Kaiser in his place. Afterward, we went home, where we all got rimmed out by Betty Davis. Of course, in those days, rimmed out meant… well, that ain’t really changed.

You know, mud ain’t nothin’ but wet dirt.

Anywho, after I came home from the war I became a world-famous singer. I was the guy who wrote "Papa Don’t Preach" by Madonna. You’re welcome.

But I ain’t this mainland Marlowe! Never could be! Because I decided writin’ makes you a wussy. A big, fat wussy. Big and fat like the picture on the first picture you see at his newsblog!

I think that’s wrong. Misrepresenting somebody with a dig like that. It ain’t like an elaborate satire, it’s a cruel joke that is just going to hurt somebody’s feelings, rather than make other folks laugh. I mean, how can you do that to poor Ralphie May? Bryan Bishop is much fatter than that. He’s a big, fat guy. A big, fat, sweaty guy who’s pants bunch up and cut off the circulation to his legs! The kind of guy who can’t get an erection unless he eats him a big bag of pasta!

For shame, other Marlowe. You should have the class to find somebody as fat as Bryan Bishop as his stand in. Like Taft or Yokozuna or…


Robert E. Marlowe was executed on the morning of March 6, 2007.

Being Playful Is Quite An Undertaking

By Bryan Bishop, Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

So I’m busy raping and mur… er, playing in the surf with my dog one day and my Imperial Messenger runs up, and gives me this note:

Dear who it may concern.

I noticed in your latest edition, you featured a senior citizen by the name of "Marlowe." It has come to our attention that this may, in fact, not be the Marlowe we are familiar with on the mainland. Nonetheless, we assume you simply named this poor, senile man after a rival producer for your own sick pleasure.

May I say, Mr. Bishop, that you and your ilk disgust me. Your wanton actions are the kinds that curdle the breast milk of new mothers and cause little girls to go blind in the flower of life. How dare you steal the identity of a poor old man for your own sick desires!

We ask that you find the true name of this poor old man, and let him go by that from now on at the very least… though anybody with a soul would send him home to be with his family. Also, revise your old records to reflect the changes, or face more glaring disapproval.

Signed,

The Garofalo Commission.


Needless to say, the rest of my day was spent sputtering in frustration. Then I wandered out and found our old friend hiding behind a tree to keep the grass from eating his feet.

"Hey, old timer!" I said.

"Bicycles cause the gay!"

"That’s great. Listen… um… I’ve gotten a pretty angry letter, and they want me to find out your real name. So… got it?"

"Name’s Marlowe."

Shit.

"Martin Lowe? Like, are you just saying it fast?"

"My name is Robert E. Marlowe, you goddamn Quaker! Go weave me a basket!"

"Look, they want us to rename you."

"They can kiss my sister’s black cat’s ass! This is my name! It was my name in aught 14 and it’ll be my name when I die and Jesus drinks me out a hat!"

He then screamed as his legs became entangled in a spool of yarn he was gumming. I would have to think fast. Quickly, I called for my imperial scribe, Shawn "Chocolate Thunder" Wenger.

"Take a letter," I said.

"Sure," Shawn said, readying his Bic.

"I regret the error that has befallen us. It seems my third-in-command, Shawn "Chocolate Thunder" Wenger, is fully at fault in this controversy. I am very displeased with his foolish and petty action, and…"

"Hey!"

"…will see to it that the little worm is justly…"

"You godforsaken coward!"

"Shut up and write, monkey!"

We then proceeded to slap each other with our eyes closed and heads turned to the side. After roughly twenty-five minutes, we paused to rest, and decided that selling out a subordinate would not end this controversy… we would have to ask "Marlowe" who he really was, not because we wanted to, or felt it was at all necessary, but to get the Garofalo Commission off our back.

"Marlowe," tell us your story!


Seriously, this was all Wenger’s idea.

Thursday, March 1, 2007

Prepare The Death Ray

By Idi Amin, Vice Imperial Overlord of Bryan Bishop’s Adventure Island

Man the catapults! Prepare the battering ram! This is it, my children!

Soon, we shall invade the mainland, pillaging and plundering at will, butchering the foolish people of HTG town by the thousands. We shall skin them and smoke their bones in the hot fires of our camps. We will wave our flag from the top of the theater, as we bask in the heat of the inferno that is all that remains of UFI and the Flip’s Studio. We will drink the sweet nectar of life from the skulls of their children.

Hear me now! Our blades will drink the life’s blood of Krisgreet and Emerald, we shall coat our bullets in the tender kiss of the flesh of Newman and Mattricks. And in the end, when the earth has drunken its fill of the blood if the innocent, we shall unleash our death ray upon the cowering survivors, smoking their flesh and cracking their skin, killing them in horrible agony where they stand…


Idi Amin is also Head Chairman of the Death Ray Sub-Committee in the BBAI Senate.