Greetings Mouthketeers,

Osama Bin Laden is dead, and our client, Cousin Brucie Morrow opened this week on Broadway.  What a week.  Both are huge events–for each respective party and culture, and both are important to the people who are their followers.

I am having a hard time understanding the media positioning on the Osama front.  First, how many of us heard American reporters tongue-twist our President’s name into Bin Laden’s?  President Osama?  It was really shameful, don’t you think?  I mean, here’s a guy (our Prez), who brought down the “Hitler” of our time, and a reporter can’t get his name straight?  Go back to journalism school, take an online history course at the University of Phoenix or pull up last week’s interviews with Donald Trump–he pronounced Obama’s name correctly!  Stop reporting, and start fact-checking!!

Second, how many days does the media need to report on the perimeter of the Osama story?  We heard about the killing, then we heard about the pictures.  Then we heard about what people thought about the pictures…And then I actually saw a show on cable that was showing other gruesome pictures of other dead people while they were talking about whether or not people should see Bin Laden’s gruesome pictures!  It’s too c-r-a-z-y.   I’m beginning to think the media wants to make this tragic story into a “Nightmare on Elm Street Part 4.”

Although I’m not for abortion, it’s not my place to decide if a woman should have one; and although I’m not for seeing the dead pictures of Osama Bin Laden, it’s not my place to decide whether the victims’ families of 9/11 should see them either.  If a mother of a child killed at the Twin Towers needs to see the blood of Bin Laden drip out of his brain for closure, then they need to see them, and they need to see them behind closed doors, not plastered on the front page of a tabloid.  The pictures should be housed at the State Department, and every family member of a victim should be invited to see them.  And if the family doesn’t want to see them, simply RSVP, “NO, CANNOT ATTEND.”

I love, love, love this country, and I also admire President Obama because he did the right thing.  I don’t think those brave Navy SEALs should have captured Bin Laden alive, and I don’t care whether or not he was armed when they took him down.  Were the victims of 9/11 armed when they were incinerated?  The only thing they were armed with was coffee and a donut, while they were rushing to work.  We pay way too many taxes as it is…would you really want a portion of your hard-earned money spent on keeping Osama Bin Laden in a prison, eating grilled cheese and bananas?

As the news broke about Bin Laden, the news started to break about the opening of Cousin Brucie, in the Tony award-winning Best Musical, “Memphis.”  He’s only going to be featured in the show for a week, but it was my company’s way of bringing light to his paperback version of “Rock & Roll…And the Beat Goes On” and boy was this fun times for all.  During the moments I was with the cast, the crew and our client, there was no talk of the Bin Laden story…it was as if I had stepped into a world before 9/11/2001, a feeling that was well worth it.  As I sit at Juniors restaurant, at Sardi’s and at Juniors (again) with Brucie, and share a laugh and talk about the time when he introduced the Beatles during their historic concert at Shea Stadium, the ones who were killed on 9/11 didn’t get a chance to laugh and eat cheesecake.  So, for God’s sake, if anyone in the media has any kind of integrity, please tone down the tabloiding so that people can heal…or perhaps see a picture of a dead man, or even see “Memphis” if they want.

Why did the Tony members diss “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” for Best Musical?  Now, THAT’S a problem.

Peace,

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, Politics, Pop Culture, entertainment

Mayor Fumeberg!!

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Is anyone stumped why NYC’s Mayor Bloomberg approved the mazes and mazes of pedestrian malls, fake sand, bike lanes (that no one seems to ride) and gigantic potted plants on the streets of the Big Apple?   First, I think the mayor has done a fine job in many ways, but this circus act on the streets of the city is making me FUME, (I’m fuming!), which is why, at least for today, I’m calling Mayor Bloomberg, Mayor FUMEberg!

You got that right, America!!

Take Broadway between 19th and 23rd streets–the Flatiron District and the hood of my company, Mouth Public Relations.  How many road gymnastics and cheap patio furniture can you put in one zone?  And, how many parking spots need to be in the middle of the street? Has the mayor even walked down the monster streets he and his transportation secretary re-routed?  The asphalt in town looks more like a bad version of a driving test than a serious tool for transportation.  And seriously, when you’re on 23rd street and ready to make a left turn: forget about only worrying about crashing into a bus or a pedestrian…NOW you have to worry about bashing into three uber-sized potted plants–strategically positioned as if they were pasties on a woman’s boobs–on the southeast corner of 23rd and Broadway–it’s an accident ready to happen.

OY Mayor, whassup with all dat?!@#

Seriously, I’m all for the environment, and actually get excited sitting on a lawn chair in the middle of Times Square; however, the last time I checked in dictionary.com, a “sidewalk” is for pedestrians, a “street” is for cars and trucks, and a “mall” is a place where you shop in Paramus, New Jersey.   I think the problem in the world isn’t about pushing the car off the streets of New York City (as if the Tablet has pushed the publishing industry virtually out of business), it’s about totally committing to a greener, smaller electric car, simply because people want to get to point A and point B faster than the mayor can say, “let’s create another traffic pattern!” And, whether Fumeberg likes it or not, the car is here to stay.

BTW, where ARE all the bike riders on the bike lanes?  If I was the owner of Schwinn bikes, I’d create a huge PR stunt and give away 5,000 bikes (first come/first served), in Times Square–simply to get people pumped on riding a bike again.  You see, if Fumeberg actually thought the bike lane idea through, he’d also create more parking lots for bikes, because in my opinion, people might ride a bike to work if they knew where the hell to park that thang.  (Our office at Mouth Public Relations is about 600 square feet, and since we have no storage space, we could balance a bike on our heads!  Why not?   Hahahahahaha…)

Whether you’re roller blading, riding a bike, walking or God forbid, driving a car, Mayor Fumeberg, would you PUHLEEZE, fill-up those facacta potholes, which emerged after all those snowstorms the newspapers said you weren’t even in town for?

Forget about comparing cellulite to cottage cheese, you can compare cellulite to the streets of NYC!

BTW, why do only 17% of those polled like Public School Chancellor Cathie Black?  She seems like a nice looking woman, right?

Peace,

The Mouthinator

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, News, Politics, entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

This was a week I really should have been on vacation or in a state where I should not have gotten out of bed. During this week I learned my friend’s dog passed away, learned another friend’s transgendered cousin committed suicide and hung herself, heard an old friend’s elderly dad had fallen, found out a book agent began pitching our clients to media without including us in the negotiation; and this week was the week a bat flew into my home at 5am and fluttered around me in my bedroom while I naked in my bed and screaming…as if I was a woman.

The bat story is worth detailing. It’s not a good feeling when your house alarm goes off at 5am, and it’s even worse to get a call from the alarm’s dispatcher telling you the motion detector in your living room is where the alarm was tripped.

I sleep in the buff (TMI); but imagine contemplating the notion that someone is walking up your stairs ready to murder you; only to learn that the violator is a bat, fluttering around you in your bed, while you are butt naked to the wind. (Thank God I wasn’t sitting naked on the terlet when this creature decided to freak me out.)

This is a true story.

The sounds that came out of me when this bat violated my space was only equal to the sound of a woman giving birth—only there were no stirrups to strap me into. Instead of taking a breath and remembering that bats are harmless little creatures who simply carry diseases; I launched an all out screaming campaign in the hopes this bat will fly back to whatever cave he came from. (Where were my neighbors during all of this? Were they afraid if they called the cops I would have pulled a “Henry Louis Gates” on them??)

So, I called the police. They gave me the name of an animal control service—who unfortunately wasn’t opened 24 hours-a-day. As I screamed down the hall to the guest bedroom, shutting the doors behind me as if the attacker would find me again and try and tussle my hair (did I tell you I’m bald?), I decided to boot up the laptop in the hopes of finding an around-the-clock company who will rescue me and put me and the bat out of our misery.

Jim—who lives in Connecticut—but owns a company called New York Bat Control (or something of that ilk), was kind enough to take my call, and talk me off a ledge of fear.

Two hours after my call, Jim arrived in his company uniform—looking as if he was Kevin Costner in that baseball movie he starred in. Sadly for me, the sun was rising just as Jim’s truck had pulled into the driveway, and if you remember anything about bats, they hide and sleep (upside down) by day, and flutter around by night. Needless to say, after an hour of bat hunting with a pair of rubber gloves and a flashlight, Jim did not find the intruder.

But Jim charged me $400 and the promise that he would meet me at 10pm (for free), and catch the bat when it woke up from its power nap.

Jim kept his promise and showed up, and found me sitting in my car refusing to go into my house. Jim asked me to open the door, which lead into a pitch black living room, and as I peaked through the panes of the old looking colonial window, I could see Jim doing a bat dance with the flashlight—and I could see the bat dancing to the beat of Jim’s song.

Frankly there was no music, but trust me when I say Jim and the bat gyrated to a tune I never heard of at any disco—and sadly the dance ended in about three minutes when Jim grabbed the flying mouse (uh, b-a-t), and broke his neck. (I know, I know, I asked Jim to let the bat go back to the wild but for some odd reason Jim said that the town wants all captured bats killed and tested for Rabies.) So my 15-hour saga with the bat ended on a high note.  (Boy I wish the stories of the dog that died, the woman who committed suicide, the agent who spoke out of turn, and the elderly man who fell would have had a happier ending; but when it comes to capturing bats, Jim is now on the top of my list of vendors I will definitely use in the future!) 

Bat behavior and bad behavior is not tolerated; however there’s gotta be some moral to the story, right?  What I also learned from Jim was that earlier in the morning he saw a coyote slithering in my yard, and reminded me to never let my dog off a leash—or on the deck without supervision because there will be a tragic ending.  I would have never learned about how to protect my dog if it wasn’t for the bat; and although the entire week was chock full of human bats circling me as if I was Dracula, deep down I knew there was going to be a brighter day at the end of this tunnel of sadness, drama and insanity.

Today is my company’s retreat, and I’m firing up the BBQ and grilling some chicken burgers for the staff. If the party is overshadowed by thunderstorms, I will switch gears, book a massage for my employees at the local day spa, and treat everyone to lunch at the state’s most critically-acclaimed smokehouse.

Darkness will eventually turn into light—and all I will need to do is take a breath and look toward the future.

Hey, wasn’t Teri Garr hysterical in “Young Frankenstein”?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Pet, Pop Culture, entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Since you last read one of my entries, news guru Walter Cronkite, and Angela’s Ashes author Frank McCourt passed away . . . but what do I blog about?  The fact Paula Abdul has not been invited onto the next season of American Idol to date, according to her manager, David Sonenberg.

You got that right.  Says the manager, “Very sadly, it does not appear that she’s going to be back on ‘Idol . . . and she’s not a happy camper . . . “

Ya know, I’m not a very happy camper at the moment either.  With a cholesterol level at 280 and a doctor who is practically feeding me Lipitor through an intravenous tube, do I have more fish to fry than the fishy drama surrounding the Big Ab?

Paula Abdul not judging a group of amateurs?  Yawn.  Who Cares?  Go Home.  See ya.   

Ryan Secrest, the “host” of the show, apparently signed a 45 Million Dollar deal, and when he heard the Abdul might be abducted from AI, tweeted to her to show his support.  Says RS, “Love u PA can’t imagine doing idol without u!!”

Ryan, what tremendous insight you have, and it’s clear how you command the big bucks; however, the last time I checked, a “PA” didn’t stand for Paula Abdul, which furthers my conviction Ryan Secrest is truly a gay man stuffed inside the likes of a game show host.

What really irks me here is at the time of this writing, those facacta Bush twins are overloading the google.com/trends list—clogging up the Top 25 most blogged about people in the universe! 

What Google trend ranking is PA at the time of this writing?  Nowhere to be seen and if she is, her story is way beyond the top 100. 

My point is that celebs who judge talent, managers who manage them and news outlets such as CNN should really stop reading their own publicity and start reporting on something meaningful for us all . . . thus trying to make a difference in the world.  Perhaps CNN will create a new Heroes award for celebs who make a difference?

Straight up, now tell me:  Will Paula Abdul make that list? 

Where is the Farrah Fawcett coverage when you really need it?

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Yesterday I was glued to the computer as if it was my flat screen at home—watching the Michael Jackson Memorial.

And then it hit me:  There were two Michael Jacksons. 

One was the performer who really changed the face of pop music in his day, and the other was the man living in the dark and sleeping with little boys.

Yesterday was the celebration of the pop side—the one persona Michael Jackson so brilliantly created.  Call yourself the King of Pop or the Man in the Mirror—who are we to stop you?  Even though you basically imitated Brown, Ella, Sinatra, Astaire to name a few, you actually did a great job at it.  If you look closely at your music videos, you recycled the same dance moves over and over again, but I do believe before you turned into a weirdo, Michael Jackson, you indeed did change the world through the universal language of music. 

And then, during the Memorial, they wheeled in Michael Jackson’s casket.

Out of the blue a fan of this blog emailed me her disgust that Jackson’s casket was wheeled into the Staples Center.  But I didn’t think it was disgusting. Other than stealing, killing and child molesting, I don’t think it’s our place to judge what other people do with their lives or their deaths, and how they choose to party, even if the party is going to be their last.

If a pregnant woman’s water breaks in a cab, she’d have the baby in the back seat.  If you and your fiancé are extreme sports fanatics, you might say your vows while jumping out of a plane.  If you have millions of fans, you should have your memorial in a center, and if you have a gazillion dollars, for God’s sake buy a honkin’ gold casket with three speeds and parade it around—up and down the isles if you want.  Go for it.  If I recall, years ago we all watched while some head of state of India was cremated on-camera, and to me, that was creepy.  After that scene, what’s wrong with a casket being paraded around on a gurney?  

I had the pleasure of meeting Brooke Shields twice, and the pleasure of representing Reverend Berneice King once—both of whom spoke at Michael’s Memorial Service.  They swore by Michael, and his genuine love for children and humanity.  And I believe he truly cared about youngsters; however, I don’t know what Brooke or Berneice do behind closed doors, and I don’t pretend to know what Michael did behind them either.   Now that Michael Jackson has passed, the judgment stops at the gates of heaven because there’s one spirit he will have to answer to, and realistically it is not his fans or his skeptics who tuned in to say goodbye.

Hey, what’s up with Joe Jackson chomping on some stanky piece of gum during his son’s memorial service?  Spit it out, Joe—you selfish, rude and disgusting man; and please do not stick it under the seat when you leave the building.   

Peace.

The Mouthinator.    

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Some fans get super excited knowing they’re near the remains of The King of Pop.  Some governors get a hard-on thinking about their soulmates—one of which is a chick named Maria, somewhere in Buenos Aires.  Some girls get wet just thinking about the Jonas Brothers . . . and I am ready to dance naked in the streets with joy after discovering self scanners at the Super Stop & Shop.

You got that right!  I had an epiphany—an “aha” moment—after I saw these contraptions at the market the other day.  Why didn’t anyone think of this sooner? 

So here’s what happens: 

You go in the supermarket and they hand you a scan gun.  As you shop, you shoot this gun at the barcode (somewhere on the label of the item), and after your gun records the item, you pack your food in bags as you shop—rather than waiting on those long winded checkout lines.  Once you are in line, you hand the cashier the scan gun, she reads your total items for purchase, you give her payment, and you are out the door and onto the next chore! J

Here’s another amazing pet discovery:  For all of you dog and cat lovers, I recently discovered a holistic product called PetzLife Oral Care Gel.  What’s this?  It keeps you from paying a quadrillion dollars on a teeth cleaning for Fido and Fifi.  It’s an all-natural gel that acts as if it’s a doggy and pussy toothbrush, breath freshener and tarter control mouthwash all wrapped up into one . . . and your pet’s teeth becomes so white you’d swear you sent him/her to Brite Smile for teeth whitening!

Here’s an invention I wish someone would invent already:  For those of you who live in the burbs and use mulch, wouldn’t it be great if there was a “mulch spray refresher,” which would be an all-natural product you could sprinkle on your flower beds to bring luster back to the mulch you just spent a fortune on a month ago?  I know this sounds b-o-r-i-n-g to some, but anyone who can invent this product will end up being a gazillionaire and take me to dinner.

In any event, enjoy the July 4^th celebrations; and remember, life is about living, and reinventing.

What the hell happened to new and improved Alanis Morissette?   

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Nothing angers me more than people who use the race card to make a point—especially when the point is much bigger than race. And that’s precisely the issue I raise when talking about the continuing tragic saga of the death of Michael Jackson.

As predicted (in a previous blog), the media gave Michael Jackson fifteen more minutes of fame, and then played out his death as if it was a murder mystery, complete with Michael’s costumes, Michael’s music, and Michael’s legal issues and money troubles.   All that showbiz is backed up with videos, b-roll footage and a family cast of characters only equal to those who star in 007 movies.

And then there was Al Sharpton, Jamie Foxx, Usher, Spike Lee—you name it—Hollywood was out en force to bring Michael Jackson’s legacy back to Black.  God damn it. Where is President Obama when you need him? I thought when Obama was elected the shenanigans of using the race card unnecessarily was ovah?

What the hell am I talking about?

During a recent BET award show, many of the celebrities attending actually had the nerve to claim Michael Jackson as their African-American hero.  Wha?  Uh, excuse me, Black America! Michael just moon walked in purgatory over that comment! The last time I checked out Michael Jackson, he looked more as if he was a late 60s version of Cher, (an ultra thin waif with pale white skin and straight black hair dotted with sequins throughout), not James Brown—if you get my drift. Michael Jackson’s skin and hair transformation compared to that of a disgruntled child who lived on the east coast with his parents, only to move 3000 miles away—as far as he could go—as soon as he could move away to college. If young Michael was west coast, older Michael was the the Persian Gulf island of Bahrain.

Michael Jackson worked hard to become a white woman. And so what? Who cares? It worked for him, and kept the mystery going. Why go on and on about it? And why play that really tiresome race entitlement thing again, Hollywood? B-o-r-i-n-g.

There is no doubt Michael Jackson changed music and pop history. There is no doubt Michael Jackson released music that changed our lives. But in order to figure out what was going in Michael Jackson’s head, for God’s sake, turn down the backtracks, read his lyrics . . . and look at the photos.

Actions speak louder than words.

Suzanne de Passe: Thank you for discovering the Jackson 5.

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

As most of you have heard, Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed “King of Pop,” died yesterday of an apparent cardiac arrest. Although the first thing that ‘pops’ into my mind about this man surrounds the accusation he was a pedophile, (or at least convicted “in a court of public opinion”); now I can issue a sigh of relief knowing that a troubled person is not going to be near children any longer.

And it took death to make that happen.

No child should sleep in a grown man’s bed . . . on the premise they are friends. Are you kidding? Puhleese. All the “Thriller” albums in the world will not stop me from forgetting Michael Jackson abused young children for his own pleasure.

I’ve seen all those interviews and heard all of Michael Jackson’s arguments throughout the years, and the guy was definitely guilty because he spent a lot of time and money on hiring publicists, trying to turn his tarnished image around. If you’re not guilty you don’t spend money on crisis managers, and you don’t run away and move to another country.

When I had the pleasure of repping investigative reporter, Diane Dimond, with her book, BE CAREFUL WHO YOU LOVE, it was clear from Ms. Dimond’s research, this man was a dangerous whacko with a deep, dark secret he did not want any adult to know.  What did he do?  Turn the music up even louder so the masses could not hear the pain coming from those young boys.

Yes, friends. Even when you die, your history will override your passing; and you’ll still be known for how you lived, and how you treated others. Because our society thrives on the negative, there might be a brief honeymoon period right after you die; but then people will start talking.   Be careful who you love.  Be thoughtful as to how you live.

As you know from a previous blog posting, I met Michael when he was a kid—when he seemed normal—churning out those amazing songs many of us have used to define a moment in our own lives. What disturbs me most of all about Mr. Jackson’s death, is he and I were a few months apart in age, and with his passing,  it’s now clear to me  I’m entering a time when my generation will soon be dropping like flies.

Michael Jackson: The King of Pop has stopped. Goodbye, and thanks for a few great tunes.  Why did you abuse those innocent children?  Perhaps your own children, (Michael Joseph Jackson, Jr.; Paris Michael Katherine Jackson and Prince “Blanket” Michael Jackson II), may now be unmasked and live in harmony with the real world.

Isn’t it a bummer Mr. Jackson’s death has out-scooped the passing of Farrah Fawcett?  Rewind the tape, Farrah . . . and give us another fifteen minutes.

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator entertainment

Dear Mouthketeers:

Farrah Fawcett has passed away at the age of 62. May her big, beautiful locks of hair follow her to Heaven.

Yes, we will always remember her for her acting roles: but it was also amazing to watch her try and find a cure for her cancer. (I’m not sure it was amazing to see Ryan O’Neal follow her; however, I’m sad for him . . . and for their son.)

May she rest in peace, and may the media stop treating this story as if it’s tabloid fodder.

Doesn’t Jacqueline Smith look great these days?  Hang in there, grrrrl.

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I had the pleasure of driving to work yesterday, and during the excursion, turned on the radio and stumbled upon “The Glenn Beck Program.”  Is Beck kidding?  At times, I really like Glenn Beck on television:  He’s eloquent, delivers a great sound byte, and even though I don’t always agree with his politics, think he’s somewhat entertaining too.  And, I realize a lot of people like him. (That guy must make gazillion dollars!) 

But this GB radio show almost put me to sleep at the wheel.  Why?

First: Let’s talk bare bones logistics.  What’s up with that 1980s radio voice, Glenn?  You know, the sound you wanted to hear when you were a kid—as you yelled into a glass or screamed at your bathroom tiles—just to hear your voice echo?  (In radio terms, the “echo” is called, “reverb.”)  Second: What’s up with the promo music?  Is Beck’s show a “Newstalk” show or is it a “Z Morning Zoo?”  A wannabe “Imus?”  Surely not a “Howard Stern,” right?  Puhleese.  Save the scratchy electric guitar promos and the whispering women for a ZZ-Top Reunion.  Third:  How many times do you have to say, “Yadda, yadda, yadda . .?”  (OK.  Maybe that was a cheap shot.  I apologize Mr. Beck for critiquing your vocabulary.)  And Fourth:  If I heard another minute more about Billy Joel’s divorce—which seemed to be a topic of discussion for nearly an hour—I was going to do a jackknife across the highway!

You got that right.  Who the hell cares about Billy Joel’s divorce, and the fact he married a chick more than thirty years his junior?  After Beck ranted on and on about this “Piano Man’s” predicament, they opened up the phone lines to talk about the age difference, and a 53 year-old male caller chimed in and boasted how lucky he was to meet his (now) 23 year-old wife.  However, the fact the caller hinted he met his wife when she was a minor—and the fact Beck and his Z Morningish Zoo crew thought it was funny, was really creepy to me . . . Especially when the next segment was a monologue judging our new President Obama, who the last time I checked, wasn’t joking in the Oval Office about pedophlia.

Let’s not even touch upon the Obama thing, because this is a free country, and if Beck wants to vote for Sarah Palin next time around, go for it baby (no pun)—and bring those stanky guitars with you in the voting booth.  But really, Beck, your persona on TV is a disconnect with your radio host character, and although it’s great you command a huge audience who respects you, I’m not sure I find humor in a caller admitting he played around with a minor before having her baby.  Do you?  On the other hand, if you respected Sarah Palin’s 2008 campaign, you probably aren’t thrown off by really awkward moments.   

In a world where Sarah Palin has the right to scream and yell at David Letterman for making that stupid joke about how he thought Palin’s teenage daughter should get knocked up by baseball star, Alex Rodriguez, why is Beck and company not judging his 53 year-old geezer of a caller?  Instead, we’re privy to hearing Beck’s entourage chuckling in the background about this sick schtick!  Do you think because you’re all guys, this subject matter is acceptable, and a rite of passage only worthy of those who watch Spike TV? Uh, where the hell is Gloria Steinem when you need her?   

This ain’t guy talk; This is NewsTalk . . . Radio.   

Beck:  Tell it like it is—without the reverb, the guitars, and the sales pitch.  Oh, and congrats on your (already) New York Times best-seller, Glenn Beck’s Common Sense, the book you say was ‘scary to write.’ 

Lights out, fellas.

Hey, whatever happened to Soupy Sales? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator.  

The Mouthinator News, Politics, Pop Culture, entertainment