Off the SHITLIST for 2007

In my first of many articles (including its sister article Welcome to the SHITLIST SUCKA!), I’m taking a prominent pop culture figure off the SHITLIST.

This first figure really came to my attention when I was reading the back page of a recent Esquire (which if you haven’t seen me in a while, has put way more hair on my chest). It was a satire on sobriety coins. For instance, the United States received one for going 42 months without starting a war. Ha ha get it. Well there was also one which was labeled 52 years without being funny for Red Heat co-star Jim Belushi. Instead of laughing, I was almost depressed. I just thought of Jim getting this magazine in the mail and checking out the back page and just sighing, turning the page and pouring his whiskey up to the top. So I’ve decided its time to leave Jim Belushi alone.
Now in full disclosure, I was four years old when John died so I didn’t mind going to see K-9 in the theater or trying and to center my 13th birthday around Taking Care of Business (I didn’t get in cause it was Rated R so we had to go see Ghost, and we were followed in to the theater by the usher who thought we would sneak into the other theater, cause kids in Danvers are bad ass like that). But since I’ve grown hair on my balls, I’ve thought Jim Belushi is just as much of a talentless oaf as the rest of America. The recent syndication of According to Jim and the mere existence of Mr. Destiny have only solidified just how unfunny Mr. Belushi has been. But saying it out loud or making reference of it in a national syndication is the equivalent of saying, “You know who’s a good actress, that Meryl Streep.” Not only are you kicking a dead horse, but you are breaking its legs, putting it in a head lock, hitting it with a steel chair, running it into the turnbuckle and then shooting it in the face. The only thing less funny then Jim Belushi is saying that Jim Belushi isn’t funny.
If anything, his legacy should be seen as one of bravery. Think about it. Pretend your brother opened a really successful whorehouse. There wasn’t a tit under a C and the ass was more giggly then a paint mixer. Every one who worked there seemed to have been born and raised in Slutztown. There were so many blowjobs being given out you’d think you were inside a combustion engine. You would go to the brothel and your brother would come out from the throngs of celebrities, rub your head and say, “Hey everyone look at my lil brother. Get this guy some anal.” Goodbye virginity. Then he would give you rent money and let your underage ass drink for free. Life was great!
Then your brother dies. You’re devastated. You can’t leave your house. You start eating your own feces. Well maybe not, but you’re a deadbeat and your brother was your hero. So wouldn’t you try and get behind the spunk shield the day after the funeral and keep the good times going. Everyone would say you couldn’t do it. They would say things like it will never be the same, and you would hear every single jibe. Jim Belushi was a loyal son of Albanian immigrants and he tried to keep the whorehouse open, but everyone noticed. The whips were a little less leathery. The buttplugs didn’t quite fit and suddenly you look around and Penthouse quality staff are fat, saggy and Nugget just called to say they were gonna pass on the photo shoot with your amputees . Soon his staff is down to runaways and trailer park moms and his customer base is a couple of Vietnam vets who kept telling stories of the good old days when rimjobs cost a buck in Saigon. Sure, it would have been easier if he had just opened a bar or restaurant or even an H and R Block, but ostensibly there was still money coming in but even he knew he had run the good times straight into ground.
Don’t think that for one day he wouldn’t trade the neverending supply of beat up pussy to have his brother back and not be Jim Belushi, but we all know pimpin' ain’t easy.

So without further ado, Jim Belushi, you are off the SHITLIST.