Joel Murphy

Now that all of the good television shows are on hiatus, I find myself seeking out programs I wouldn’t normally watch in an effort to keep my DVR from collecting dust. In an act of true desperation, my fiancée and I have begun taping The Moment of Truth, the ridiculous Fox reality show where contestants are hooked up to lie detectors and asked very personal questions, while their friends and family sit close by, looking horrified and slightly jealous that they aren’t the ones in for a big pay day.

The show itself isn’t much to watch. The producers manage to stretch 15 – 20 minutes of actual content into an hour long episode. If I wasn’t able to fast forward all of the repetitive content and over-the-top promos on my DVR, the show would be completely unwatchable. With heavy fast forwarding, the show manages to be tolerable, but ultimately disappointing, since it never lives up to the hype Fox creates with its ridiculous promos that promise “the most shocking questions ever in the history of television.”

As I sat there watching an episode, I found myself less interested in the contestant (who seemed to be nothing more that a self-absorbed, spoiled whore) and more interested in the host, Mark Walberg.

He is, of course, not to be confused with the other Mark Wahlberg, the Calvin Klein-wearing, Boston native who went from being the charismatic leader of The Funky Bunch to an accomplished actor who stole every scene he appeared in in The Departed. No, Mark Walberg (minus the “h”) is a television personality who seems to be the go-to host for all sleazy Fox reality shows (as if there were any other kind).

Ironically, both Marks got their start in 1991. The year Marky Mark was making a big splash with his hit song “Good Vibrations,” Mark Lewis Walberg was making his television debut as a sidekick to Pat Finn on Shop ‘Til You Drop. I’m only hoping that in 1991 someone tried to convince the gameshow host to change his name to avoid confusion, leading to Walberg shouting out a Michael Bolton-esque, “Why should I change? He’s the one who sucks.” Bonus points if at any point Walberg referred to Marky Mark as a “no-talent ass clown.”

(On a side note: How many Hollywood parties do you think guests have gotten excited when hearing the news that Mark Walberg will be making an appearance, only to let out sighs of disappointment when the gameshow host comes walking through the door?)

Since his Shop ‘Til You Drop days, Walberg has gone on to have a long career on television. He made a name for himself hosting Antiques Roadshow and a variety of gameshows, including the less exciting than it sounds Russian Roulette. He is also the former host of Temptation Island, an evil show that separated happy couples, liquored them up and then dangled chiseled, morally-ambiguous strangers in front of them in the hopes that they would cheat on their partners. If they did cheat, that footage was shown to the significant other, with a nice tight camera shot on the partner’s face so that, like when Lisa Simpson broke Ralph Wiggum’s heart on Krusty the Clown’s show, the producers could freeze frame the exact moment when the significant other’s heart broke. Walberg also hosted Joe Millionaire‘s “Aftermath” special, which looked back at the entire season of Joe Millionaire, a show which tricked money-hungry sluts into believing a dopey blue-collar worker was actually a millionaire.

What’s fascinating to me about Walberg is that he seems to have no problem hosting these trashy shows, but he does it with faux sincerity. On The Moment of Truth, he first asked the contestant to confess that she believed her good friend was a talentless guitar player who would never make it as a professional musician, while the friend sat there on stage, looking crushed (moments earlier, she admitted to having been sexually attracted to this friend in the past, even though she has a boyfriend now). Walberg went on to ask her questions about her father, who was also on stage with her, and got the contestant to admit that her parent’s divorce ruined her childhood and that her dad was an untrustworthy individual who wasn’t the type of guy she would like to marry someday. While Walberg continued to ask these relationship-shattering questions, he kept expressing empathy for the contestant’s plight and reminding her that she could quit at any time. While he did his best to appear sincere, Walberg nonetheless ploughed ahead with more prying questions.

At one point, while talking to Walberg, the contestant’s father said something like, “If you ever become a father, you’ll understand how I feel right now.” Walberg responded by saying that he was a father already. According to his Wikipedia entry, Walberg has been happily married since 1987 and has two children.

I’m not sure why, but I find it fascinating that the guy who earns a living destroying other people’s relationships has been happily married for over 20 years (which is even more impressive considering he is a quasi-celebrity and celebrity marriages tend to last months, not years). Is he just able to leave work at work and not come home wondering if his wife is cheating on him with a shirtless island-dweller? Or does he invite his wife down to The Moment of Truth set to hook herself up to the lie detector “just for fun”? Is he a liberal parent, or is he overprotective of his two children, knowing that someday they might grow up and appear on a gameshow sharing all of the family’s dark secrets?

I guess it’s just hard to get a read on Walberg. Could he really just be a dedicated family man who takes gigs on sleazy reality shows in order to pay the bills, or does he simply offer faux-sympathy while secretly delighting in the suffering of others? Does he seek out these shows or does he take a “walk of shame” to the bank every time Fox cuts him another check? Does he secretly have a Marky Mark voodoo doll that he shoves full of pushpins every time someone asks him if he’s seen Boogie Nights?

I need answers to these questions, damn it. I say we hook Mark Walberg up to a lie detector and start grilling him. If nothing else, it would definitely make for some entertaining television.

Random Thought of the Week:

A 30-foot lighthouse in Wellfleet, Massachusetts that historians believed was destroyed in 1925 was actually relocated to Point Montara, California, but no documents can be found explaining how the lighthouse was moved across the country. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that the relocation involved a creepy man in a Dharma jacket turning a giant donkey wheel.

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.

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Courtney Enlow

To know me is to know that I have a mean case of hero worship.

Now, in my defense, at least my heroes are pretty damn worshipable. And in recent times, I’ve had the good fortune to meet / talk with / be in the same five-foot-by-five-foot area with a few of them. Because of this site, I got to talk to and interview Mike Nelson, former host and head writer of The Best Damn Show Of All Time (aka Mystery Science Theater 3000), and I’ve been fortunate enough to have many email and at least one phone conversation with Bill “Brain Guy / Latter Day Crow T. Robot” Corbett as I helped out with one of their Rifftrax installments. This alone is enough to give a girl enough giddiness to last a lifetime. I’m a big State/Stella fan and have met Michael Showalter and Michael Ian Black a few times now. And in the time I’ve lived in Chicago, I’ve had several near-miss
literally-had-to-pass-him-on-the-street-and-didn’t-notice-him-for-this-to-happen meetings with John Cusack. And that’s actually good enough for me. But rarely have I had a fangirl photo and autograph op with a celebrity. Why? Because I think it’s uber bizarre.

I could write a whole diatribe on celebrity culture and our obsession with famous people, but I won’t; A) because it’s been talked to death and B) it would be insanely hypocritical as I spend large portions of my workday on various pop culture blogs. My fascination with this stuff is more a combination of schadenfreude and my own interest in other people’s obsession with this stuff, but I won’t try to defend this because whatever color you paint it, it’s still pretty embarrassing that I know more about Lindsay Lohan than I do Gloria Steinem. However when I say the whole autograph photo thing is bizarre, I mean just that. I mean, it’s weird enough that we can get on any website or pick up any magazine and see these somehow special-er than us people grocery shopping or having totally pre-planned for the paparazzi intimate dates, but at least we can do that from the privacy of our own homes. To actually go up to someone and say, “Hey, can I have you write your name on a piece of scrap paper slash stand awkwardly in a picture next to a stranger you’ll never see again?” is strange. And it kind of embarrasses me. For both the asker and the askee.

I’d never done that until last Thursday. Last Thursday was the Kids in the Hall show in Chicago. The Kids are on their latest tour “Live As We’ll Ever Be.” And you, yes you dear reader, should totally go because it’s awesome, it’s mostly new material, it’s hilarious, blah blah, this isn’t a review, so that’s all I’ll say (seriously though, it’s awesome). I’m a huge KITH fan, lifelong. I remember when I was younger, 12 or 13, watching it on Comedy Central on days when I stayed home from school fake-sick and just laughing my ass off. Then a few years later, when I was old enough to really get it, I fell back in love with the show. My love of MST3K is well documented, but KITH is a relatively close second (perhaps only tied with Doctor Who). So I was filled with stokedness on this night.

I was also filled with alcohol. I’d had a business function earlier in the night during which I’d consumed two glasses of wine in about fifteen minutes, followed by dinner wherein I consumed yet another and then I had three beers during the show. I have a pretty decent tolerance for a smallish girl, but the toll was taken. I was slightly non-girl-drink drunk. (That’s one for the KITH fans.)

At the end of the show, my boyfriend and I were heading out and saw the tour bus. There weren’t a lot of people around, so I boldly decided to hang out by the stage door, even though it was starting to rain and it smelled like leather outside and sounded like construction. I would not normally do this, but sometimes I drink.

We waited for about fifteen minutes until a security guard came over and told us that this particular bus was crew only, and the Kids would be coming out on the other side. No sooner had these words hit the air than I was booking ass around the historic Chicago Theater like I was running for MS or something. A pretty decent crowd had formed, but through the powers of my stature, I can pretty easily sneak through people, so I made it up towards the front. Boyfriend is quite a bit taller and bigger than I am, therefore he had a harder time getting through, but it’s every man for himself and I had to ditch him. Eventually he made his way up to me.

I still wasn’t as close as I’d like to be, so I played this card:

“EXCUSE ME, I WRITE FOR A WEBSITE, THIS IS FOR JOURNALISTIC PURPOSES, I NEED TO BE UP FRONT PLEASE.”

Sometimes I drink. Shockingly enough, this kind of almost worked-ish. I started chatting with people around me because I get quite chatty when inebriated. There were some sketch performers, some students, cool people. Hi if you’re reading this. I took some notes and names but I can’t read a fucking bit of it because it’s chicken scratch because sometimes I drink.

The doors opened, the security guard went on alert and tried to keep everyone back. Bruce came out first. I probably yelled an overzealous “BRUCIO!” but can’t be sure. He was sweet and though he’s obviously getting older, he still looks ridiculously young. They all do. They really haven’t aged all that much since Brain Candy. He stayed out for a bit, taking pictures and signing programs and DVDs and copies of his album. Very nice guy. He didn’t stay out too long.

And then Mark came out. Mark is much better around crowds than the rest of them I think. He was out for quite awhile, taking pictures and signing things, but also cracking jokes with everyone and just being casually “on.” Not in a goofy comedian way, but in a genial fun way. I got my picture with him and this was awesome. I asked him a question, in theory for this article, but I don’t remember what I asked or what he answered because sometimes I drink. As I turned off my camera to wait for the next Kid, the blue screen of camera death flashed and my precious camera died. Sure. It survives at party I go to through countless drunken dancing girl pictures, but it dies now. Awesome. And then Kevin McDonald, on whom I’ve always had a bit of a crush, came out into the crowd.

“DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY DOUBLE A BATTERIES?!” I think I ruptured something yelling this. Sometimes I drink. And no, no one did.

“John, I need you to go get me some batteries.”

“Okay, where’s a Walgreens?”

“I don’t know, go find one. I’m sure there’s one around here.” And with that I turned back around and ignored the poor guy while he went on a search for batteries in a city he’s only lived in for eight months now in an area he’s really never been.

Kevin was only out for a tiny bit, less than Bruce. He was nice and willing, but you can tell he doesn’t really care for the mob scene at all. Understandable. I don’t think I would either. I couldn’t have gotten a picture with him anyway, he headed back to the bus before he got around me, but I did yell out, “Kevin, just know I * wanted * a picture with you.” He responded, “That’s just as good as getting one.”

I was getting impatient with the boy who so generously ran around downtown Chicago in the middle of the night looking for batteries for my camera, so I called him and asked for his whereabouts and how the situation was panning out.

“Yeah, I can’t find a Walgreens. I found a CVS but it was closed.”

“KEEP LOOKING. ASK SOMEONE.”

“Okay, there’s a cop, I’ll go ask him.”

“If you bring me batteries, you are so getting laid tonight.”

With that, I threw my phone back in my purse and waited about twelve seconds before asking people around me if they had batteries. One guy said, “No. I kind of told you that before. Jesus.” I asked a couple (maybe), and they were so sweet but didn’t. I told them my boyfriend was trying to find some.

“Yeah, we know, we hope he finds some. We’re really rooting for him to get laid tonight.” Sometimes I drink.

The door opened again, and it was Dave.

I fucking love Dave Foley, you guys. I’ve watched every single episode of News Radio about ten times or more, I own and love his movie The Wrong Guy, I even watched Celebrity Poker Showdown like it was my life. I love him.

As I started to panic and was considering asking anyone to take my picture with him, John burst through the darkness like a rescue ship, waving the 7-11 bag around in the air (turns out there was one like a half a block away). I threw the batteries into the camera, shoved it into his hand and said, “You know what to do.”

Dave was happily obliging everyone and then he looked at me with a “your turn” look on his face.

“Daaaave, I feel so weird asking, but can I have a piictuuurrre?”

Sounds stupid, since everyone else was doing it obviously, but even in my haze what I was doing still felt strange. He said, “Don’t feel weird! Of course you can!” and held me very tight during the shot. He smelled good and his jacket was really soft and the man literally does not age.

We would have waited for Scott, but at this point I was about to throw up (more from nerves than alcohol actually). So we headed home. I spent literally the entire next day staring at (and Photoshopping – I looked like drowned rat shit) those pictures.

Bizarre and uncomfortable or not, I touched Dave Foley and Mark McKinney. Though I’d love to say I’m above these things, I’m so not. Again though, better them than Paris Hilton.

So, a quick promise to anyone I may meet at Comic-Con* next month – I’ll try not to drink before I meet you. But I can’t make any guarantees.

* And yes I *will* be covering it for the site, so keep checking back!

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

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Ned Bitters

It’s early June, which means it’s time once again to look back at some of the more memorable moments from a year in the life at a public high school. Why anyone ever leaves this humor goldmine of a job is, like the art of teaching itself, beyond me.

While classic quotes make up most of this year’s greatest hits, some of the better moments involved few or no words at all. This year I saw:

A student spend an entire three hour state-testing session writing with his right hand while his left hand massaged his cock like a baker kneading his dough. His hand was so entrenched in his dirty blue sweatpants that he even used his writing hand to turn the pages of his test booklet. He offered me a piece of candy before he left. I politely declined the offer. I’m not sure if it was a sourball.

A young lady come to my honors English class every single day for the first four months of school. She was never sick. Then, after New Year’s she missed two weeks of school. When I asked if anyone knew what was wrong with her, a student casually informed that “she had her baby.” Yep, Mr. Observant, Mr. I Really Get to Know My Kids, didn’t even realize she was pregnant.

A first-year 40-something teacher fall asleep so hard at his desk during class that he stayed in Snoozeville through an entire change of classes. We, the teachers, found it rip-roaringly funny. That is, until he died in his sleep two weeks later. Apparently, he had unknown health problems. However, he was kept alive in our memories for weeks. Why? Our clueless guidance counselor kept calling his name over the P.A. for parent conferences. I’m assuming he didn’t show up.

Parent email addresses “barwench@…” and “trustnobitches@…” Maybe these two single parents (“No way – those two prizes are single?”) can meet up at the Skank Inn for some drinks and darts some night this summer, fuck, and have a child that grows up and has the email address: myparentswereclasslessidiots@…

A male track athlete get harshly scolded by a female teacher for throwing around a football while shirtless. The kid calmly picked up his shirt and put it on, then promptly removed his shorts and continued playing catch. I’m sure the two-day suspension was worth achieving legend status in the Ned Bitters Smartass Hall of Fame.

But some of the best humor came in the form of unintentional funny lines. Here is a sampling of the best accidental comedy from the past year:

As if being middle-aged isn’t depressing enough, the kids reinforce the fact that I am now much closer to my deathday than my birthday. One well meaning little bastard said, with complete sincerity, “Mr. Bitters, you look young … from far away.” Thanks, you myopic prick. Another girl scrunched up her face and said, with great concern for my appearance, “Do you got paint in your hair? Oh wait, it’s only a lot of gray. My bad.” Thanks, you myopic wench. And finally, another girl, trying to give me a compliment, said, “Sure, Mr. Hobart has the hotness factor, but you’ve got the funny factor.” I guess I’ll take ugly and funny over ugly and unfunny. Then I’d be Billy Crystal.

Next we have the borderline mentally retarded kid from the hardcore special ed class who had one of his similarly dimwitted classmates go ask a girl if she’d go out with him. The messenger came back with a negative reply, explaining, “She said no because she knows you still play with Transformers.” The poor bastard frowned and said, “Not that much!”

This same kid, while trying to talk smack about the rich rival high school that has all top-notch facilities, including a gorgeous artificial turf football field, said, without trying to be funny, “They ain’t all that. They so poor they can’t even afford real grass.” Zinger!

I had a hardcore thug from D.C. with a criminal past who came here to get the few remaining credits he needed for a diploma. He missed at least eight days of school due to court dates. One day, while doing some vocabulary work, he asked for a dictionary like this: “Hey, Mr. Bitters, can you give me a dic-dic?” I gave him my best gay look, and the entire class roared while I went and got him a dictionary. I dropped it on his desk and said, “Here Shareed, I got a nice fat one for you. Let me slap it on your desk. Now use it.” He didn’t kill me. Yet.

Even I am not immune from saying something unintentionally ridiculous. I have a kid who is real-deal crazy, disturbingly so. He was sent away for special help for a month this year after he told a psychologist that he was this close to harming himself and others in the school. He is an expert on mass murderer lore. He is obsessed with deviant sex acts. He once drew me a picture of decapitated woman with a man standing next to her holding an axe in his left hand. In his right hand? The woman’s head, her open mouth placed over his cock. This picture was drawn especially for me. So yes, he’s batshit nuts. One day before class, he went to my computer without my knowledge. My email was open. He read an email from a parent, then commented on it when I came into the room. How did this 21-year veteran teacher handle this invasion of privacy? Very calmly and with great maturity, of course. I yelled, “You read my email? Are you fucking crazy? I mean, are you totally fucking nuts?” He said, with zero emotion, “Yes. But you know that already.” Another kid’s self-esteem raised high high high!

Those were just a handful of some of the countless unintentionally funny moments from this year. Next week, in Part II of “Why Our Schools Come Up So Miserably Short in Global Education Studies,” we’ll go over some of the funny lines that were meant to be funny. That is, if that crazy sonofabitch email reader doesn’t kill me before then. The decapitation doesn’t scare me. It’s the thought of being forced to give a post-mortem hummer that terrifies me.

Ned Bitters teaches high school and dreams of one day seeing one of his former students on stage at a strip club. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

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(Click to enlarge.)

Jeremiah was raised in the deepest part of the darkest jungle. That’s why he smells like adventure. He currently lives in Elkins, WV with his wife, Becky, and son, Isaiah, who is epic and destined to rule the world one day. You can contact him at jeremiahwentz@hobotrashcan.com.