Because you demanded it: The “best-of” Frotcast, plus Armond White reviews the Frotcast

We’ve still got a regularly-scheduled Frotcast going up Thursday, but in the meantime, Frotcast correspondent Adam just finished editing together a best-of show. Yay, a double Frotcast week! (Please, please, try to contain yourselves).

Listen on the player above, or download this week’s episode as an mp3 here (right-click, “save as.”)

Welcome to the “Not Quite Best of” Best of 2011. There were many requests but not everything could be included…so, blame the intern if this doesn’t meet your approval. Big thanks to Laremy, Robopanda, and listener Matt B for their input. All music is from Burnsy’s Corner, well, except for one song. [And yes, it includes every Koi call]

  • 00:00:51 – We kick things of with some Frotcast lore: the introduction to poop transplants, a bizarre (or normal) trip to Vegas, a vivid description of the aliens from Cowboys and Aliens, and a certain kind of hair removal. [Hint: It’s butthole Nairing!]
  • 00:18:38 – The guys discuss the law of the streets, a group film review goes awry, Brendan’s interaction with a creepy guy at a bachelor party, and “Erection, your onion,” — the Swedish gibberish episode, a must-listen.
  • 00:37:10 – We listen to the banshee known as Jesse Jane at the AVN Awards, a tribute to Fake Bret, lothario Brendan discusses his love making skills, what happens when you introduce a banana phone into a poop transplant procedure, and the guys learn some interesting facts about Thomas Kinkade, the painter of light.
  • 00:55:22 – The only way to review Tower Heist is with Jamaican accents, the amazing talents of Cytheria, and don’t take the law into your own hands: take ’em to haters court.
  • 01:16:33 – MMA attributes, Lindy reads the writings of Drunken Expat Writer, fun with Shia Labeouf’s name, the eeriest (yet spot on) impersonation of Willem Dafoe, and Vince gets frustrated at Comic-Con.
  • Bonus track – Lindy West gets drunk, and inadvertently starts the “Kirk Douglas’s corpse going down a log flume with a boner mini-meme.”


Oh, and sent in by listener Logan, here’s “Armond White Reviews the Frotcast,” which was both clever, and frighteningly accurate:

In becoming au courant with the audio quandary that is the Filmdrunk Frotcast, one must inevitably start with an examination of the founder, and apparent linchpin of the enterprise. The less said about Vincent Mancini the better. Even casual listeners are aware of the catastrophic failure of humor evinced by an increasingly desperate series of puns, jokes, dated references, and hastily-created games. It is, however, made clear with prodigious celerity that his role as the inept, bumbling skipper at the Frotcast’s helm is an apt metaphor for our current lack of vision as a people and contemporary crisis of political leadership.

Brendan acts primarily as the chortling, cartoonishly buffoonish Igor to Mancini’s Doctor Frankenstein. His insertion into the podcast is a ham-fisted attempt to correct the utter lack of appeal of his three co-hosts. Through his incessant reference of football and Pavlovian baritone giggles about “poop,” “poo-poo,” “fecal transplants,” and other sundry bodily fluids he attempts to utterly typify the contemporary state of the American male as a grossly overgrown, perpetually adolescent man-child, interested in little but base bodily functions and aggressive displays of poorly conceived masculinity.

A sad, intellectually-stunted creature reminiscent of Andy Serkis’ luminously portrayed ‘Gollum,’ Bret shows occasional flashes of original thought and intellectual curiosity, only to be overridden by his cohosts with a ferocity that reminds one of the attack on Conan’s village in the opening of the excellent 1982 film ‘Conan the Barbarian.’ Each time the aurally violating shrieks of the other three harridans drown out the whisper of nascent reason that is Bret’s sole contribution to the podcast, one can all but hear the ghostly swell of Orff’s ‘Carmina Burana’ and see Thulsa Doom riding down upon the undefended, snow-covered village of Bret’s well-intentioned observations.

With his love of modern the modern cinema verite that is robot fighting, rocket hands, and tedious opinions, Ben ‘the motorcycle riding Jew’ comes as close as is possible, in this tongue tied dystopia of politically correct tip toeing, to justifying anti-Semitism. Each asinine phrase that issues from his mouth is like a cloud of flesh rending locusts tearing at the psyche of the listener. Each mumbled ranting that spills forth is like another Biblical plague visited upon an audience of humbled pharos. After even a single listening of the Frotcast, even the most benevolent of hearts will fervently desire the tympanic torturing tongue of this harpy to be consumed in a fire that blazes with the heat of six million menorahs.

The only reason to review this rube-Goldbergian contraption, seemingly engineered only to deliver audio mediocrity via the internet, is Fake Bret. Fake Bret’s insights and starkly honest utterances offer up a mirror to an increasingly technocratic, faceless, and authoritarian society. Indeed, what should any of us be doing but stopping to closely observe Mother Nature and “draw the squirrels.” With a folksy drawl and agreeable demeanor, Fake Bret appears simple, even deeply retarded at first glance. Closer examination, however, reveals a deep-seated fear and hints at a slave-like existence. With frequent mentions of “they” and an implied mandate to “stop and draw the squirrels,” Fake Bret reveals that we all live under the omnipresent, omnipotent jack boot of a “they” so powerful that even our simple pleasures and plebeian entertainments are carefully controlled and calculated by outside forces. Not since Orwell’s ‘1984’ has the methodology and face of Big Brother been so clearly shown. It is through Fake Bret that the seemingly pedestrian fare offered up by the Filmdrunk Frotcast is revealed to be the most honest medium of social commentary and greatest tool for change we oppressed mortals have. While the so-called 99% are futilely occupying our physical reality, Fake Bret’s call to arms occupies the deepest recesses of our consciousness.