The American Spectator

They went for the planet, for obvious reasons: Now the Hollywood glitterati could congratulate themselves on showing up to the event in Priuses — although if they really cared about the environment, they would have car-pooled. Wouldn’t that have been grand: to see Warren, Jack, Leo, and Ellen ride-sharing in a hybrid! That will be my next campaign.

I wish I were in the Academy — then I’d probably vote for the 1978 film, The Swarm. It involves two things I love: character actor Cameron Mitchell and killer bees.

I love killer bees. I remember that almost every month in the 1970s, we were always being reminded that the bees were only “200 miles off the coast” of Florida. They were always expected to arrive “late next year,” and when they did — the elderly, infants, and slow-moving pedestrians would suffer the worst. I grew up basically thinking that the killer bees were as inevitable as acne — and we better start stocking up on light clothed zippered suits and canned foods.

I probably wrote a handful of book reports on it. I might have even wondered aloud, if the bees were truly at fault. Maybe they weren’t “killers” to begin with. Maybe it was you and I who had turned them into these desperate revolutionaries in need not of elimination, but of understanding. Perhaps it was our collective “bee-gotry” that caused the problem.

Was America to blame, once again?

Of course, the killer bees never came. And for that I am grateful. But what still bothers me was the lack of accountability on the part of news organizations that allowed this hysteria to prosper. What happened to all those journalists, reporters, and TV hacks who continually scared the beans out of us about the oncoming killer bee massacre? Did they lose their jobs for their shoddy lies? Did they print retractions? Did they move to Jamaica and open a jam hut?

I BELIEVE FOR EVERY SCARE a journalist falsely reports, he should be punished in a manner similar to the type of hell he was predicting in his stories. So, if you wrote that the entire state of Rhode Island would be buried under a sea of angry bees, then you should be placed in a tiny room smelling of violet, and stung relentlessly by millions of yellow jackets as the state song “Rhode Island, It’s for Me” is sung by the Providence Choral Group. Likewise, if you wrote scathing reports on silicone breast implants — scaring many exotic dancers into having their illustrious orbs removed — then you should be forced to pay. And by pay, I mean getting a shoddy implant inserted into your body. But not on your chest. On your face, so each day everyone can see what a boob you are.

Okay, time for a nap. Now remember to check out my new show on Fox. It’s on at 2 a.m. Eastern Time — every night. Wave to me, and I promise I will wave back.