The new lean, mean, blue-eyed killin' machine James Bond movie Quantum of Solace comes out on Friday! It's exciting, I guess, because 2006's Casino Royale franchise reboot was good and whatnot, but judging from early clips and reviews we've eyeballed, there's something missing. It's that spark, that joie de vivre, that sense of humor that colored the older films. We're talking, of course, about the sex puns. There may have been one or two in Royale, but they weren't nearly as good as the creaky old ones about something suddenly "coming up," or the more recent delightful Pierce Brosnan clunker "I thought Christmas only comes once a year," which he said while boning a lady named Christmas Jones. Terrific. Luckily for us, Maxim (natch) has put together a list of the punny best, and our video wunderkind Nick McGlynn smushed them all together into one handy video. Click above to enjoy it. (Was that a sex pun?)

MSNBC moved to protect America from Joe Scarborough and his vile, cursed curses. According to Broadcasting & Cable, the Morning Joe host will be delayed seven seconds to hopefully prevent a repeat of his on-air "fuck you" Monday morning. That puts the former Republican Congressman in the same electronic dunce cap as Don Imus, who was tape-delayed by the cable network before he managed to broadcast something racist anyway. There's already chatter this makes Scarborough's show less edgy and "dangerous," but a tape delay can't prevent another nasty on-air fracas between Scarborough and his lefty colleagues, now can it?

"Based on all this information and research, hopefully you can stretch the standards to allow 'Bitchassness' to be printed." [Daily Intel]

Election night might have been a hopeful triumph for most Americans, but it was an evening of screaming and insults for Canadian Sharilyn Johnson, according to the epic rant she just uploaded to Huffington Post. Johnson had to be in the live Daily Show audience on election night, because she's been watching everything Jon Stewart has ever done since 1994, is also super-into Stephen Colbert, has friends on staff, knows line-runners by name, etc. etc. Johnson (on left in photo) lined up a ticket seven months in advance, confirmed and reconfirmed, traveled to New York from Toronto, waited in line and then watched as her world ENDED.

Poster Boy: an anonymous ad remixer in the New York subways. Art: is it what he does? Culture jamming: a term too annoying to use any more, though everyone knows what it means. Sell out: is he bound to, eventually? Questions: he asks them. Britney: slut, psycho, or star? Maria: is she really poopy? Man: why is he flying on outside of train car? Poetry: why aren't I good at it? Five new Poster Boy pieces: after the jump, ya dig:

You may recall that Tim Robbins "flipped out" at poll workers on election day, accusing them of abridging his "freedom to vote" by offering him a provisional ballot and then politely asking him to please leave the voting area since his name was not on their list. The actor had been voting at the polling place for 15 years, you see, and was used to being totally VIPed. The incident was clearly part of a conspiracy by New York City bureaucrats against rich white Hollywood liberals, so staff at the Times and at City Hall were immediately assigned to parallel investigations. The conclusion: Tim Robbins is confused and possibly senile. Reports the Times:

That Daniel Radcliffe has been thrilling horny Potterites on both sides of the Atlantic in a revival of the play Equus featuring full-frontal (and backal) nudity is hardly news. But until now, there have been no satisfying audience photos or video of his Golden Snitch. Perhaps it was some unspoken code of honor between wizard and $130-a-seat theatergoer, as if to say, "We'll pay for the privilege—and it is a privilege, young Harry—but we'll also keep it just between us." Well, the code has been broken, as OMG Blog has obtained video footage recently recorded by a front-row Broadway patron. We pass this along not out of licentiousness, but rather in hopes that it will goose ticket sales for the production, which has seen a 10% drop. See how selfless we are? Now, enough preamble—on with the NSFW show!

It's becoming a real hassle to offer sex for money on Craigslist, apparently. At first sex workers just had to think up a euphemism for prostitution, like "FULL EROTIC EXAMINATION" or "naughty sweet treat" or the cryptic "GFE" or the almost sweet "delightful relaxing time." Then, earlier this year, they had to have a working phone number, and listings dropped 80 percent. Now, under pressure from attorneys general in 40 states, Craigslist is going to require "erotic services" providers to pony up $10 for each listing, and pay with a credit card, which the police will be able to subpoena. The sex workers are already complaining, via NSFW ads. Law enforcement authorities say their real targets are pimps:

In case you didn't obsessively compare election results to his site in real time, it's worth noting that baseball stat whiz Nate Silver wholly justified his gushing press and nailed the popular vote. His prediction: 52.3 percent Obama, 46.3 percent McCain. Actuals: 52.4 percent Obama, 46.3 percent McCain. Within a tenth of a percent, bitches! Granted, there are a couple of million votes yet uncounted, but Silver has already extrapolated how those will play out, and he's still super-close. Unless you want to step to his stats?? Thought so. Silver may grow fabulously wealthy applying his battle-tested techniques to other realms, according to the Wall Street Journal:

Sarah Palin famously claimed she had "absolutely no diva in me," but former McCain aides did their best to demolish that assertion in a super-juicy Thursday Times story. Among their embittered, anonymous and still entirely plausible claims: They budgeted the Republican vice presidential nominee around $25,000 for clothes and were shocked at her $150,000 shopping spree; Palin wrote a concession speech that she desperately wanted to deliver Tuesday night; and she never told McCain about a call she thought she had scheduled with the president of France (really a DJ prank). Now they're talking about sending lawyers to audit her family's closets and just generally trying to destroy her chances of running for anything anywhere, ever. Here's what they told the Times about Palin's clothes shopping:

Sienna Miller's struggles for relevance beyond the bedrooms of her paramours may have finally received the onscreen antidote they need: Cow's blood. The starlet appears in a new, Tony Kaye-directed music video for the British band the Hours, featuring Miller traipsing through various phases of hospital-gowned distress. And where handbag boutiques, CAT scans and tear-streaked therapy sessions fail, a romp through a Damien Hirst installation of cow carcasses and blood momentarily revives her with the clear-eyed sense of purpose that eluded even her acclaimed turn in Factory Girl. If this doesn't nudge Nottingham back on track at Universal by the end of lunch today — assuming the sight bovine entrails in the video after the jump don't void your lunch — then surely all hope is gone. [YouTube]

You know what's the most boring TV in the world? Election day coverage on cable news in the long hours before the polls close. It's like a 12-hour conspiracy to fill the airtime with gasbagging pundits trying harder than normal to say nothing at all. So, when news came out last week that the words "shit" and "fuck" would enliven tomorrow's oral arguments in the Supreme Court's case over what you can say on the tee-vee, we though that would make great filler content for bored news producers. But sadly, it's not to be.C-SPAN, of all networks, had asked to get the tapes and broadcast them (in full, one supposes) as soon as the hearing concluded, but Broadcasting & Cable reports that the greedy court won't release them until the end of the session next summer. Why the fuck not? They Court didn't say, implicitly sending the message that they want to ruin all our prurient fun. (You take it where you can get it.)

As the results roll in this Tuesday, the whole nation will be watching the judicial womb that is the state of California. The non-presidential portion of the ballot — Proposition 8 (to ban gay marriage) and Proposition K (to legalize prostitution) — takes center stage in a state Obama will win handily. We try to predict how each initiative will do, along with figuring out how many pictures of protesting prostitutes can fit in one post.Popular San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom has come down hard on both proposed measures, supporting gay marriage with one hand and rallying against legalized prostitution with the other. The prospect of the decriminalization of prostitution led Newsom to point to the surrounding Tenderloin district and tell his audience, "If Prop K passes, can you imagine living here? If people really knew what was happening in these massage parlors, there would be outrage." Say what?

You Got It, Dude? Have you ever wondered who among modern Hollywood's stars could hold a pastie to the scantily-clad pinup models of the forties and fifties? Photographer Timothy White has, and for his new book, Hollywood Pinups, he recreated those bygone poses with stars including, uh, Full House star/avowed Spencer Pratt hater Mary-Kate Olsen. Bob Saget, avert your eyes; we have a feeling this one is going to give Gilbert Gottfried a lot of material. Click through for full-size. [Amazon]

The salacious title of the Weinstein Co.'s new Kevin Smith flick Zack and Miri Make a Porno is proving to be a bad decision. It's already screwed up the movie's marketing efforts. Must it lead to stilted reviews as well? "And so it will hardly be shocking that 'Zack and Miri Make a Porno' is about two people, named Zack (Seth Rogen) and Miri (Elizabeth Banks), who make what my copy editors would prefer that I call a pornographic movie," writes A.O. Scott in the Times today. To be fair, the Times is full of pussy-ass hoes.

• After starring with Sarah Palin on Saturday Night Live, Alec Baldwin said the Republican vice presidential nominee was not "someone who I wanted her hand on the nuclear button at any point." At least that's what he told David Letterman, before impersonating Palin. Video after the jump. [Extra]

Eight years ago Philip Kaplan, aka Pud, turned his anonymous rumor site FuckedCompany into a modest advertising business. Today, Kaplan is chief something-or-other at AdBrite, a Sequoia-backed startup whose CEO has dutifully slashed its payroll down to profitability. By contrast, sloppy typist "FS Crew" at FuckedStartups has already thrown in the towel. "We have incredible pipeline of rumors and tips," promises the For Sale post atop the site. "We have other projects and don’t have the time to focused (sic) our 100% attention on this project." What FS Crew really means is: "Fuck, this is hard. Someone please pay me to quit." Sorry, but on Web 2.0, it's the other way around: Your customers quit you, for free.

Before we begin this tale, a word: our exposure to animated sex is mostly limited to Ralph Bakshi, Japanese anime, and a picture some guy showed us once that had Aladdin and Jasmine doing things that Aladdin and Jasmine should simply never be doing. It was with this thin resume, then, that Defamer ambled into UCB last night for what was supposed to be a Halloween edition of the the theater's "Comedy Death Ray" show but that unexpectedly provided a sneak peek at the first footage ever shown of Rob Zombie's upcoming, decidedly R-rated animated film, The Haunted World of El Superbeasto. Were you ever curious what a nude cartoon version of Rosario Dawson might look like, fighting? Then read on, pervs (and get ready for some NSFW animated action)!

Elite media types and financiers aren't the only ones suffering during this economic downturn, you know. Models are suffering too! And who better to shine a light on the travails of modeling these days than Isobella Jade, the short, self-made woman who rose from homelessness to microniche prominence by writing her memoir in the Apple store and then triumphantly eating a burger. Remember her? Yea! She's still a hardworking self-promoter, so we checked in and got her take on the crucial question, "How Does the Economy affect a Body Parts Model?":

What is The Hills even about anymore? It's certainly not about Lauren, our straight-haired heroine who now exists in some grimace-filled corner of the swooshy Californian reality show. It's been fully ceded at this point to the Feivel-esque Audrina, who with her metaphorical big floppy hat sings a plaintive "Somewhere Out There," hoping to find the yin to her yang, the burl to her tree trunk. And it's also about the Hieronymus Bosch-like coterie of damned souls that surround Fleshbeard and his mortal bride Heidi. The show has gone from fantasy to Fangoria in a few short weeks. But because it still exists, we soldier on with the business of sifting through it. And so we shall after the jump. Audrina continued to muddle her way through her relationship with the sweet and maybe-a-little-dim Cory, an Australian lad of genuine kindness but none of the dangerous joie de vivre exhibited by her badboy beloved Justin Bobby. But because none of these people are allowed to listen to their hearts until the producers tell them it's OK to do so, Audy kept poor Cory flopping around on the dock before she whacked him with her mallet, sending his brains squirting and sluicing out onto the planks. O bringer of life Audrina, O taker awayer. At least she wasn't willing to jeep on both of 'em and date them at the same time. No, only one fellow at a time can ride the ghostly Victorian carousel that turns unendingly inside her skull. In a litter box across town, Spencerina was diddling around with Cameron, a whiny little elf of a gent who had plans to have words with Brody, the tormentor and cry-maker of Spencerina's nightmares. So they were all at the clurrb, Spencerina & Cameron, Lo & her potato-ish unnamed boyfriend, Lauren & the quiet sadness of her singledom. Oh, and then Brodes todes showeds up, and Cameron played a scaredy cat game of Link while his beak-nosed Zelda shifted awkwardly in the leather banquette. It was a sad scene of people breaking softly under the weariness of living, like that part in Half Nelson where the girl walks into the party to sell crack for her cousin and there's Ryan Gosling on the floor all fucked up and waiting for his drugs and she looks at him and he looks at her and this expression of every minute of his life finally catching up to him—and of every sad story of drugs in America choosing him as their conduit—crosses his face and it just ruins you. That was sort of like the Hills scene last night. I mean. Sort of. Spencerina went bungling off to Fleshbeard and Gumby. They henpecked and nagged and needled and basically continued their sad cannibal work of stripping the very flesh of vitality from Spencerina's bones, sucking the marrow out of her life. It's how they survive, these two end of days vultures. And, I dunno, call me crazy but I'm sort of starting to enjoy Fleshbeard's sour little scenes. It's become like clockwork, as reliable and ornately silly as the Glockenspiel. I mean it's awful, yes, but it's also respectably audacious of Spence and the crew to serve us the same bitter gazpacho every week and expect us to take it. We take it! We take it! And we, eventually, choke on it, I think. Audrina continued to poke at the flopping, briney soon-to-be corpse of Cory, her shallow puddle eyes glinting not with recognition, but only with empty reflection. She went to "work" at a recording studio with Brandy. No not the drink! The singer lady who used to be famous for such hits as "The Boy Is Mine" and I Still Know What You Did Last Summer. She was recording a song and choosing a photo for her album cover and desperately trying to forget 1) that she used to be like the biggest star in R&B like 10 years ago and now she's reduced to meekly peddling her wares on The Hills and 2) her brother Ray J sexed Kim Kardashian on camera. Anyway, Justin Bobby called and like the good employee she is, Audrina ran outside to talk with him. "I want you to be with me," muttered JB. Audrina didn't know what the eff to say other than that she didn't know. We'd have to see. We'd all have to see. And then WHACK! SQUISH! BLECHHH! she dashed out Cory's frippering life at a restaurant shortly after. And he'd just given the meowing sheila a little koala bear toy. "Ohhh, I'll keep this forever," she said, immediately before breaking up with him. Sadly he'd also invited her to visit him in Australia. But nay, she loved the coffee and Jack Daniels-marinated Justin Bobby just too much. She longed for his leathery arms and gruff purr of a voice at that very moment. Off with you Cory, into the chum bucket with you! Back to the sharks of Bondi Beach! And that was that. Lauren didn't do nothin' all episode except have a tired conversation with Spencerina. Maybe she's figured out how to live her life and she's decided this whole reality game is for the birds. Let Audrina squirrel her way through a series of dainty men, let Spencerina be constantly emotionally abused by her brother and his girlfriend, let Brody call people "homie" even though he is the whitest whitey to ever be white. Lauren's gotten so good at this game she doesn't even need to play it to win it. And that, I must say with a phrase I never thought I'd used in one of these recaps, I can respect. I can. Sigh. I can.