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(Starring Keanu Reeves as The Jackass)

All right ya bunch of Yahoos, let's bring this freakin' column to order. First, let us open with a prayer. May the Great Spirit see fit to bless and protect the hallowed ground of the Jack Daniel's Distillery and may he allow us all entry someday. You may now drink.

So here we are again. Me writing this freakin' thing and you with apparently nothing better to do than sit on the can and read it. No shame in that. The smallest room in the house is the only place most of us can find a moment's peace on the big blue ball. Since you went to the trouble to print it out, I hope you'll pass it on like the flu.

Many of you have inquired over the health of my 'ol dog, Benny, whom I introduced to you last column. The cards and letters simply poured in and I must tell you, it brought a tear to the eye to have such concern expressed for my ol' dog. Okay, that's a crock. Nobody inquired. Nobody wrote. The bunch of you got hearts as black as Sidney Poitier bare ass naked on a moonless night. (Long way to go for that line!) Since I brought it up, the most prolific poop maker in Fairfield still clings to life by a thread. Benny, not Sidney Poitier.

I expect you've all been watching that wonderful hit show, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Here at Graceland West, we've been literally glued to our sets. I don't know whether to move the TV into the kitchen or move the fridge into the family room. We especially love Regis. The little pizza maker is a credit to Italian American's everywhere and - - Sorry, I've just been informed that Regis Philbin is Italian like Keanu Reeves is talented, so there goes that page. Well he's a credit to short guys, anyway, and let's face it, you guys under five-ten need role models. It's like you don't know what to do with yourselves down there. It's like you got no reason to live. (Say, could be a song in that.) In fact, here's a couple of tips for you small in stature types: There's no need to shout. We can hear you up here. Nice sports car, but when you get out, you're still short. Lose the cell phone. You're annoying people who don't believe you're talking to a broker or a friend or anyone else for that matter. We know you have no friends. Get rid of the hair piece. I realize that you'd rather not be short and bald , but that's the way the deck was dealt. Face it, you're a troll. Get back under whatever bridge you live under and stop bothering the normal people.

Now that I've gotten totally carried away alienating the action figures in my audience, I'll get back to whatever it was I was talking about. Regis! The amazing thing is that week after week, in spite of the fact that he has to spend every morning with that git, Kathie Lee, he somehow manages to come up with all those questions. Granted, the first few are easy ones, but still, that's a piece of work. Plus, he's had three heart attacks. I've had two myself and you can take it from me, they slow you down a smidge. Damn! I just had another crackin' this here beer! The only criticism I can make about the show, besides that Exorcist music they play, is that those few beginning questions are as moronic as Keanu Reeves Band.

Regis: "Okay, Jackass, for One Hundred Dollars, how many handles does a broom have? Is it A.) One. B.) Two. C.) Three. Or D.) If I get this wrong please allow me to slit my throat on national television so my family can at least get a movie of the week out of this. (Almost A Millionaire. A Moment of Truth Movie, Starring Keanu Reeves as The Jackass.) The fact that they let these idiots ruminate indefinitely over their answer can drive you up the wall too. I mean, I could give a flying pile of endangered spider monkey dung how you arrive at your answer. Just answer the freakin' question!

Jackass: "Hmmm. Let me think now. I was sweeping the kitchen this morning. Dolly, that's my wife, likes the kitchen well swept. I was holding the broom with two hands. But the floor wasn't clean enough and Dolly beat me senseless with the broom handle. But she held it with one hand. When I was sweeping, though, I used two hands. I remember because I have jock itch and I really needed to scratch'."

Regis: "There's nothing funny about Jock Itch."

Jackass: "I think I'm going to have to use a lifeline, Regis."

Regis: "Are you sure I couldn't just throttle you until your head falls off. I believe our viewing audience would enjoy that."

Jackass: "Regis, I think I'll poll the audience."

Regis: "Audience votes are being tabulated and here it is. 71% chose D.) Slit your throat for a television movie!"

Jackass: "Regis, I've got to go with my gut on this one. I'm going to say, B.) Two handles."

Regis: "Is that your final answer."

Jackass: "Unless it ain't right."

Regis: "Jackass."

Jackass: "Is it too late to use my 50/50 lifeline, Regis?"

Regis: "Well, Jackass, I have to tell you that you risk not only the hundred dollars but the chance that my head could explode if we can't progress to the next question."

Jackass: "I'd like to use the lifeline, Regis."

Regis: "If you're sure, then we'll eliminate two wrong answers and see what we're left with. It's A.) One and B.) Two. What's it going to be?"

Jackass: "Okay. I'm visualizing myself sweeping the floor. I'm using the broom. Dolly's whacking me in the ass with it. I can see it. I can see it! I can't see it. It's no good, Regis. I'm just going to take a guess. I'll go with D.) Slit my throat for a television movie."

Regis: "But that answer's been eliminated! It's definitely wrong!"

Jackass: "I'm playing a hunch here, Regis. I'm going to slit my throat."

Regis: "Please, allow me."

Now that's good television.

 I've just felt a vibration in the force, as if a million souls all cried out simulataniouly, "Damn! I forgot to put the beer in the fridge!" Or perhaps it was Michael J. Fox fans crying out, "Please Michael J. Fox! Don't quit show business!" How's that for a segue? Turns out it was gas anyway, but while I'm on the subject. 'Ol Michael J. Fox has indeed decided to quit show business and devote his time to the very worthy cause of finding a cure for Parkinson's. That's the disease that makes you spill your beer, so the boys and I up here in Fairfield would like to come out and applaud the little guy's pluck. Way to go Mike! Race for a cure! It kinda got me thinking the other morning about Christopher Reeves and his search for a cure for Klutzosis. That's the disease that makes you fall off your freakin' horse. While I realize that you regular Joe's and Jane's could give a flying nun about these rich boys and their petty little health concerns, there is one little notion you might want to consider.

Let's say for the sake of argument that you came down with some terrible disease like, oh I don't know, sobriety. What would you do? Goddamn HMO's would leave you swinging in the wind, that's for damn sure. You can bet nobody's going to want to come near you in that condition. You gonna quit your job to devote yourself fully to finding a cure? Who cares? Won't work. Who the hell are you? Nobody, sorry to tell you. That's okay, 'cause I ain't nobody either. But what if you were to infect a celebrity? Now I realize some of you are going to write and tell me I'm an irresponsible and ignorant panty boy for saying such a thing. I hope you do. Let's face it. The letters column on this site could use, well, some letters.

There's really just one important guideline to follow. Choose a celebrity with the means and position to actually make progress in finding a cure for whatever disease you have. Be it sobriety or something equally as awful. Don't pick that jackass Keanu Reeves or that flamer Burt Reynolds (Burt, lose the purple scarves already. Come on, fella. Remember Sharky's Machine? You used to be a man, fer Christ sakes! ) or God forbid, that big girl, Dennis Rodman, because nobody gives a fiddler's fart whether any of these guys live or die.

You could do everyone a favor and pick Adam Sandler. Man, that baby talk thing drives me nutty. But you definitely want someone of that caliber and people love that idiot. Infect that titanic boob, Leonardo Decapria and save us from all his future cinematic failures. Infect Michael Douglas for knocking up Katherine Zita Jones before I could. Okay, she never called me back, but hey, he's a doddering, flabby old man completely undeserving of such a luscious babe. It's criminal! She's a young, simmering, sultry lass with breasts like two - - okay, I'm getting off track here. But see, these here movie stars are having a lot more fun in their lives than you and me are ever going to have. Consequently, they value their lives more and for some reason, the public values their lives more. For example, if I fall in the street, people trip over me and Benny pees on me. If Mel Gibson falls in the street, the ambulance is there before Benny can even lift his leg. That's celebrity for you.

So following the above plan, you end up with the celebrity of your choice working for a cure and all his millions of adoring fans pitching in. Hell, before you know it, they'll be wearing ribbons of your favorite color to all the awards shows. They'll find a cure for sobriety and you'll be bending your elbow before you know it.

I wanted to mention before I go and before you get set to tear your ass off the crapper that I saw Galaxy Quest this weekend and if you can catch it before it splits the theaters, I wholeheartedly recommend it. It's dope. Blazin'. Phat! Tight. It's off the hook, baby. (Sorry, just shouting at my peeps, or whatever the kids are saying these days.)

 One more thing. God thinks you're taking life too seriously. Lighten up already.

Ring a ding ding.

Daniel J. Barbeau, lives in Northern California, where he rants, in a most devout manner, about television and tit-jobs to anyone who'll listen.

Got a problem? Email Dan at filmmonthly@hotmail.com