Dear reader, 'tis the season to be jolly. Now I might come off as Captain Jerky quite often... But I definitely am imbued with the holiday spirit these days. Oh, yes, even I, the brooding, cranky, illegitimate spawn of George Carlin and Dennis Miller (neither one will claim me, and I can't say that I blame them), can see the beauty in life around this time of year.

In fact, I've even gone so far as to extend my holiday shopping list to some of my least favorite people in the world. Oh, they might not know it's from me, but they will never forget the rock thrown through their window with the gift attached...

But here's the catch, see... For the holidays, we always ask for what we want. How often do we ask for what we need? And believe me, the individuals in question are in need of my help.

So, without further ado... a list of what these genetic defectives desperately need for the holidays!

Paris Hilton - Some class and refinement.

Saddam Hussein - A mustache and beard trimmer, a long, hot bath, and of course, a very happy reunion with his sons for the holidays.

Michael Jackson - The coldest, darkest, dingiest cell possible, and the very deep affection of a very lonely 300 lb. cellmate named Rufus. He always wanted to be a child again, now he can know how every kid he has sleep over must feel like.

Lee Boyd Malvo - The wettest sponge possible when he goes to the chair.

TV Execs and Writers everywhere - A Clockwork Orange-inspired viewing of every reality show they’ve ever green-lighted, certain to leave a nasty taste in their brains.

The Clan McMahon - A competent, reasonable booking team that they'll actually listen to.

Ben Moody - A pair of kneepads for when he comes crawling back, begging Amy Lee to rejoin Evanescence.

Paul Stanley - A chest wax.

Gene Simmons - A tongue wax.

Eddie Murphy - A screenplay that doesn't suck and actually showcases his talent.

Scott Weiland - Sobriety. Not that he'd know what to do with it.

Ben Affleck - A good divorce attorney.

Jennifer Lopez - A bad divorce attorney.

Chris Benoit - Some respect and recognition.

Angie Harmon - A much better nose job.

Steve Cojocaru -Membership in the Steven Tyler Look-alike Fan Club, two broken wrists (so he can't type), and a ball gag spot-welded to his teeth.

Jessica Simpson - A deep-sea diving excursion to find out exactly what tuna really is. Just don't let her in on the fact that she'll be wearing cement flippers...

Ozzy Osbourne - A little peace and quiet, and a new group of friends that won't tug him every which way into the limelight.

Jason Newsted - A gig even he can't possibly blow.

Trey Parker and Matt Stone - The Nobel Peace Prize.

Anna Nicole Smith - A massive tapeworm.

Old Navy - Some celebrity spokespeople that aren't right off the B-list.

HBO - A swift kick in the nads for not getting the fifth season of The Sopranos out sooner.

The Queer Eye guys - Vaseline and some discretion.

Kobe Bryant - ...Well actually, if he gets convicted, he'll be getting what he deserves.

Natalie Maines - Some military and/or political experience, so if she ever opens her mouth again, she'll at least know what she's talking about.

Britney Spears - Anything she wants provided she stops calling me so much.

My boss - Some computer know-how and the ability to give me tasks without taking 20 minutes to explain.

My other boss - A cool head and a bag of weed. If anyone needs to relax, it's him.

Your mom - Crabs.

Goodnight and have a pleasant Christmas.

I’m sick of hearing about Paris Hilton. All others in the room who share this irritation, kindly raise your hands high.

As you probably know, I’ve ripped on celebrities many times in the past, and it’s not likely I’ll be stopping anytime soon, especially when wastes of skin like Paris Hilton are making the regular rounds on my front page, and taking up valuable space in my e-mail inbox.

So she made a sex tape. Big friggin’ whoop, who in Hollywood hasn’t these days? I’m sure even Bea Arthur made a sex tape with Ellen DeGeneres at some point.

I’ll take a five minute break while you go shower up to cleanse your mind of that image.

Back yet? Good. Bea and Ellen in the shower!

I’ll wait again. Sorry, but you didn’t scrub hard enough, skippy.

OK, no more references of the sort for the rest of this post. Honest injun.

So yeah, Paris made a sex tape, and now it’s found its way to the media’s grubby, sticky little hands. Well color me curmudgeony, but why should we give two shits about Paris Hilton’s little home video? For that matter, why should we give one shit about Paris Hilton to begin with? Has she done anything worth acknowledging lately? How about ever? I’m not keepin’ score or nothin’, but c’mon folks, this girl and her ‘ittle sister are about as useless as useless gets.

”How useless are they?"

Glad you asked…

They’re about as useless as a nicotine patch is to Denis Leary.

They’re about as useless as a young, beautiful, single woman in Michael Jackson’s bedroom.

They’re about as useless as a turn signal to a New Jersey motorist.

They’re about as useless as an AA meeting to Scott Weiland.

They’re about as useless as another Beastmaster movie.

Now that’s fuckin’ useless, kiddies.

So far, to my knowledge, the only thing these two kittens do is show up at parties, dance, drink, and make fools out of themselves. Should we really be giving them all this attention if that’s all they’re known for? Paris, Nikki, you’re cute, but call me up when you find a cure for the clap. Given your sex lives (what else would you expect from a couple of chicks named after a hotel?), I certainly hope you’re hard at work trying to crack that Rosetta.

But the news coverage on E! News Daily and Access Hollywood isn’t what gets me. That’s why God invented the remote control… for switching to Law & Order reruns on TNT. No, what gets me is every day I check my e-mail, I have some article of correspondence mentioning Ms. Hilton’s escapade courtesy of some anonymous snapperhead that is likely to buy me a virus and/or a subscription to the best of Girls Gone Wild! The Bestiality Edition.

And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s spam.

So Paris, if you’re readin’ this, and I hope to God you are… I, and every other sane, reasonable, decent human being that’s schleppin’ this pebble are really, really, really of hearing about you on an hourly basis.

However, I am a big supporter of the way you’re handling this. I really appreciate the fact that you’re laying low, as do we all. In fact, I’d like to recommend that you continue employing this practice well after this mess blows over.

And while you’re at it, please recommend your brilliant PR strategy to Michael Jackson, Pamela Anderson, Liza Minelli, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Fred Durst, and those Queer Eye For The Straight Guy blokes. In fact, have your wealthy parents buy an island and take them all with you. An island far away from cameras, televisions, and computers. Far away from us… nay, me!

*Sigh*

Why can’t Soleil Moon Frye make a sex tape? I wouldn’t mind her being overexposed.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant December.

Christ, has it been a year already? A whole fuckin’ year? What have I been doing with my life…

Well, to commemorate the anniversary, I figure I might as well let you in on the background behind the seemingly non sequitur moniker of ye olde blog.

Most people would probably take “Landshark” and “Sandwich” as two separate phrases, but in reality, the name is an amalgamation of “Landshark” and “Shark Sandwich.” Think of that “Before & After” category on Wheel Of Fortune where they take sayings, phrases, names, etc. that are linked by a common word, and create a hybrid phrase based on them. Example, they could take “Alexander the Great” and “The Great Wall of China” and come up with a homoerotic conquest of the Far East by a bisexual Greek teenager.

Actually, it’d work out to “Alexander The Great Wall Of China.” Silly example, but it serves our purposes here. So the question remains, what the hell is a Landshark, and why a Shark Sandwich? Allow me to answer…

Landshark comes from the classic Saturday Night Live bit from ’75 that parodied a possible sequel to Jaws (bear in mind that this was ’75, so we hadn’t yet encountered any piss-poor sequels to this great film). Basically, Chevy Chase played the shark, Dan Aykroyd played Chief Brodie, John Belushi did a phenomenal Hooper, and the cast for the sketch was rounded out by Lorraine Neuman, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Garrett Morris and guest host Candace Bergin.

Hard to believe Candace Bergin was hot at one point. Anyway…

The skit ran like an excerpt from the then-hypothetical Jaws II in which the main antagonist was no longer a Great White, but rather a “Landshark, the most dangerous species known to man.” The Landshark, or Landy for short, stalked young single women by knocking at their door and posing as repairmen, mailmen, and the like. Example:

*Knocking at door, young woman goes to answer door. By now, the classic “dun dun dun dun dun dun” Jaws theme is playing.*
Woman – Yes?
Landy – Mrs. Arnoldsberg?
W – Who?
L – Miss Sabitowitz?
W – Who is this?
L – (pausing) Plumber.
W – I didn’t call for a plumber.
L – (pausing) Telegram.
W – Telegram? Oh, OK…

From here, the young lady would unlock and open her door only to have a giant pair of foam jaws come crashing down on her head. Funny shite, especially for ’75. So that explains Landshark.

Shark Sandwich comes from another classic bastion of comedic fun, that being the mockumentary known as This Is Spinal Tap. For those of you who don’t know, the film plays out as a documentary being filmed about a once-legendary British hard rock band known as Spinal Tap. The band is befuddled constantly by botched stage shows, smaller venues, and a long line of rapidly expiring drummers. The main players are documentary director Marty DeBergi (Rob Reiner, who also directed the film itself), lead singer/guitarist David St. Hubbons (Michael McKean), lead guitarist Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) and bassist Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer).

In one classic segment, DeBergi is interviewing the band and reading them reviews of their albums. Their opus titles are so absurd you can’t help but bust a gut. For example, Intravenous De Milo and The Gospel According To Spinal Tap are among the items in their catalog (it should be duly noted that the band is at this point in time touring to support their upcoming release, Smell The Glove). DeBergi comes to one album named Shark Sandwich. Marty informs the band that the review consists of only two words:

“Shit sandwich.”

So there you have it. The etymology behind my blog. Now get the fuck outta my house.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Kids, I’ve been to a lotta damn concerts in my life. Over 50 to be precise. But I gotta tell ya, I’ve never seen a more overrated, overblown, underwhelming piece of trash band… than Kiss.

And with that comment, I can feel the millions of infuriated grease-painted stares looking my way. Yes, I have thrown a direct blow to the Kiss Army. It’s put up or shut up time, Kissies, so put away your Kiss dolls and condoms and coffins and pregnancy tests and tampons and mood rings and retainers and hubcaps and crack pipes and adult diapers with Paul Stanley’s star on them.

I saw Kiss perform this summer with Aerosmith, and I gotta tell ya, Boston’s finest made the “hottest band in the world” look like a bunch of amateurs with pyro. Essentially, that’s all Kiss is and ever was. A mediocre band with make-up and pyrotechnics. Don’t like it? Well, that’s the bottom line kiddies.

Remember when Kiss took off the make-up in the 80’s? Remember that? Remember how far they plummeted until they put it back on in ’96? Ever wonder why? No, it’s not because Peter and Ace were gone at that time; their career had already begun to flag before any departures. Here’s a simple formula.

Kiss’s music – make-up and stage shows = generic hair metal personified.

And that’s just the sad fact. The Kiss Army (or “Spineless Lemmings,” as I like to call them) have been blinded by huge explosions, long tongues, and fake blood for thirty years. So much so that they’ve been unable to realize that the band they worship is frickin’ horrible. Peter and Gene can’t sing for shit (I won’t even begin to get on Peter Criss’s rendition of “Beth” at this summer’s concert), and musically, they can play, but that’s about it. They’re not spectacular, and save “Rock And Roll All Nite,” “Shout It Out Loud,” and a few others, they have never had a knack for good solid hard rock hooks. And at this stage in the game, all that pseudo-mime make-up is a goddamn blessing. When Peter came out for “Beth,” his face looked like a damn burlap bag.

Speaking of Peter Criss, I never thought I would see a less talented “big” drummer than Charlie Watts, but Peter proved me wrong. How can this guy be rated up there with the likes of Neil Peart when it took him a full 30 seconds to start “Rock And Roll All Nite.” He looked confused, like he had never sat at a drum kit before.

Peter! It’s snare, high hat! Snare, high hat! I’ve sat at a drum kit twice in my life, and I can play that beat!

I guess someone forgot to wind up the key in his back when he went offstage prior to “Beth.”

Then there’s Paul Stanley, the hairy-chested Starchild. Y’know, Paul subscribes to every sad classic rock cliché imaginable. Paul’s between-song shuck ‘n jive consists of, “Are you ready to rock, Hartford?!” “It’s time to rock, Hartford!” “Let me hear you, Hartford!” “Who wants to rock and roll in Hartford tonight?!” I wish I was making this up. But his most absurd comment came in something so ridiculously asinine, it makes Poison look like Bob Dylan:

”Y’know Hartford, there a lot of bad stuff going on in the world these days. Every night on the news, you see it, turmoil all over the world. But we can save the world. We can save the world with rock n’ roll!”

I’m amazed no freelance snipers have aimed for that black star on Paul’s face yet.

How can you be so insipid to make a comment like that? What is this, ’73 all over again? Paul, it’s almost 2004! Get with it, for Chrissakes!

Then, of course, there’s Gene Simmons. The long-tongued butt-ugly self-proclaimed sex god who sleeps with Shannon Tweed and her three cousins on a mountain of cash every night. I do believe Gene has a slightly better voice than Paul, but that’s only because Paul’s voice shakes and quivers like Katherine Hepburn on a fuckin’ mechanical bull. Gene didn’t have much to offer at all, save the requisite fire-spewing/fake blood vomiting. And, of course, he flew. That’s right. He flew with the assistance of a harness. You know who else flew in concert, Gene? The New Kids On The Block and ‘NYSYNC. Rock stars do not fly, you ugly prick!

I can’t really say anything bad about Ace Frehley. The man is a talented guitarist, probably on the level of Joe Perry. And he was smart enough to get outta dodge while the getting’ was good. That being said, Tommy Thayer, while a solid guitarist, couldn’t hold a candle to Ace if he wanted to.

And Aerosmith blew them outta the water without so much as a hint of pyro.

So kids, take it from me, put away your Kiss dolls and stop slobbering over your Kiss boxer shorts.

They suck. Always have, always will, period.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

I stand corrected... this is the best birthday present ever.