Third Annual The Corsair 2006 Year End Pirate Awards, Part I



(image via piratehaus)

Another Year's End, dear readers (The Corsair sips, Auld Lang Synish, with a touch of romantic melancholy, a Chateauneuf du Pape 1999). For the third year and running we present you with The 2006 Corsair Pirate Year End Awards (Part I; the rest, my dears, as the week unfolds ... stay with this blog). Every blogger worth their salt has year end awards and 'this thing of ours' is no goddam different. It's in the kool aid that we all drink from. 'Tis the season to be snarky, and all that jazz (sorry Cindy Adams, that's jazz, not your annoying little lapdog Fucking Jazzy). So, without further ado, The Corsair presents The Pirates -- more credible than the Golden Globes, and able to leap tall Publicists in a single bound -- my 2006 year end awards. Basta!




(image via nytimes)

Blackface without the Blackface: The Pirate Goes to VH1's Flavor of Love. The normally respectable pop-cultural receptacle known as VH1 kind of fucked up our "mellow" this year by going ferociously blackface ("I ... aint ... bother ... no ... body"), depicting African-Americans in the worst possible light for the highest possible ratings. We wrote: " ... VH1's top rated hit: 'Flavor of Love' is a modern-day Stepin Fetchit without the sophistication. It's time to pull the plug, ratings or not. While, yes, there was some charm in the original, ehr, 'romance (Averted Gaze),' between 'Gitte Nielson and Flavor Flav, all such train-wreckish warmth has goine frigid. Says, in Sunday Styles, Lola Ogunnaike:

"'I’m the king of VH1,' he crowed over a surf-and-turf dinner at a soul food restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. 'Your man Flavor Flav is doing his thiiiiing.'

"... The women, who tend to look like castoffs from a bad rap video, dress provocatively (the shorter the skirt, the lower the neckline, the better their chances), engage in raunchy make-out sessions with Flav and, when given the opportunity, profess their undying devotion.

"'You could be across the room and I can feel you,' Krazy, the rare white face on the show, said in a recent episode. (Flav, whose real name is William Drayton, has trouble remembering the contestants’ real names, so he gives them nicknames like Deelishis, Toastee and Bootz.) 'My heart is so big and I’m such a compassionate person and I see the same thing in you.' Krazy then broke into song. 'I will be with you forever,' she crooned — off key."




Nice. (image via ohnotheydidnt)

Where in the World is Paris Hilton's DNA Award? The Corsair goes to ... Harden Jamison's Cab. Paris Hilton left her own specially detailed chromosomal forget-me-nots (Averted Gaze) all over the place this year, but none more memorable than a cab. We reported in January, "Paris Pisses. What kind of a nation is it? If you're Paris Hilton, it's a a urination. From TheSuperficial (via ohnotheydidnt):

"'Paris Hilton's publicists are trying to silence a Hawaiian taxi-driver who claims the socialite urinated in his cab.

"'Harden Jamison tells American tabloid National Enquirer the hotel heiress and Simple Life star was too drunk to notice she'd wet herself when he picked her and boyfriend Stavros Niarchos up after a party on Maui."

"(A visibly disgusted look) Aww, man ...

"'The disgusted cab driver claims he mopped up the mess with a towel and plans to use Hilton's own DNA as evidence against her.'"

Elijah Blue Allman recommends Tilex to remove Paris Hilton's DNA.



An Uncomfortable moment. (image via thesun)

Classes to the Masses Pirate: Isaac Mizrahi. Isaac Mizrahi, the saucy-tonged fashionista who spearheaded "Cheap Chic," or, high-end designer labels being sold to "the masses" took a particular shine to ScarJo's very own "masses" at the -- irony of ironies! -- "Golden Globes."



(image via sikkhtimes)

It's Deja Vu All Over Again Pirate: Goes to -- Trent Lott. It is perhaps testament to the Hermeneutical Fallenness of the Republican Party that it has been forced to return to the thimble-deep well of Trent Lott's legislative achievement in his restoration to power as Senate Minority Whip. As we wrote: "Senator Trent Lott disgraced himself in 2003 when he praised the senile old fossil and ex-Dixiecrat Strom Thurmond's past Presidential run as a steadfast segregationist (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment). Afterwards, it was discovered that Lott also hid an even more unsavory past back when he attended Ole Miss. (Averted Gaze)

"Since then, Lott has strenuously used his seniority and cultivated alliances to try to resurrect his fallen legacy in the chamber of the United States Senate. Pragmatically -- and cynically -- speaking, a chastised Lott, running against history, has proven spectacularly useful to African-Americans, especially in the impoverished and unchampioned sectors of Mississippi where his imaginative use of Pork has been most appreciated. In that sense, there has been a tacit forgiveness extended to Trent Lott for sins past and, to be frank, pork barrel legislation present."



(image via thevelvethottub)

The Chicks with Dicks Pirate Goes to ... Who Else: Janice DICKinson. (Show us your cock, Janice. We wrote: "That Janice Dickinson, who once caught Warren Beatty staring at himself in the mirror post-fuck, is outrageous is a given. We were, however, rather stunned to hear that she was given a slot on Oxygen (fuck it, Janice -- sotto voce-- fuck it), which, so far as we can tell, is a channel sort of Oprah-ish in its feminism. W-to the T- to the F; nothing about Janice suggests feminism. And Janice -- god bless her manic soul -- is not allusive of Oprah's Angels. She strikes us, oftentimes, as more of a Trannie Devil. (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment)Show us your cock, Janice.



(image via nationalenquirer)

Crib of the Year: Whitney Houston's Drugden. Stripper Pole? Hell-to-the-No, cornbread. Iced-Out Bathgroom? No --sotto voce -- none of that for Whitney Houston, who, this year hit rock bottom. Crackrock Bottom!, that is. According to That Nattie Enquirer:

"This shocking scene of sleazy mayhem is damning proof of Whitney Houston's tragic addiction — to crack. The National Enquirer's sensational exclusive photo (in this week's issue) shows the superstar singer's private bathroom after she has locked herself away for days on yet another self-destructive binge. Amid the trash, leftover food and empty beer cans are the tools of the hardcore drug fiend — pipes, rolling papers, spoons in which powdered cocaine is cooked into crack, lighters."

We wonder if she likes her crackrock with or without lactose (AKA, The Chris Rock Crack Rock).



Talk to the hand, Charles Krauthammer!(image via swwwu)

Intellectual Brawl of the Year? Hands Down: Fukuyama Versus Krautahammer. The sexual tension lasciviously sublimated into the purple prose of Realpolitik (Eew) was naught else but captivating shit, fa real, nah mean? Fukuyama -- That Wilsonian Realist, took on Krauthammer, That Neoconnie Rascal. We wrote then: "Do the Letters Pages in Commentary and Foreign Affairs get your panties all up-in-a-twist? Do you celebrate the anniversary of The Peace of Westphalia? Is the publication of John Lewis Gaddis' "Cold War" news to be received with grateful tears of mirth?

"Most importantly: Do you, dear Reader, coil your fists into meaty balls of impotent rage as punk-ass Wolf Blitzer tosses endless softballs at Henry 'The Croaking War Criminal' Kissinger wafflish responses on CNN's Late Edition?

"You do, right?

"If any of these things are so -- play along with us, here -- then the latest news of the bareknuckled intellectual brawl between Charles 'The Hammer' Krauthammer (boo! On the corner to the Right), and Francis 'End Of History' Fukuyama (Yaay! In the corner of the center-Left), spilling out of the halls of The Council on Foreign Relations (Yes, That's Walter Russell Meade offering to hold Fukuyama's jacket while reciting Marquis of Queensbury Rules), and onto the only marginally less obscure "Letters" page of the New York Times Book Review tomorrow is hott. Icy Hott. Oh, it's on, people; it's on like Gray Poupon, its so on!



Appears to be nestled in a nimbus of dead hookers and lime. (image via (image via sports.tom)

Lowlife of the Year: Definitely Wilmer Vee. Kid Rock, no prize himself, dumped Pam Anderson over -- of all things -- "Borat." Bad, yes, but no one stunk things up more than Our Wilmer Valderrame, who "rated" his sexual conquests on the Howard Stern Show. We wrote: "Wilmer Valderrama is a classy sort of douchebag. Oily, to be sure, but Top drawer. (Averted Gaze) He kisses and tells, but only on satellite (which, funnily enough, serves our purposes perfectly). On The Howard Stern Show this morning he noted, elegantly and publicly, that Jennifer Love Hewitt -- a woman whom he is rumored to have dated -- was "an 8." (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment) We also learn, among other things, that Hollywood starlets should have better taste than to fuck a guy who reduces them into integers. Some more of Wilmer's more colorful bon mots, via Marksfriggin:

"Wilmer said that his first celebrity date was with Ariana Richards when he was about 17 years old. Howard told him that he's like the Venezuelan John Stamos. Howard asked him if Lindsay's boobs are real. Wilmer said that they are ...

"... Howard read that Wilmer also dated Mandy Moore. After every name that Howard mentioned, Artie would say 'You fucked ___?!' He's nailed a lot of hot chicks from what they can tell. Howard asked him if he got Mandy when he was doing 'That 70's Show.' Wilmer said that the moral of the story is that everyone should get a sitcom because that's how all of this went down.

"... Howard said that he needs about 7 hours to interview this guy. He went through the list of the girls he's dated. He asked him about each girl after mentioning their names...

"Jennifer Love Hewitt - an 8 ... Howard asked Wilmer if he's got a huge penis or something. Wilmer said that he has been blessed. He said he does have a big penis and has more than 8 inches."

Too much information! We're going to stop here, on account of even we have limits. Cosmic limits, to be sure, but limits nonetheless.