Headshots: Dead Like Gingrich

THE REPUBLICAN PRESIDENTIAL NOMINEE RACE ended some time ago when the GOP realized that Senator Rick Santorum could at any minute go completely insane and in doing so guarantee another four-year term for a president the party maintains was born in Kenya, is a devout Muslim, and whose sexual orientation is now in question. The winner, if you can use that word in its loosest definition, was Governor Mitt Romney, who will no doubt be able to connect with the common man–those earning only about $3.5 million annually. And yet, despite a month or so devoid of a race, just last week Newt Gingrich declared he was out of the running.

Oh, Newty. It’s hard to know when it’s over.

Gingrich, a fringe candidate who originally ran for the party’s nomination in 1937, believes the US should colonize the moon so that the NFL can expand, and who has more ex-wives than a Mormon serial killer, is not the only example of a GOP candidate not knowing when something is over. Like a coed waiting for the orgasm that won’t come until after grad school, Ron Paul is still riding his crazy bus around the country stirring up the hope of Libertarians and asylum inmates alike. Paul also refuses to accept his end, which led us here at the Headshots offices to consider, with all these Replublicans unable to admit when something bad is over, a few other examples of who and what out there in our everyday lives doesn’t know when to quit.

Hey Metallica, we’re looking at you!


CSI, NCIS, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, the list goes on. How many of these shows do we really need? So prevalent is the forensic science fiction of the genre that it is poisoning the jury pool in the United States. Criminals are being set free because CBS has convinced the populace that every Podunk police station in the country has access to lab equipment that only exists on television. Additionally, there was a short time where DNA technology was a revolutionary asset for criminal investigations, extracting key evidence from the tiniest hair, drop of blood, or semen sample. Now criminals know not to leave the slightest trace of evidence. You can’t find a hint of semen within 10 miles of a crime scene nowadays. Criminals have gone tantric. It’s time for these shows to die, before we do, so we can start ejaculating wherever we want, like the good old days.


Facebook? Great. Twitter? Super. Google+? Hmmm. Pinterest? Are you f—ing kidding me? How many goddamn places do we need to post photos of our cats? Yes, Mark Zuckerberg got rich stealing a Harvard dating site from twin Olympians and became friends with Justin Timberlake until JT was caught doing blow with some underage interns. But not all stories of startups end so happily. Facebook buying Instagram for a billion dollars? A billion dollars for a Polaroid scanner? Please. Someone tell the Silicon Valley kids to unplug and do something else with their lives. Maybe someone could go cure cancer or figure out why One Direction is a thing. No more social media. We’re good, thanks.


Once upon a time these three comedians were the shining beacons of their industry. Then came Beverly Hills Cop III, and it all went to hell. Somehow Sandler, Carrey, and Murphy sold out their comic genius for a $20 million paycheck, a whack of alimony, and an annual Razzie award. Sandler started wearing dresses, Carrey now goes on YouTube to beg young starlets to love him, and since Murphy quit the Oscar hosting gig, I’ve become convinced that he no longer even knows what a good career decision looks like. And somehow they’ve roped in Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro, and Morgan Freeman into their vicious web of suck. Either someone get them a script that wasn’t written by six cross dressing gay-curious frat boys on speed or bury them in a CBS sitcom before they ruin Will Ferrell.

Beverly Hills Cop III


Okay, seriously, after Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back perfected the genre, was there really any need for another hip hop album? Hip hop has been dead for a generation, and nobody is letting it know. The formula of ego drenched poorly written lyrics over lazily constructed beats and music appropriated from bands that can actually play instruments is tired. It has gotten so bad that they’re hologramming talented artists in hopes of saving a dead horse. Most of what passes for a critically acclaimed hip hop album these days is riddled with rhymes that wouldn’t make it past a grade 10 poetry workshop. Hallmark has more artistic integrity. Hey, Jay-Z, I got 99 problems and they’re all you, bitch. Adam Yauch isn’t dead, he’s embarrassed. (Too soon?)


Blogging is so over. Last week Headshots interviewed candidates for its summer internship positions. All of the prospective coffee gophers and sandwich procurers listed “blogger” in their previous work experience. That’s like Kim Kardashian listing, well, anything in her previous work experience. WordPress, Blogger, LiveJournal, and every other blog dealer feeding the addicts have to put a moratorium on new blogs. Just because someone knows how to post a thought, doesn’t mean the rest of the world should be subjected to it muddling our search engines and taking up a worldwide bandwith that is overridden with the meandering semi-racist self-indulgence of 14-year-old girls. I’m looking at you Perez Hilton. You too, Bill Simmons. Put away your blogrolls and leave the writing and intelligent thought to the professionals.

Mike Spry is the author of JACK (Snare Books, 2008), which was shortlisted for the 2009 Quebec Writers’ Federation A.M. Klein Prize for Poetry, and he was longlisted for the 2010 Journey Prize. His most recent work is Distillery Songs (Insomniac Press, 2011).

Illustration by Lasse Mathiesen Køhlert. Check out the Danish artist’s work here and here.

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