The Pimple

Through the kindness of a friend (I've never found strangers to be very kind-- sorry, Blanche) I was fortunate enough to acquire, on loan, for no charge, and no interest, the 6-hour British extravaganza that is commonly known in titular form as "Monty Python: The (Almost) Complete Truth: The Lawyer's Cut".

It goes without saying that, upon receiving these DVDs, I was in an altered state. And not the sort of altered state I was, apparently, in when I wrote Friday's blog. Seriously-- sometimes I even scare myself.

So, the DVD is great. I'm about midway through thusfar, and it has covered the boys' upbringing and schooling, how they met at Cambridge and Oxford, who their influences were, how they developed the show, and their subsequent feature films, and their various reactions to the passing of Graham Chapman from cancer in 1989.

Like most documentaries, this is a mix of interviews interspersed with archival footage, photos, music and reminiscences. Obviously, the interviews are with Terry, Mike, Eric, Terry, and John-- the surviving members of the group, and there is some rarely-seen interview footage featuring Graham. Interestingly, Graham is shown being interviewed on three or four separate occasions, and each interview was recorded in 1980. Must have been a big year for him.

Anyway, this documentary, which is pretty exhaustive, even for someone who thinks he already knows everything about "Python" also includes interviews from folks who were not in the group, but were in the periphery at the time-- cameramen, musicians, and then there are also interviews from modern day celebrities who give their opinions/commentary on "Monty Python". They talk about how the group influenced them, what their favorite sketches/films were, and what the greater cultural impact of "Python" was on their upbringing, development as comedians or actors and the group's effect on comedy at large.

And, to be perfectly honest, there isn't really a modern comedian or actor out there who I give enough of a damn enough about to give much of a damn about what they think about anything-- let alone something as important to me as "Monty Python" (it's annoying to have to be putting that in quotes all the time-- do I really have to keep doing that?) though there were performers featured whom I respect-- such as Steve Coogan and Dan Aykroyd, whose name I can't believe I just spelled correctly without Googling or IMDB'ing it. And I have to say that, while I admittedly don't care very much about what these relatively talent-free people are saying about this 42-year-old comedy troupe, the documentary itself trucks along in a very inoffensive, informative and aesthetically-pleasing manner.

Until Russell Brand shows up.

And he shows up frequently. Too frequently. Like as in: all too frequently.

He's filmed sitting on a window-sill it looks like, in front of a huge picture window, and I cannot stop fantasizing about him falling backwards through the window, even though I know that there wouldn't be nearly enough force to break through it. He would definitely need to be pushed, and I would hurt any number of people to be at the head of that line.

Is that mean?

He's wearing some sort of ridiculous tight white shirt and it's covered with an even more ridiculous looking drapey women's type garment-- it's brown and flowy, with huge sleeves and he's got this fucked up kind of jewelry on, and his hair looks like it hasn't been washed in a week, and his face is all scrunched up like he's just smelled a wicked nacho fart and his voice is cloying and sychophantic and his comments are, largely, redundant and irrelevant.

It's like, God-- I don't know. Like the DVD is a relatively nice looking girl's face, and Russell Brand is this terrible pimple. On her forehead. And not in one of those strategically okay places where this relatively nice looking girl could cover it with some strands of her hair, or off to the side where, if she turned her head to the side and dimmed the lights you'd think it was just a shadow, or if it were on her forehead in a place where, if she furrowed her brow a lot, she could hide it well enough to pass.

LIKE RIGHT FUCKING THERE IN THE CENTER OF THIS RELATIVELY NICE LOOKING GIRL'S FOREHEAD, LIKE A GODDAMNED BINDI.

He's nauseating. He's cloying. He's immature. He's fatuous.

I hate him.

I hate Russell Brand. There. I said it. And I'm glad I said it. And I hope he sits at home Googling himself, so he can find this and tell me to go fuck myself, because I'd just love that. Or, better yet, maybe HIS FANS will find this post and tell me to go fuck myself!

SCORE!

That would be so totally cool!

I remember when I wrote a shitty review of a Sean Hoots concert, and his fans cyber gang-banged me on my old blog.

That was GREAT!

No, actually, it was. I thought it was hilarious.

I just am trying to picture what a cadre of rabid Russell Brand fans looks like. Who would those people be? And would they be people I would want to have over for dinner? Would they be pimples, or give me pimples, or burst like pimples if squeezed with just the right amount of psi?

Who knows?

All I know is, the faces of John, Mike, Terry, Terry, and Eric (and, yes, even Graham's dead face) are far too wonderful to be besmirched by one lousy pimple.