From Galley Friend M.G.: a BSG Wiki. Rock on.

As always, I’m way late to the party, but this Kissing Suzy Kolber blog is aces. In the above post, they give Hollywood directors to match NFL teams. For example, Steelers=Frank Capra. How awesome is this list? Here’s what they have for the Eagles and the Skins:

Philadelphia — Martin Scorsese

Ah, this one is bound to raise some hackles. “But he’s from New York!” you carp. “He’s too good for the Iggles!” Both are valid points. However, it all boils down to the fact that Scorsese, like Thrilly, can’t win the big one even though it seems like both should have by now. The Departed looks promising and a lot of sportswriters are improbably picking the Eagles to go to the Super Bowl. And the Super Bowl goes to…Dances With Wolves.

Washington — Michael Bay

Give them enough money and they’ll give you a sad excuse to waste yours. Pearl Harbor and the Deion Sanders signing are similarly epic, costly blunders. Roland Emmerich or James Cameron could probably also fit here, but Cameron is too cool now that he’s been on Entourage. I go with Bay because it has already come to pass – UM reported that crew from The Transformers Movie was on hand Sunday at FedEx for the Jags-Indigenous Peoples game to get film of Brunell morphing into a decent quarterback for a week.

It’s only mostly cool. It has some good IM’s–“i wnt2 watch U spank yur quorum”–but the real gold is the groaning in the background which, I think, may be lifted from the “$20 Sack Pyramid.”

Holler if you love your Auntie Clarice (or Halle Berry).

Normally I tune out those annoying commercials for products you can order by phone for $19.99 plus shipping and handling. But the other night I happened upon an ad for something called My Lil Reminder, a minirecorder that helps you remember where you parked your car and what to get at the supermarket. You can watch the commercial online in order to appreciate not only the significance of the device but also the Oscar-worthy performances.

But as I sat and stared in amazement (and after two Scotches and a beer), I thought to myself, “Do these people realize they’ve just found a cure for Alzheimer’s, dementia, and amnesia?”

The shorter, theatrical trailer for Frank Miller’s 300 is up.

The Fug Girls have two excellent posts this morning. The first is an ode to Kate Winslett that contains this tidbit:

In this week’s EW, she says that Emma Thompson once told her that if she [Kate] lost weight, Emma would “never fucking speak to [her] again,” and that is one of the reasons we love Emma Thompson, even if she sometimes shows up places in unflattering bodices.)

Could Emma Thompson be any more excellent? No, I think not.

But the really good stuff is this excerpt from Paris Hilton’s diary:

YEAH THAT’S RIGHT BABY. (Hee. I said “baby.” Can you imagine if Nicky has a baby? Maybe that would be cool. I could dress it up in little mini-Paris dresses and take it out and it could hold my drinks for me if I need to use both hands when I’m talking to a guy, or if I need to sneak away I could put the baby thing in my place and because we’re dressed the same nobody would know I was gone. It would be like having a twin! Just like the Olsens, except we don’t wear tights.)

Fantastic Four was, I contend, the worst comic book adaptation ever put on film. I include in this discussion Howard the Duck.

But now there’s news that the F4 sequel will feature the Silver Surfer and maybe even Galactus. Make your own jokes.

No, I’m not getting ahead of myself. This is still a 6-10 team. And I think there’s a good chance they go winless in the division (again).

But this story will make you smile if you’re an Eagles fan:

“I do not know if there are any other pictures, video or stories to support this, but the scene behind the MNF pre-game in Philly was uncomfortable at best, scary at worst. TJ was let off the hook. Berman got quite a few YWML screams, including yours truly Steve Young’s orientation was questioned, but the chants sent to the Playmaker while on live TV sent Philly fans to a new low, which hard to do. Between the constant ‘Dallas Sucks,’ ‘ You Suck,’ ‘ You’re an asshole’ and the very nice ‘Where’s your crack pipe?’ It was wild. Berman turned to the crowd every couple of seconds to try and shut us up, which enraged the guys Finally, Michael flipped us off, mouthed ‘fuck you!’ and held up three fingers and counted his “rings,” all while Berman and Young were live.”

You’re with me, leather.