We here in the editorial offices of Jose el Retardo have a new favorite commercial, and for this we need to thank the good people over at Barilla Pasta.

Art lives where you find it, and it is the fool who will discard the television commercial without first mining it for all it is worth. Granted, most times we can immediately dismiss a TV commercial after a single viewing having found absolutely no redeeming qualities; but if we are persistent, if we remain vigilant, a gem is revealed—something complex, something open-ended and alluring, something mystifying to its audience while at the same time illuminating aspects of the human condition. With their advertisement “Sisters” for Barilla Plus, the pasta with a heart, Barilla Food Service takes its audience to this enigmatic place: where commerce meets culture.

The storyline, a sweeping and perplexing romance scored with the haunting and majestic tenor vocals of Andrea Bocelli, is anything but simple. I have viewed this commercial countless times, and I am left with the impression that the art director in charge wanted to leave the ad as open-ended as possible. Who is the handsome neighbor? Why is this young bachelor playing that weird, Italian blindfold game with the blonde woman’s children? The ad opens with a wide establishing shot of a cozy Italian bungalow in the middle of absolutely nowhere, yet the mother character calls this man a neighbor. Where does this man live? Is he the Author Fonzerelli type, living above the garage? Or does he typically drive miles out of his way to play with other people’s kids? Could it be that he has been brought there solely for the introduction to the mother’s sister, who we see driving up to the house in the opening shot? But that couldn’t be the case, because the mother clearly states early in the commercial that “the children ADORE him.” He’s been there before. So, possibly the hunky bachelor has his sights on the mother—that would explain why he would play games with her children. But we also see, VERY briefly, the husband (I think the producers have made a smart move here; an introduction of a husband could only smash the fantasy for women waiting anxiously over their morning coffee for a morning romance fix; it’s a sad reality), so is this handsome stranger languishing in sorrow for the woman he loves? Not likely. The bumbling husband wouldn’t have much of a chance against this his formidable neighbor…not the way mommy swoons when Mr. Dashing takes his blindfold off. And so, right off the bat, mystery.

From there we move into the kitchen, with the sisters working diligently over the meal to be later enjoyed by all in the airy and rustic dining room. The sister says, “Barilla Plus…you’re such a good mom.” The mother blushes and turns her head. Does she never get a compliment out of that tubby husband of hers? No wonder she’s spending all of her afternoons watching the bachelor play with her children! And the sister is shameless. Please. It’s only pasta. It couldn’t possibly counter all the crappy stuff the mother does, like yelling at the kids while she gets drunk off of Italian wine, crying over her dead-end marriage, pining for the handsome stranger while he blatantly plays slap and tickle in the back yard.

And then the dining room. Again, we barely see the husband, but rather focus immediately on the two sisters ovulating over tall, dark, and handsome while the music swells.

The mother is setting her sister up with this man. But why? To put an end, once and for all, to the painful love she holds in her desperate heart? Did she bring up the idea of a threesome to the sister and the dashing man, and find that they were both INTO IT?

My god. I have barely touched on all of my questions.

Los Angeles, CA (JeR)—As horrified fans and well-wishers looked on, an exhausted and distraught Paula Abdul made her way from Fox LA Headquarters to an idling limousine early this morning with what looked to be multiple injuries to her face and extremities. She was escorted by several armed Fox Security personnel, the very same who ushered her from Fox studios on Tuesday after Abdul had made her supposed leap forward in time to witness American Idol contestant Jason Castro’s abominable interpretation of megastar Neil Diamond’s 1980 hit, September Morn.

“We’re all so shocked,” said one fan, as tears coursed down her stout cheeks. “She’s always been there for ALL of us, but who will rescue her?” The flustered devotee then turned to a friend and exclaimed, “I just want to die.”

Sentiments appeared to be uniform in the crowd of onlookers, and as Abdul’s car sped away, many milled about aimlessly for well over an hour, wondering how they would piece together their desperate lives; lives now placed in jeopardy by a callous media corporation and a world unconcerned with the fate of one frail, petite celebrity burdened with the proof of one of Albert Einstein’s greatest puzzles.

Some were angry, and they demanded satisfaction for the scientific community who apparently has been robbed of their chance to observe one of the most historical and mysterious phenomena of the millennium—perhaps of all time: that of Abdul’s evident ability to time travel.

Said one: “Look, it’s obvious what happened. Fox was terrified that Abdul would eventually spill the beans about all the future American Idols to come and they decided to shut her up! They beat the shit out of her! And of ALL the reasons they could have picked to beat the shit out of her, they choose the most despicable!”

Another chimed in, “The fact that Jason Castro is still in the competition after last night’s laughable vote-off is proof enough. We’re not stupid. We know when we’re being led off the scent. We can’t let this happen!”

“Kill Castro!” was the chant that later rent the air of Century City, and by noon, effigies of Castro burned in the streets. They were soon met with strong opposition from pro-Cuba factions, and soon all of Los Angeles was ablaze.

Jose el Retardo now believes that our inside source to Fox, who informed us of Abdul’s location yesterday, is now missing and presumed dead by the Los Angeles Police Department, who declined comment. When pressed, a fatigued desk officer only said, “Well, when a man’s head is sent to the station without the rest of his body attached, we generally operate under the assumption that the man is dead.”

Abdul was not available for comment. Jason Castro was also missing, but only presumed stoned.

A young man working in the mail room of the Jose el Retardo offices asked me today if I had ever witnessed the comic prowess of The Whitest Kids U’Know, a fairly recent addition to the overabundance of sketch comedy groups that litter the history books with their corpses. I said I had heard of them, but have not watched them, and even had not heard great things about them. He said, “Forget what you’ve heard, they rock.” Cool. So you know, I like funny things—maybe I’ll find something new to lighten up my days.

These cats, I’m sorry to say, are not funny. I’m not sure what they are at all, as a matter of fact. The sketch I saw was more bizarrely sad commentary than anything else, but the acting is pretty over the top and poor—off the mark completely if the goal is stylization. And it just wasn’t funny. Take a look:

It only makes me pine for the Kids in the Hall, those legendary Canadians whose esoteric comedy has still to be matched in pure oddness even after being gone from the airwaves for like 15 years. Come back, Kids. Please. Here’s one of my favorites, The Beard:

The investigative offices of Jose el Retardo have recently stumbled upon a nasty conspiracy nestled comfortably in the living rooms of millions of American television viewers. It seems that the so-called creative brilliance behind American Idol—arguably one of the most popular programs in prime-time history—is using flagrant deception to shore up leaky ratings. Simply put: American Idol is disguising established Hollywood talent and recasting them as new, young, potential stars.

A dashing and well-spoken secret informer has recently come forward and given the editors at Jose el Retardo the nauseating details of this atrocious fraud, and we are more than proud to share this exclusive information with our beloved readership.

Our sources have revealed the following:

The mild mannered Jason Castro is actually the View’s own funny lady, Whoopi Goldberg. Surprised? We aren’t. While we’re impressed with Goldberg’s ability to suppress her own vanity in order to portray a more unassuming character than she has in past roles, the fact that the miracle workers in the make-up department neglected to deal with the whole hair thing has had us suspicious from the very beginning of season 7.

A less shocking disclosure is that BJ and the Bear’s own chimp actor, Sam, is reportedly the talent behind the portrayal of David Archuleta. The visual similarities are a dead give-away, although we will admit that we thought Sam had a better singing tone than the voice he is lending his character, David. Possibly he is holding back on the request of the producers in order to accentuate an emulated vocal “growth” pattern in the young Archuleta.

The real fallout of this conspiracy will be the haunted spirits of young girls across the nation; their dreams will no longer be visited by the sweet kisses of feminine-featured boys blessed with the voices of angels, but rather the time-ravaged vestiges of old Tinsel Town.

Many Americans cannot stomach even a single viewing of American Idol, and I can certainly understand why. Completely. It is mind bogglingly corporate; a music industry whore playing up the worst of American culture; the contestants are bafflingly ostentatious for the amount of talent they have to offer; the show goes into painstaking detail about the lives of the contestants, but to the best of my recollection I never asked for any of these details (because I do not care to know), and the end result is programming that has been bloated to, at times, 5+ hours a week of pure filler. Would you assholes shut up and SING, already?

Yet I cannot bring myself to turn away.

The reasons why are clear. Firstly, there are rare moments when a young singer actually impresses the shit out of me. But even more so, I cannot get enough of that dastardly Simon Cowell. He is a trend setter for modern television: the viscous, truth-telling judge of the talent show, intent on bringing down the façade of niceties that have caused such a glut of painfully pitiful products in the entertainment market. The difference between Cowell and the countless spin-offs he has inspired is that Simon seems to know what he is talking about. I don’t always agree with his opinion, but it always appears to come from a pragmatic place.

None of this is new, and many have said this before, to be sure. However, it is extraordinarily impressive—to me, at least—that after 7 seasons (we are currently in the 8th), Simon is still just as doggedly dedicated to clearing the crap out of the road as he was in the beginning (more below).

The beauty of the clip you just watched is this: a minutely talented (at best) and hugely annoying contestant gets the boot. Paula Abdul (the nice one) takes the time to carefully keep this borderline-retarded, show-tunes wannabe, punk-ass turd’s ego intact by propping him up with lies, and we watch Colton’s face as he beams at the news Paula gives him, only to have Simon dash it apart. I love it. Watch his face fall—and right in front of the guy’s parents, at that. It’s painfully beautiful. Although, to Colton’s credit, he takes the news well.

I love watching this kind of thing happen to Americans. If ever there was a group of people with a distorted sense of self, it is us. Our sense of entitlement has grown to grotesque proportions, and I only wish we had more straight-talking limeys to knock us down a few more pegs. I love this country, and I’d like for us to all forget about what horrible things we think Hillary is doing to it (OMG how weird that she has a Myspace page), and concentrate more on what the COLTON’s are doing to it.

“Why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself?” Paula asks.

“Then don’t ask me,” replies Cowell. Touché.

I am beginning to fear that the youngest generations are going to grow up thinking that Jack Nicholson’s best work happened in the Bucket List. Oh, the horror I feel when I imagine overhearing a discussion in a bar five years from now, and several youngsters are debating the relative merits of As Good As It Gets over Anger Management. Kill me. Better yet, kill them—I have too much to live for.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed About Schmidt, and I thought Witches of Eastwick had much to offer. Yes, the cherry barfing scene and the church monologue were quite memorable. And even if younger viewers know about One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, how many know of China Town’s cool noire and it’s freaky turns into the bizarre? Or The Postman Always Rings Twice and its steamy, violent sex all over the diner kitchen table (more long, warm, loaves of bread, anyone? You still workin on that, hon?)? I mean, Jesus Christ, they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore, right? Easy Rider isn’t completely my thing, but it’s a pretty goddamned important flick, and Jack’s performance in it is way understated and completely different from his shtick turn in Batman, his big, dumpy ass dancing to Prince—like oh yeah, this guy listens to Prince (don’t get me wrong, I thought that, also, was pretty decent).

Listen to this audio clip I have included from Carnal Knowledge. You may be wondering why, in these days of visual wizardry, I am only including an audio clip, but trust me on this one—the way to experience the following bit of Jack is only through the ear. And, much like the sad demise of Pachino, you will never see (or hear) him crystallize his fury this purely ever again. It will most likely become a favorite thing of yours, too. Just remember where you heard it, you bums.