I’ve take issue with American Apparel advertising before (particularly their penchant for selling me clothes by showing pictures of women wearing no clothes whatsoever in the grainy light of an early 70’s snuff film), and, as predicted, legendary film director Woody Allen is joining the Swaim-train by suing them for running a billboard featuring a picture of him without his permission. You know, now that I made it all cool to hate on them.

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American Apparel has been forced to take the billboard down and publicly apologize, and while I still think they’re a load of perverts, it’d be a shame for their series of nine Woody-related ads to go almost totally unseen by the world. Thus:

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Smashing Pumpkins is suing Virgin records for using some Pumpkins music in a Pepsi commercial. Normally, I would applaud such artistic integrity, but this news —like most things Billy Corgan related— just pisses me off. According to the lawsuit, Virgin violated the terms of its contract by using the Smashing Pumpkins name and music in promotional deals that hurt the band’s credibility with fans.

Really? Which fans? I’m sorry. I lost track of the Pumpkins demographic some time after ’97. Who are we talking about? Thirty five year old Japanese Anime enthusiasts who work at Blockbuster? Soccer moms who have destroyed all the old photos of themselves featuring crotchless black and white striped stockings? Vampires who still get beat up for lunch money?

Yeah, I don’t think Virgin is the biggest culprit when it comes to the band’s loss of public affection. As a former Smashing Pumpkins fan, I’m pretty sure I know where the problem is. Let’s recount:

1991: Smashing Pumpkins releases Gish, an amazing, guitar-driven collage of sound and emotion. Young Gladstone is duly impressed.

1993: Smashing Pumpkins releases Siamese Dream to rave reviews and commercial success. Young Gladstone incorporates Disarm into his acoustic coffee shop set and succeeds in getting the phone number of a super-cute waitress.

1995: Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. A goofy title for a double album that contains a number of throwaway tracks and a single (Tonight, Tonight) that sounds suspiciously similar to Disarm. Corgan, in full-douche mode, refers to the album as The Wall for Generation X. Gladstone refrains from purchasing. Incorporates none of the songs into his acoustic set. Gets the phone numbers of no waitresses.

1998: Adore. Smashing Pumpkins take a bold step into a hackneyed form of Eno-influenced electronica, and it’s somehow lamer than it sounds. Corgan shaves his head. Wears black leather or spandex or whatever you call that S&M gear worn by people who enjoy being urinated on. Gladstone’s girlfriend buys the CD and is mocked mercilessly by Gladstone.

2000: Deux ex Machina. Bassist Darcy is kicked out of the band and is replaced by Melissa Auf de Maur. Gladstone grows more suspicious of Corgan. For a guy who’s all about musical integrity, how come he only hires bassists Gladstone wants to have sex with? As far as the album goes? Not sure. I saw the poster for it in a record store window. Shortly thereafter, Smashing Pumpkins breaks up. Glastone’s girlfriend leaves. Gladstone calls waitress from years earlier. Repeated messages go unreturned. Gladstone tries to imagine Darcy and Melissa Auf de Maur having sex with each other. Succeeds.

My point is simple. Pumpkins kind of went to pieces, and Billy Corgan breaks my heart. He’s a talented guy who was very good at making some interesting and attractive sounds. He was also talented enough to want to do something more. Something different and iconic, but he never succeeded in purveying that new sound successfully. Unlike the similarly situated Kurt Cobain, however, Billy chose not to kill himself. Instead, he moped about with his bald head and shiny clothes whining and whining and whining. Occasionally, he appeared for photos like this:

That’s what killed Smashing Pumpkins. Billy Corgan. A talented, geeky, suburban kid who dreamed of greatness. Who achieved it. But who fell when he tried to become more than a talented musician. When he tried to be an icon. He wanted 14 year old girls to swoon. He wanted black and white graffiti of his visage on the Berlin Wall. He wanted the kind of rock star celebrity that is very rare and often created only by untimely death. Kurt Cobain is an icon. Jim Morrison is an icon. Jimi Hendrix is an icon. Billy Corgan is not. (Even though I think he’s more talented than two of those three guys. Can you guess which?)

Billy, if you’re reading this, which you aren’t, but hey, this is a literary device, let me make a request: just be content with what you’ve done. A lot of it’s great. I wish that made you happy. I wish you’d grow out your balding hair, sit down with your guitar, and record some tunes with no agenda.

And don’t be sad. I’m pretty sure I know the number of at least one waitress who would still totally sleep with you.

If there’s anything classic rock nerds lust after more than a night with Chrissie Hynde, it’s the oft-heard promise of NEW BEATLES TRACKS.

Most of them…okay, us…would gladly shell out for a box set of recordings of John Lennon slowly decomposing, as long as it had some light harpsichord and a message of universal love.

But all good things must end, and the ever-diminishing pool of unreleased, re-mastered, and pre-un-de-recorded tracks of the boys improvising into a shitty 8-track means that every “new Beatles track” is inevitably scraped from an even deeper, heretofore unexplored part of the barrel.

Tupac they ain’t.

This week’s scrapings are a few recordings of the Beatles playing at a club in Germany. The quality is dubious, and it’s reputed to be Ringo’s first performance with the band.

For those who haven’t heard about Ringo’s arduous journey towards adequacy, his first performance probably looked like an orangutan flailing at a particularly stubborn coconut.

Have we gotten to this point? Is there really an appreciable market for what is likely the third most regrettable moment of the Beatles’ existence (the second being Lennon’s assassination and the first being that bitch Heather Mills scamming Paulie out of his “Yesterday” money)?

Does it really take a lawsuit from Apple Records to keep the hordes of decrepit Beatles fans from bursting down the door in an attempt to get their grubby hands on a slice of the one decade when their opinions were relevant?

The answer to all of these questions is of course an emphatic yes. I will be the first in line to buy not only the album, but also the accompanying coffee table book detailing its creation. Hooray capitalism!

Also, hey, how was your Easter? My delicious-ham to violent-family-meltdown ratio was up this year…truly, the Lord moves in all of us.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael harasses the estate of George Martin as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

The Mills/McCartney divorce ruling is in, and while I don’t have access to some of the more guarded court transcripts, I believe the official verdict is that Mills is an insufferable bitch.

At least that’s what I glean from this article, whose bias is made clear if only by the photo they chose to use of Mills looking like a gull shrieking for a bite of your hot dog.

She was able to wrangle more than 20 million pounds, which in American money is about nineteen billion dollars, which is so much money that I imagine her prosthetic leg will soon be replaced by a staff of crystal, jet-leg, or simply be fashioned out of thousand dollar bills.

And how did she manage that? First, by pissing off the judge, who called her “less than candid,” “unreasonable and exorbitant” and “a bitch on wheels.”

She also claimed to give 80 to 90 percent of her income to charity each year—and thus be stone cold broke—when in fact “her tax returns disclose no charitable giving at all.” Hey, she’s just like me! Except for her being a huge bitch, of course.

Mills then attempted to silence court documents that would reveal her as, you know, a bitch, called the 70,000 dollar a year childcare payment she’ll be receiving “inadequate,” and threw water on Paul McCartney’s lawyer.

Headlines like “Money Can’t Buy Her Love” were inevitable, although I imagine there are a few other Beatles covers Paul is humming to himself these days:

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael moves into the finals of the Youtube Sketchies II contest as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets! Thanks to all who voted for us!

I can’t tell you how often I get into a heated argument with someone about the economics of Pedophilia. Although I can tell you how many establishments those arguments have caused me to be banned from: six. Seven if you count museums as establishments. But can you blame me? It’s a woefully underreported area, and one that craves an answer.

Enter Michael Jackson, grabbing his crotch. And by “his” I mean Macaulay Culkin’s.

Following a series of financially draining legal battles and career hits, the perennial post-op has put his famed Neverland Ranch up for auction. You know, that place with the amusement park rides and cotton candy, just like a ranch. Perhaps the lucky buyer will bring some cattle in and legitimize the joint, who knows? All we know for sure is that things have been looking down for MJ ever since newspapers started running headlines like “Wacko Jacko Fondles Sacko.” Pedophilia, one could infer, is a financial killer.

But how mistaken you’d be, my shortsighted friend! For in the right circumstances, can it not also be a money-making proposition? Take the inspiring story of Louis Conradt, the late former prosecutor who is best known for his guest appearance on NBC’s To Catch a Predator. After he shot himself in shame and humiliation, his family sued NBC for 100 million dollars in damages. And it’s starting to look like they might just get it.

So, let’s recap. Pedophilia = financial ruin. But, pedophilia + suicide = big bucks! The question becomes: is suicide the only variable one can combine with child molestation to create financial opportunities? Perhaps adding a public apology or religious conversion into the mix would generate some capitol. Maybe adding a murder would push the whole thing back around to positive. What about molesting an old person to cancel out the pedophilia?

It’s clearly a complex issue, and one that I trust is currently being pondered by the finest minds in modern Pedonomics.

When not blogging for Cracked, Michael entraps child molesters as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren’t Muskets!

Thanks guys, way to make me look like an asshole. In spite of my brash claims this week that Radiohead’s all-Internet marketing strategy would instantly end the music downloading controversy, a woman in Minnesota was ordered yesterday by a federal jury to pay $222,000 in damages for downloading copyrighted songs. How many songs? 24.

Yes, two dozen songs. That’s two albums (or five Pink Floyd albums). That comes to $9,250 dollars a song. There’s only one song worth that much cash: “All Night Long” by Lionel Ritchie.

So now this poor woman’s going to have to pay out the ass for whatever shitty Guns and Roses album she downloaded, and I think it’s a damn shame. And just so you know, record companies, action like this doesn’t help you in the least. Two hundred grand’s not going to cover the massive losses you’re taking while you drag your feet on your way to the 21st century, and in the meantime, you’re not helping your image much.

When a bunch of sexually harassed women band together to fight the sexist mining establishment, that’s a class-action lawsuit (and a fine film). But when Capitol Records, Sony, Arista Records, Interscope Records, UMG Records and Warner Brothers sue a single mother, that’s gang-raping your consumer.

And the RIAA must think that rape is okay as long as you just put the tip in, because they’ve recently begun sending hundreds of “discount settlement offers” to music pirates (ie, you) letting people pay a fee online to be taken off the “to sue” list. Is this okay now? Can giant companies literally blackmail us into giving them money because they’re losing profits and are too lazy or bloated to change their business paradigm? Would the barbarians have us pay for Josh Groban’s Christmas album? Can I possibly reference any more CRACKED blog posts in a single entry?

My only theory as to how they can get away with it is based on the following article excerpt:

Commenting on Gizmodo.com, a reader identifying himself as DirtyBacon said he was shocked but not surprised by the verdict.

I don’t care how reasoned your argument is, you’re not going to get much accomplished with the name DirtyBacon. Let’s step it up people. Unless you want to end up sporting a Time Warner Ankle Monitor (or TWAM) at all times, we need less PartyWang99’s and more Demosthenes18’s.