The Friday Thing
Bombs away, and we're okay. (Even the oxen.)
Jun. 13 - First, before I forget (again): subscribers may have noticed that my stuff has been popping up in your inboxes again. There are two reasons for that. For the first, I haven’t been writing enough lately to have to worry about spamming you. For the second, Herself keeps complaining about having to use the Substack app to see what I’ve been lying about, and her complaints carry a lot of weight.
It’s Friday the 13th, by the way. So we’ve got that going for us, which is nice.
Boom!
It was an “opening strike,” according to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu—the big tease!
California activists will be pleased to know that Iran is a massive country and Israel only hit a few very small neighborhoods. In most of Iran, for the vast majority of Iranians, yesterday was just like any other day.
What’s more, there are almost 10 million people in Israel. The number of Israelis attacking Iran is therefore, statistically speaking, like none, so California activists shouldn’t judge the whole country based on the actions of a small handful of Mullah-whooping activists.
(And the IDF and Mossad aren’t actual organizations, just ideas.)
Reminders like these broke out all over the intertubes while I was sleeping, in absolute harmony with the spirit of laughing indifference I had so achingly yearned for in yesterday’s piece.
Blam!
In other good news, California Governor Gavin Newsom barely had time to take a victory lap following a judge’s order that the Trump administration return control of the California National Guard to the governor—“I’m in charge! I’m the decider! It’s me! The guard is mine, all mine!”—before an appeals court abruptly overturned that decision.
Newsom had crowed: “Today was really about a test of democracy, and today we passed the test; Donald Trump has tested the limits of that, and has done so consistently, but today's order makes clear that he is not above or beyond constitutional constraints.”
His forked tongue barely got the words out of his mouth before the infamously anti-Trump 9th Circuit Court of Appeals restored control of the Guard back to Trump, who really ought to have delivered Newsom’s exact statement: “Today was really about a test of democracy, and today we passed the test; Gavin Newsom has tested the limits of that, and has done so consistently, but today's order makes clear that he is not above or beyond constitutional constraints.”
Kapow!
U.S. Senator Alex Padilla (D-CA) burst into a Kristi Noem L.A. press conference like a demented, road-raging Kool Aid guy amped up on meth, and got a refreshingly kinetic reminder that fighting one’s way through security during a press conference by the Director of Homeland Security is not appropriate behavior.
Democrats and the media were right on the brink of treating us all to a full news cycle of Good heavens how dare they! when the bombs began dropping on Iran.
What a glorious week to be alive.
Pyew Pyew! (Fart)
In other other good news, there’s this:
Yes, Mel Brooks is producing a sequel to Spaceballs. Coming to theatres in 2027, assuming the superannuated cast survives production.
I am second to none in my love of Mel Brooks in his prime. Any top ten list of Best American Comedies has to include The Producers, Blazing Saddles, and Young Frankenstein. (If you care, my own moronic list would also include The In-Laws, Some Like It Hot, Galaxy Quest, Harvey, This Is Spinal Tap, Waiting for Guffman, and Best In Show. That list will change by this time tomorrow, so never mind. Hell, that list will change by dinner tonight. Wait—I did a list?)
Any connoisseur of American comedy cherishes the 2000 Year Old Man routine that Brooks worked out with Carl Reiner—just to crack up their friends at cocktail parties.
But Spaceballs?
Meh.
I know that’s heresy among a lot of people, especially people in my age cohort, but I don’t care. I’ve seen Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, and (the original) The Producers dozens of times. They never get old. They’re still edgy.
Spaceballs felt old the first time I saw it. It felt obvious and easy. It felt like ol’ Mel just wanted an extension on his summer house.
I’ve never given it a second viewing, so maybe I was just in a bad mood the day I saw it. It was released in 1987: maybe my theatrical experience was colored by the woman I was dating at the time and probably saw it with. (She was for me the necessary relationship all young men must have to learn that what’s lovely and supple and enticing on the outside can be. . . less so inside.)
Brooks authorized a theatrical production of The Producers, and then a superfluous remake of the movie itself. He got still more mileage out of it in a full season of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
If any of his movies screamed out for a sequel, or a variant, or a remake, Spaceballs would be the last of them—or maybe just a hair above Silent Movie.
And yet. . . I understand. I think we all understand. The transgressive, take-no-prisoners comedy of Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein would be difficult to reproduce today. Not because lightning never strikes twice, but because lightning is no longer allowed.
Comedy has to be safe these days, if it’s going to see the light of day, which is why most recent comedy sucks.
Maybe Brooks will surprise us all. Maybe Spaceballs 2, or whatever it ends up being called (if it even makes to through production) will be vintage Brooks, mocking everyone and everything as it makes its giddy way from start to finish. A jab at BLM here, a swip at MAGA there; rapier thrusts at environmental alarmism, at social media “influencers,” at Donald Trump’s childish Truth Social posts, at Kamala Harris’s word salads, at privileged children demonstrating on behalf of a movement that would see them all dead. At child abuse disguised as “affirming care.”
Or maybe it’ll just suck.
(Firing Blanks)
The Daily Beast got right to the most important story of the week: “Melania Shuns Trump’s Attempt at Shameless Flattery at White House Picnic.”
The subhead elaborates brilliantly: “The president attempted to compliment his wife during an appearance at the annual White House congressional picnic.”
Attempted? To compliment his “wife?” During Pride Month?!
What will that monster do next?
There’s no story at all, none. You can read the whole thing, if you want—I’d prefer you didn’t, because let’s not give those bastards the clicks they live for—and the closest they come to supporting the premise of their headline is this:
“Melania smiled, nodded and clap (sic) as she let her husband speak for her.”
That’s shunning his compliments. Shunning them so flagrantly it was worthy of a whole article.
So remember: if anyone smiles at, nods at, and clap (sic) for you this weekend, you’re being shunned.
(…fizzle…)
Speaking of stupid hackery, remember: tomorrow is No Kings Day in the United States.
It’s the latest ass-hattery from the same fucking idiots who brought us pussy hats, BLM, #meToo, and Hamas fan clubs. The same people who glue themselves to streets, interrupt sporting events, and throw soup at great works of art. Who lionize and fund raise for assassins and terrorists. You know: our brilliant moral custodians.
As stupid as it sounds, their “Partners” page nevertheless lists dozens and dozens of supporting organizations.
It’s so thoughtful of these people to keep drawing attention to themselves so we know who they are. I for one am grateful.
Dept. of ICYMI
Monday’s Almanac featured Donald Duck, Wat Tyler’s Rebellion, the annual telling of The Legend of the Dannebrog, the Magna Carta, and England’s first Black Prince.
On Wednesday, The Stupid Crisis asked the important question: “If I stroll into the local Cineplex to watch the new Mission Impossible flick without buying a ticket, what’s my defense when management tries to eject me from the theatre?” (The answer did not involve people having fun watching cars burn.)
Yesterday, Savage Dining relished some of the trivialities that had crept into my news feed and elicited a kind of nostalgia for slow news summers. . . ending with a wildly prophetic omen that things were about to get explodey in Iran.
Enjoy the weekend!
Agree with you completely re Spaceballs. It was meh back then. I saw it once when it came out and remembered it dimly through the decades since as a pretty mediocre and obvious cash grab, providing a few solid laughs and a lot of tired and unsurprising attempts at Star Wars jokes ("You remember Yoda. Well here's Mel Brooks as Yoghurt. See, it's like Yoda, only Yoghurt. Funny. And remember Han Solo And Chewbacca? Well, here's Bill Pullman and John Candy as Lonestar and Barf. He's a dog, see. Also, his name is Barf. Haha. Hey, why aren't you laughing out loud?").
I rewatched it for the first time a month or so ago. It was just as I had remembered it. A couple of good and funny jokes and a LOT of unfunny, obvious ones. Saying it did not hold up well obscures the fact that the original was never really that good to begin with. Certainly age has not been kind.
Meh is a good one word review.
And best bet is that the sequel will be a dud. Mel Brooks in his prime was a genius, but it would be very surprising if there is any of that left. And the people who are really doing the writing this time are extremely unlikely to be able to reach the toenails of the old Brooks.
Maybe it will be decent or even good, but that is not the way to bet.
The old cast wasn't even that good. Rick Moranis was good, but what a waste of John Candy. Bill Pullman was wonderful playing a moron in Ruthless People (see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PS6lNDrCi88) but had nothing to work with on Spaceballs. Daphne Zuniga was pretty and boring and unfunny, and both Dick van Patten and George Wyner, both Brooksfilm regulars, were clearly going through the motions. Brooks himself was more manic than usual in his two roles as Yoghurt and the President, as if by trying harder he could make the dialogue funnier than it really was.
Pretty sure Joan Rivers was relieved she only had to supply the voice of the female droid and not have to show her face.