Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sparkly Volvo-driving vampire groupies vs. MS-13: Battle of the Wal-Mart
In today's hilarious news, it seems that Wal-Mart is trying to downplay rumors spread via text message that the rabid tween girls who planned to spend last night camped out waiting for the Twilight DVD to drop were at risk of being brutally killed as part of some sort of gang initiation. Given my opinion of the twelve-year-old girl's vampire-themed Book of Mormon, I was rooting for the bangers. Nothing would put the lid on all these crazy bitches in their puff-painted "Bite Me" shirts like some random gun violence.
Unfortunately, this was quite apparently a hoax, since rumors about how "three women are to be killed by a Mexican gang" were everywhere from Colorado to Wal-Mart's northern Arkansas homeland, and from what I can tell not a single Twilunatic was unceremoniously felled by a Latin King's bullet at a Wal-Mart Twilight DVD release party. Not that I'm pro-random murder, but Twilight actually drove me crazy enough that I might consider such a gang initiation a public service.
I was actually disappointed to hear that this was just another made-up gang story meant to frighten stupid people, like the Tacoma Mall ankle slasher. When I was in grade school, there were rumors that "gang members" would hide under your car and when you put your bags in your car, they would slash your ankle with a razor blade. When you reached down to see what went on, they'd get out and steal your shit, and maybe rape and/or murder you as well. Some of my crazy aunts actually believed this so resolutely that they carried around little flashlights to look under their cars with when they went to the mall. Of course, the ankle slashers were the ones who were also putting razor blades and broken glass in Halloween candy, sticking HIV-infected needles in the coin-return slots on pay phones, and dying after drinking Coke with a mouthful of Pop Rocks. Apparently, the ankle slashers have now moved on to baseless text threat-hoaxes against ugly fat tween girls who like pining away for glittery gay Mormon vampires. Bummer. I would rather people meet their untimely end via anti-Twilight gang violence than trampled to death by legions of rabid Christmas shoppers, but I guess that's just not the world we live in. Sigh.
Labels: capitalism, crime and punishment, movies, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I hate VD
While I've never suffered from a venereal disease, I think it's hardly a coincidence that these pestilent conditions go by the same initials as Valentine's Day. I HATE Valentine's Day, primarily because it is a holiday dedicated to things I despise. It's like when the executives at Hallmark or whoever decided that Valentine's Day was a holiday worth celebrating, they spent hours brainstorming customs that are designed to piss me off. From the romantic comedies to the obligatory gift-giving to the lame-ass decorations, Valentine's Day is a clusterfuck of loathsome abhorrence.
For starters, Valentine's Day isn't even a real holiday. This bullshit was made up to encourage consumer spending, and I don't see anything romantic or passionate about that. Nothing is more annoying than seeing an endless stream of commercials featuring ugly bitches getting all worked up because they got an even uglier tennis bracelet from Zales. Watching some scrawny ho squealing about how "he went to Jared" and paid $199.99 for some tacky heart-shaped necklace does not fill me with a lust for low-budget diamond-and-fug-ass-14-karat-yellow-gold jewelry. This certainly does not make me feel romantic. Homicidal, maybe, but not romantic.
It's also not just the jewelry that's low-quality. Valentine's-themed stuff is always crap. Those heart-shaped boxes of candy always have really shitty chocolate. You can just tell that whoever is in charge of that at See's uses the cheapest grade chocolate fit for human consumption. They also never tell you which chocolate is which, and you have to find out the hard way: by accidentally eating a bunch of nauseatingly repellant buttercreams that taint your mouth with their cloying grossness. Those sampler boxes also go heavy on the chocolate-covered cherries, presumably because cherries are red, and because they are also fucking disgusting. There is nothing worse than biting into a chocolate that you think is going to be something good like caramel or hazelnut and getting an unexpected and VERY unwelcome blast of maraschino repulsion. I'd rather my love interest give me a Hershey bar and call it a day rather than that box of mystery nastiness. Or even better, to hell with the chocolate. Give me some scotch.
I would try to escape from the bullshit of V-Day by going to the movies. Unfortunately, none of the movies in the theater during Valentine's season contain what I consider the three essential elements of cinematic excellence (murder, explosions, and fucking). Instead, the multiplexes are full of date movie/chick flick bullshit like He's Just Not That Into You. God, even typing the title of that movie pisses me off. Never has a movie title so thoroughly captured the spirit of what I presume is two hours documenting the madcap adventures of a bunch of desperate bitches going on lame dates with ugly guys like my archnemesis Justin Long the Mac dude. I don't really know what the movie is even about, but the ads make me think it's a supposed "comedy" about desperate bitches whining about how they don't have a man. And I would rather be gangbanged by an army of morbidly obese, unshowered Steelers fans while listening to Coldplay than sit through Bride Wars, New in Town, or Confessions of a Shopaholic. Come Valentine's Day, theaters abound with films featuring shrews like Kate Hudson, Katherine Heigl, and Jennifer Aniston, and there is truly no escape from the pervasive reality of this horrible holiday.
I even hate the damn iconography of Valentine's Day. To me, a flying baby with archery skills is the stuff of nightmares, not romance or cuteness. The idea that I might be walking along, minding my own business, and be shot at by an infant with a poison arrow that turns me into a lovesick, monogamous, probably undersexed loser is nothing short of absolutely terrifying. I'll stick with just getting blasted in the face with random jizz than blasted by Cupid's plague of irksome, simpering love, thank you very much.
You might think, "Oh, HA! Razzy's a bitter single woman who hates Valentine's Day because she isn't in a relationship." That hypothesis would be incorrect. I hated Valentine's Day even when I had a boyfriend, because it meant I'd have to go out and buy some bullshit to give him. Not that I minded giving my boyfriend gifts, but Valentine's presents for men are a pain in the ass to select, especially if they already have a nice watch. You aren't really supposed to buy a dude a shirt or some other practical, unsentimental gift for V-Day, especially when you know the dude is getting you jewelry. I used to agonize for hours about this, and spent most of my time cursing Valentine's Day for the added stress. Relationship or not, Valentine's Day manages to spread the bullshit around.
I realized that I've written a lengthy rant about Valentine's Day every February since this illustrious blog's inception. In 2006, I wrote about "the fiscal anal rape" I suffered at the hands of Sprint on the holiday of love. In 2007, I protested the obligatory self-pity party that unattached bitches are supposed to throw. In 2008, I douchebagged the entire holiday. In fact, the only positive mention of Valentine's Day I could find on my website was an amused narrative concerning one of my friends advising me that she employed my anal sex tips last year to commemorate the theme of romance and passion. I think that from now on, my Valentine's tradition is going to be complaining about how much I hate this fucking holiday. Happy I Hate Valentine's Day, everyone!
Labels: gross, movies, oh the horror, ranting, Razzification
Sunday, December 28, 2008
This shit had dog death written all over it...literally
The other day, my dog-hating friend J-Sexy asked if I planned to go see Marley and Me. Specifically, she asked, "Are you going to see that movie? It has one of those disgosting dogs you like in it." She was making fun of me, because recently I had been telling her about the plot to the world's most upsetting cartoon, The Plague Dogs, and started choking up about it. A few tears even leaked out. J-Sexy laughed at me, because she's evil like that.
Mark my words: I will never, EVER see this movie. TRUST.
"Hell to the no!" I responded. "That dog is obviously going to die and I cannot deal." Apart from the fact that Jennifer Aniston and Owen Wilson's very existence offends me and I wouldn't see a "dramedy" (AKA shitshow by definition) about these two fucktards enduring the trials and tribulations of domestic life, dog death is a movie theme that I simply cannot cope with. I still have bad dreams about Where the Red Fern Grows. I start to sniffle if anyone brings up White Fang, and don't even MENTION Old Yeller around me. I cried during I Am Legend when the dog died. Hell, I cried during the remake of The Hills Have Eyes when one of the dogs died!
A while later, LL Cool Jew and I were Gchatting about how much Will Smith's new stinkbomb Seven Pounds is going to suck because that's all Will Smith does, and the topic came up again:
LL Cool Jew: that 7 pounds thing just looks so sure-to-be-shiteous
LL Cool Jew: i wonder which is worse, that or marley and me?
LL Cool Jew: although the latter might be worse because i sense it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: which is obviously unacceptable
LL Cool Jew: the dog will inevitably die
Razzy: i KNOW that it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: there is a part in the trailer where owen wilson is sitting in a field with a very graybearded marley
Razzy: i don't like that one bit
LL Cool Jew: and says to himself, "dogs don't care if you're rich or poor..."
LL Cool Jew: which indicates - dog death.
Razzy: "immortal marley without those two d-bags" sounds like a much better movie
Razzy: dude, dogs always die in movies
Razzy: i don't know why i think otherwise
LL Cool Jew: no, no way will i subject myself to that
LL Cool Jew: crying at a jennifer aniston movie
LL Cool Jew: NO THANKS
Razzy: hell to the FUCKING NO!
LL Cool Jew: too humiliating
LL Cool Jew: almost as embarrassing as it was crying at a will smith movie (i am legend)
Razzy: dude i cried at that shit too!
Razzy: jerseygirl leaned over to her boyfriend and was like, "dude, check it out...RAZZY'S CRYING!!"
Razzy: then they laughed at me!
Razzy: i was like "that dog is so sweet and caesary!"
LL Cool Jew: um yes
LL Cool Jew: graphic scenes of doggie violence!!!!
LL Cool Jew: marley and me would be worse
LL Cool Jew: because it would be more along the lines of how our dogs are going to go
Razzy: i know, at least the dog in "i am legend" died in the line of duty
LL Cool Jew: old and infrim
LL Cool Jew: buh
Razzy: can. not. deal.
LL Cool Jew:i can't even think about it
Needless to say, I have not gone to see Marley and Me and I likely never will given the high probability of canine mortality. However, thanks to some intrepid soul who selflessly braved this cinematic disaster so as to save the rest of us, I now know that this was a wise decision based on an accurate hypothesis:
Labels: doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, oh the horror, tragedy
Friday, October 31, 2008
Horrible movies
I like horror movies a lot. I'm into tits, violence, and nerdy shit, and horror movies usually have at least two out of those three key elements. Thus, I've been very happy about the proliferation of horror movies on the old idiot box leading up to Halloween. Unfortunately, with horror movies being on constantly for a month, channels like AMC run out of decent ones and have to resort to digging through the $0.99 DVD bin to fill up the time. In the course of watching craptastic shitshows like The Rage: Carrie 2 and Hellraiser: Inferno, I've learned a few things about horror movies that are SO fucking bad, they're not even unintentionally funny.
John Carpenter's _________ often=ASS
If a movie title begins with "John Carpenter's" ANYTHING and it doesn't involve Kurt Russell, there is a very good chance that it will suck cheesy balls. Have you ever been unfortunate enough to sit through John Carpenter's Vampires? It involved James Woods being an annoying, leathery old lech while one of the lesser Baldwin brothers banged Laura Palmer from "Twin Peaks" in the midst of some lame ancient-vampire-rising-and-we-have-to-stop-it plot. One time my buddy and fellow horror enthusiast and I spent a solid two hours watching John Carpenter's Shameless Creepshow Knockoff Body Bags and shouting obscenities and derisive jokes at the television. Then we got really, really high to erase our memory of the experience. John Carpenter's Prince of Darkness is only good because the protagonists are a bunch of grad students at the "University of Science" who inexplicably get charged with transcribing scientastic equation-looking gibberish emanating from a big jar of Satan that some priests were keeping in their basement. And don't get me started on the time I endured the audiovisual abortion known as John Carpenter's Ghosts of Mars, which was like the unholy child of Total Recall and a body modification conference sponsored by Hot Topic. Not even the combination of O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson, Pam Grier, and hot-ass Natasha Henstridge could salvage a mere second of that appalling shitshow. However, I was excited to see that the woman who plays Arnie's mom in John Carpenter's Christine is the same actress who played Steve Sanders's lesbian primetime drama TV mom Samantha in "Beverly Hills, 90210," which was an excellent non-Kurt Russell casting choice in my opinion. Not coincidentally, this is also one of the few decent Kurt Russell-free films John Carpenter has made.
Rabies does not make you want to drink human blood
David Cronenberg really should have hit the books harder in his microbiology class. That dude's understanding of rabies virus, parasitology, and infectious disease in general is lacking. Maybe science education in Canada is even crappier than here in the United States of Asskickery.
Go back to Hell, you overpierced losers
Hellraiser movies do not scare me at all. Seriously, you solve a fucking Rubik's cube and open a dimensional portal that lets in a bunch of piercing enthusiasts who look like they just knocked a few back at a S&M leather bar? I would leave that dumb Puzzle Box alone just to keep the pasty PVC-wearing Pinhead set from showing up to piss me off with their crappy style.
STFU, ROB ZOMBIE!
Robert Barlett "Rob Zombie" Cummings (snicker) is probably the most irritating horror movie personality ever. Not only is he constantly accompanied by his vapid skank of a wife, he has this smug attitude that makes me want to gag him with his own unshorn stank dreadlocks. Suffering through even a minute of Sheri Moon Zombie's giggling, monosyllabic critical analysis of the movie Willard is bad enough, but I would rather be trapped in an abandoned knife factory with Michael Myers than topping that off watching Rob Zombie congratulate himself for his fanboy-turned-auteur genius at ruining (John Carpenter's) Halloween. I had enough when Rob Zombie made his first movie House of 1,000 Corpses (which by my count was around 989 corpses short of the body count advertised), a film that amounted to a ninety minute White Zombie video retelling of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Since then, I've had to suffer Rob Zombie shooting off his mouth like he's the next Wes Craven every time he gets to go on camera. If he wants to do something really useful, he could put a sock in it and go get a fucking haircut.
What's really scary? The Oxygen network
I have seen the most horrifying thing on television, and it wasn't even a scary movie. I made the mistake of switching to an episode of "Coolio's Rules," and there is definitely something to be said concerning the adage about curiosity being potentially fatal. Shudder.
So is the E! channel
As long as I'm talking about not-intentionally-scary-but-actually-terrifying pop culture trends, if you're looking for a homicide spree trigger, I highly recommend watching the episode of "The Girls Next Door" where Girl Next Door #2 Bridget plans a "haunted murder mystery" party.
Die, Mac dude, DIE!
Every time I watch Jeepers Creepers, I just pray for the imminent consumption of the douchebag Drew Barrymore-fucking Vassar dropout Justin Long guy who plays the Mac in all Apple commercials. Sadly, this doesn't happen until the very end of the movie. Sorry if I just ruined Jeepers Creepers for those of you who haven't seen this exercise in cinematic assfuckery, but don't worry: the ending is actually more horrifying than just the eye-explanting demise of the Mac dude. After ninety minutes of being a complete dumbass who will not cease with alternate juvenile sibling bickering and obnoxious attempts at collegiate wit coupled with repeated STUPID fucking attempts to get killed (ie: sliding down the pipe which acts as a monster body dump conduit out of a misguided desire to play Hardy Boys), this asshole's shrewish harpy of a sister doesn't get killed as well.
Late sequels are crap
Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare is quite possibly one of the stupidest fucking movies I've ever seen. Seriously, the premise of the film is that the world's hottest foster kid psychiatrist, who happens to be Freddy Krueger's long-lost daughter, decides that it will be beneficial for her psychotic sleep-deprived patient to take a vanload of ragtag misfits back to Elm Street for a nice visit. Once there, they find the creepiest, most cockroach-and-smoking-clown-infested local fair in the history of small town horror movies. The genius visitors observe that conditions are so grim because there aren't any kids around (which sounds like paradise to me, except for the fact that Roseanne and Tom Arnold make a hilarious cameo to explain that this is on account of Freddy, who takes time out of his child-murdering schedule to chalk self-portraits on the town sidewalks.) After a lot of retarded wandering around through the world's lamest high school class/pathetic attempt at bringing whatever sorry fools somehow saw this movie who somehow didn't know the premise ("Freddy 101") and Freddy fucking around with people's demonic dream hearing aids until their heads explode, playing an evil variation of Pitfall on a satanic Atari, and blasting Iron Butterfly simply to provide a context for clumsy peri-homicidal puncraft, these geniuses figure out that the solution is to bust out some dream kung fu on Freddy's ass, which the street kids are luckily proficient in. The main thing we learn from this movie besides "don't go to sleep if you happen to be somehow related to either Freddy or his fucked-up hometown" is that after many sequels, most horror franchises really do need to go the way of the main villain's victims. When Freddy has to resort to terrorizing people with gigantic maps that say "you're fucked," it's time to hang up the knife-fingered glove, get some skin grafts, take up shuffleboard, and hopefully invest in a new sweater. This one is right up there with Friday the 13th VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan, in which Jason actually spends most of the movie murdering retarded horny teenagers on a Circle Line cruise rather than anywhere on the fair isle where I reside, in terms of bullshit unintentionally hilarious movie premises.
Mommy issues don't scare me
Ed Gein is only good when you listen to his scary mom say "you'll be nothin' but a blubberin' pantywaist for the RESTA YER LIFE!" or "KILL THE EVIL-TALKER, BOYYYYYYYYY!" and watch flashbacks of her whipping him for reading sexually suggestive comic books in the bathroom. Otherwise, I'm just reminded of how not-scary mama's boy slashers (in other words, 99.99999% of them) are. Frankly, in the original, Jason's MOM was fucking scary. However, once Pamela Voorhees passed the machete she was decapitated by on to her undead son, Jason himself was pretty lame, slow, and lucky to have the dumbest bitches imaginable to easily dispatch. His only stroke of genius or style was his adoption of the hockey mask, but in every other respect Jason completely sucks. I could probably outrun his slow ass, if I were stupid enough to take a job as a summer camp counselor at Crystal Lake in the first place. Given the high (100%) unrepentant slut murder rate there, I imagine that even as an inexperienced and annoying teenager I would probably look elsewhere for employment. Ed Gein's irritatingly cliched control freak of an evangelical Christian mother doesn't hold a candle to Pamela Voorhees. For that matter, Ed Gein doesn't hold a chainsaw to the mama's boy horror villain based on himself. Leatherface hung screaming bitches on meathooks while wearing a patchwork mask of human skin. Ed Gein just shot a bitch after talking to himself a lot, drove her to his house while she feebly slapped at him, acted creepy while she slowly died of sepsis from the non-fatal gunshot wound, and then made some ladies' accessories and a titty vest with her fatass carcass. God, what a fucking pussy. Not scared of you, loser. NEXT!
Pelicula de terror
Halloween Seis: La Maladición de Michael Myers is not nearly as scary as Halloween VI: The Revenge of Michael Myers. "Esta la casa de Michael Myers, es verdad? Serio." This does not keep me up at night, although now that I think about it, it didn't keep me up at night when I saw it in English, either.
Good thing it's Halloween, and as of tomorrow, I'll be back on the football and not throwing stuff at whatever idiotic trash AMC is showing. Happy Halloween, fools!
Labels: movies, nerd alert, retard rage, spooktiness, TV
Friday, October 17, 2008
A dangling C.H.U.D.
I've gotten a couple e-mails regarding a certain SUPER hot photo from the master debate the other evening. It seems that despite the widespread circulation of this shot on the internets, my mom, GayMan, and a couple of random Razzyphiles just had to e-mail me to make sure it didn't escape my notice that the officer and a hot piece known as Senator John McCain (R-AZ) looked like he was being transmogrified into one of the creatures dwelling in the fell city of Minas Morgul after catching a glimpse of old Pointy Pelvis Obama's ass:
I don't know how I missed McCain doing this live, because I certainly watched the debate. It may have something to do with the fact that I watched it at a bar and had already knocked back a Dos Equis or fifty. I also was thrown off because during the debate there had been a lot of cheering for McCain, and I thought maybe I was in good company. Then, however, when the cheering continued after the debate I realized that everyone was getting excited about the Phillies game on one of the other bar TVs, and as usual I was the only McCainiac around. In any event, I had other things on my mind than spotting fleeting moments when McCain apparently gave in–if only for a moment–to his insatiable craving for smug, condescending Illinois senator flesh. I wish I had seen it, though, because I've been saying for a long time that we need a C.H.U.D. in the White House. For one thing, a cannibalistic, possibly undead president would strike a lot more fear into the hearts of evildoers everywhere than a brainy law professor. For another, I'd like to see those socialist homos in Europe complain about our warmongering ways while facing the threat of being ravenously devoured by our fearless leader for their gall. My election preference continues to be validated by Senator McCain's total awesomeness. JOHN! MC! CAIN! JOHN! MC! CAIN!
*RAZZY Edit: No sooner did I publish this than I was asked, "What the f is a C.H.U.D.?" Apparently I am the only one around here with any appreciation for the cinematic masterpieces of the 1980s. C.H.U.D. is a movie about some John McCain-looking things with glowing eyes that live under New York City in the abandoned subway tunnels and occasionally venture up from their subterranean digs to eat hot 80s chicks with spiral perms. It's a really realistic movie, because I can't tell you how many narrow escapes I have made from hungry C.H.U.D.s since moving to New York six years ago. Take a gander at the awesome trailer for C.H.U.D. and I guarantee that not only will you IMMEDIATELY rush to Blockbuster and rent it, you will see my reasoning that a C.H.U.D. would make a better president than a community organizer. TRUST.
Labels: Barack Obama, John McCain, movies, oh the horror, politics
Monday, August 04, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Irukandji jellyfish
DOB: who knows when they evolved, but they were first documented in 1952
Occupation: stinging the fuck out of Australian tourists and inhibiting production of shitty romantic comedies
Hometown: the ocean off of Cairns, Queensland, Australia
Current residence: a special place in my heart
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was just reading an article about how jellyfish swarms have been screwing with popular swimming beaches, and how this is a sign that the oceans are in distress. While I yawned at the article's implications that jellyfish are yet another harbinger of certain ecological doom (as are any biological anomalies in this age of Al Gore-facilitated Chicken Little paranoia), I did notice a mention of the "rare but deadly Irukandji jellyfish." I had never heard of this jellyfish before, and decided to investigate further.
Since phylum Cnidaria (and, for that matter, anything else big enough to be seen without the aid of an electron microscope) isn't within my realm of professional expertise as a virologist and I am unfamiliar with any scientific review journals addressing the topic of lethal jellyfish, I asked Wikipedia for the details. Although the article was short, it did tell me that Irukandji jellyfish are tiny, potently venomous, especially dangerous because they have stingers on their bell as well as their tentacles, cause a whole host of life-threatening symptoms, and I don't have to worry about them unless I go to Australia. What I was most interested in was the "Irukandji jellyfish in pop culture" section of the entry.
Specifically, I was interested in the following bullet point:
This jellyfish was the cause for the delay in filming for a Hollywood film, Fool's Gold, starring Kate Hudson. Filming was taking place in Queensland, Australia, when the jellyfish was spotted, and a marine biologist was called in to assist.
If only a marine biologist hadn't been handy. I dream of the day that Kate Hudson (and her co-star Matthew McConaughey) will cease and desist making movies that seem to be solely designed to piss me off. I haven't seen Fool's Gold, but I have written not one but TWO separate posts condemning this film anyway. Fool's Gold hits it out of the park in terms of things I will assuredly loathe. It contains bitchy, sex-starved prudish women, hippies, lame sex scenes between the aforementioned, absurdly historically inaccurate treasure hunts, marital bickering, and poorly written, timed, and executed jokes about all of the above. I don't need to see Fool's Gold to know that this film was a waste of everything: money, time, tasty craft services food that could be used to feed better actors in a better movie, viewer's patience and sanity, etc. I think that tonight I will dream pleasant dreams about Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey sinking into the Australian seas after being stung everywhere by small yet lethal Irukandji jellyfish.
I can only hope that, thanks to global warming and the general declining health of the oceans, that if Hollywood is arrogant enough to greenlight Fool's Gold 2, the proliferating Irukandji jellyfish makes them pay for their hubris.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, movies, sexy delicious animals
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
DOB: November 21, 2008
Occupation: ruling your face off
Hometown: London, England (oh, oops, it looks like some of this was filmed in Norway too)
Current residence: post-production
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I am completely and totally unashamed about the fact that I love Harry Potter in a serious way. When book 7 dropped, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, and I went to the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble to pick up our pre-ordered copies of HP and the DH, and were so eager that we cut in front of not one but TWO groups of children so as not to delay our gratification. Yeah, I know it's kind of an asshole move to cut in front of kids, but their arguments are easily quelled by some grown-up bitchery and as far as I am concerned, it's just Darwinism in action. It's not my problem if those dumb ten-year-olds with fake glasses, drawn-on lightning bolt scars, and Warner Brothers' sanctioned Gryffindor robes can't adapt to the selection pressures of the Harry Potter book release line.
Sadly, since there aren't any more Harry Potter books coming out, I've got to get excited about the movies coming out. Luckily, there are three more to look forward to (HP and the DH has been split into two movies), so I have plenty of Harry Potter geekery to look forward to for the next few years. Last summer when HP and the OOTP came out, Rack, TheOldGuy, FalloniusMonk, and I ate some really awesome special brownies and saw it in 3-D IMAX, and it was truly amazing. I even went to see it again with JerseyGirl later, and I never go see movies twice in the theater. I didn't even see Lord of the Rings: Return of the King in the theater more than once, and that's my favorite movie ever (although in fairness, I didn't have a spare eight hours to kill after the first time I saw it to accommodate a repeat theater visit for LOTR: ROTK).
Anyway, to ensure my unbridled excitement over the next few months, the trailer for HP and the HBP has been released and I'm fucking thrilled. Okay, they don't show the part where Dumbledore's homo ass bites it courtesy of Severus Snape, but I guess that wouldn't make it much of a teaser trailer. And oops, did I say that? Yeah, Dumbledore totally gets avada kedavre-d by Snape at the end. Sorry to spoil it, but if you haven't read the book by now, that's what you get for slacking. Also, the chick in The Crying Game is really a dude, and Bruce Willis is dead the whole time in The Sixth Sense. If you can't get on this shit when it's hot, then get over it!
So back to Harry Potter...this movie looks like it's going to totally rock everyone's face off, as per usual. If only it had Daniel Radcliffe's barely legal weiner in it, it would be perfect. I guess I'll have to go see Equus for that and content myself with the fact that Harry Potter is awesome enough to accommodate the lack of teenage male nudity and the presence of a few despicable children in the audience with me.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, Harry Potter, I LOVE IT, movies
Monday, July 28, 2008
This all kinds of WRONG
I was horrified to see THIS on the celebrity gossip internets over the weekend:
NOOOOOOOOO! How DARE you, Robert Rodriguez and Rose McGowan? HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?!?!?! I am used to arrogant Hollywood assholes thinking that they can improve classic movies that did not in any way need an update, but doing this to Red Sonja is my breaking point.
If you haven't seen the original Red Sonja, then you are a communist, terrorist, or some other type of all-around freedom-hating dickwad degenerate with absolutely no taste. I can't tell you what Red Sonja is really about, except that Brigitte Nielsen runs around in a chain-mail negligee with Arnold Schwarzenegger in full Conan regalia and star of the woefully underappreciated series "Sidekicks" Ernie Reyes, Jr. (capitalizing, no doubt, on the Short Round-induced demand for Asian boy actors with both comic timing and martial arts skills in the early-mid 80s) swordfighting with a variety of ill-favored barbarian types, giant robotic dragon "security systems," and skanky lesbian witch-prostitutes who look fresh off the set of the Mötley Crüe "Looks That Kill" video. It's also produced by Dino de Laurentiis, who is not only responsible for David Lynch's Dune and Blue Velvet, the Conan franchise, Serpico, Death Wish, Orca, and Army of Darkness, but also founded gene pool that spawned my brother's main Food Network would-be girlfriend "Everyday Italian" host Giada de Laurentiis. Red Sonja hardly needs a coherent or memorable plot when it's working with that basic framework of extreme awesomeness.
I cannot see for the life of me how Rose McGowan is going to somehow breathe fresh new life into the role Brigitte Nielsen totally owned. Brigitte Nielsen's film career may have been short, but I nonetheless fully thought that her work as Red Sonja (as well as her roles as Mrs. Ivan Drago in Rocky IV and a hot 80s power lesbian bank robber in Beverly Hills Cop II) is worthy of a fucking Oscar. Furthermore, have you ever suffered through an instance of Rose McGowan performing her craft? Since I didn't bother sitting through the Lord of the Rings-length (and not caliber) Grindhouse, the only thing I can think of are the few episodes of "Charmed" I've seen snippets of on TNT while flipping channels. "Charmed" was generally a televised abortion and a black mark on Aaron Spelling's grand legacy that couldn't even be salvaged by a grossly overdressed Alyssa Milano or Julian McMahon's hot ass. I never really knew what it was about save some lame witches or something, but I can tell you unequivocally that Rose McGowan was no fucking Shannen Doherty, who she replaced. Hell, she wasn't even close to fellow Aaron Spelling drama Shannen Doherty replacement Tiffani-Amber Thiessen on a little (greatest show in the history of television) program known as "Beverly Hills, 90210." Lucky for her she was banging Robert Rodriguez (after twatmatizing him sufficiently to get him to leave his wife and four kids) when casting was going on for Red Sonja, because Rose McGowan couldn't act her way into my grade school's production of "Jack and the Beanstalk." She's going to make Brigitte Nielsen look like Katharine fucking Hepburn with the extent of her theatrical butchery of Red Sonja, and I hope she gets AIDS from the bloody sword she's licking in the promo poster.
This news is so upsetting that I almost forgot about another disturbing development in the world of reviving 80s cinema classics: Darren Aronofsky is on board to direct a sequel/remake to one of the finest action films of all time:
NOOOOO!!!! Not RoboCop, too! This doesn't bode well. Rather than making movie magic, Hollywood has turned into an abattoir engaged in the wholesale slaughter of its own classic material. I have a very bad feeling that any day I'm going to hear I can look forward to a remake of Red Dawn starring Justin Timberlake, Shia LaBoeuf, Brody Jenner, Miley Cyrus, and Lindsay Lohan in my local multiplex. That day will be the day I purchase a samurai sword and start looking for the sweet spot on my gut. Trust.
Labels: movies, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Monday, June 02, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Sex and the City
DOB: May 30, 2008
Occupation: making women look like a bunch of desperate, haggard, vapid idiots
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: a theater near you
Douchebaggery: I've gone off on Sex and the City before, and thought that I exorcised my annoyance with this show then. Now that this trash has been made into a movie, I've realized that I have a bottomless well of hatred for Carrie Bradshaw et al.
"But Razzy," you might say. "This show is all about women having lots of sex! Isn't that exactly what you are all about?"
Perhaps, if these women were having lots of sex and being awesome about it, I would raise a glass of scotch in honor of this show. However, any sex that actually gets had on the show does little to mitigate the abhorrent characters that, as a woman, I'm supposed to relate to. While I'm currently sitting on my bed in my New York City apartment typing away at my MacBook like Carrie Bradshaw always does, and while certainly some readers will suggest that I'm also a geriatric, unattractive, withered 29-year-old prune, that is where the similarities end. I'm not thinking a bunch of trite thoughts about my "woman's right to shoes" or pondering the ins and outs of how men and women relate to one another in a heavy-handed way, and I'm certainly not doing voice-over in my head about what I'm writing.
Sure, every once in awhile I post my dumb girl thoughts about being a dumb girl, like about the boys I like, boys I liked, boys I liked once but now hate, etc. However, those introspective, oh-yeah-I-guess-I-am-a-girl posts are usually few and far between. I certainly am not going to waste anyone's time regularly debating whether or not I like so-and-so and trying to present my own personal drama as a microcosm of how all relationships are or should be. First off, God help the world if a completely incompetent relationship-haver like either myself or Carrie Bradshaw is considered some sort of sage with great philsophical insight into love or relationships. Carrie Bradshaw is all hung up on Mr. Big--who is WAY better when he's playing Detective Mike Nolan--the same way I'm hung up on my former paramour the R-uh. I don't talk about that much, because nobody wants to hear me vacillating about my feelings concerning old relationship skeletons in the closet. Besides, HotLawyer once pointed out that when I talk about the R-uh, I go to "a very dark place" and that's certainly no good for me. Therefore, all you're ever going to hear about regarding the R-uh are gross stories about anal sex bloopers, not a bunch of sad stories about the many, many reasons things between us got fucked up (or were fucked to begin with) and trying to make emotional sense out of it. I'll save that for my shrink. If only Carrie Bradshaw's lame ass would follow a similar policy regarding Mr. Lameass Big. I could care less whether she ever finds her peace about that douchebag, and I certainly don't care to watch a movie that features their presumably doomed attempt at nuptials.
I also truly hate the generalizations about women that Carrie's dumb ass makes as she writes her shiteous columns. If she's any indication, then all bitches are like her: superficial, frivolous fag hags with careers that are secondary to their shopping habits and their boy problems. Sure, I like new clothes and cute shoes, and I sometimes get distracted by drama in my love life. However, there is NO FUCKING WAY I would drop everything and move to Paris to be with some snobby, old Russian ballerina, just like there's no fucking way I would drop everything and move back to be with an asshole like Mr. Big. Of course I know many women who have changed their plans to accommodate their relationships, and this is fine. In most of those cases, my female friends made some sort of compromise with their partner, which you have to do to make a relationship (or a marriage) work. However, when Carrie acts like it's a perfectly normal female response to ask "how high?" when a douchebag says "jump," she does women everywhere a disservice. This show doesn't demonstrate that a woman can have a career and a relationship at the same time; it demonstrates that a woman can have a career until some dude shows up, dickmatizes her, and makes her throw it all away so that she can be with him. Even Samantha, the only bitch on this show I remotely like, eventually falls into the trap of accommodating her gay-looking model boyfriend unconditionally.
It's hard enough to get through one paltry 30 minute "Sex and the City" episode, much less a two hour movie. If they cut out every part except where Samantha is screwing around, then maybe I would consider illegally downloading it. However, one of my neighbors told me that she saw it and there was hardly any sex in it, so that's all I need to know in order to not see this trash. My friend JerseyGirl once said of my movie taste, "If there's not murder, explosions, or people getting fucked, Razzy's not going to like it." Since I suspect that there aren't any murder or explosions in Sex and the City, and since there's apparently minimal people getting fucked, I'll pass on these dried-up old shoe whores permanently. Unless by some miracle the sequel to this movie (which has already been given the go-ahead) is called Sex and the City vs. Predator, I'm staying the hell away from these cosmo-swilling grannies.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, movies, retard rage, Sex and the City, sluts
Friday, May 30, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Harvey Korman
DOB: February 15, 1927
DOD: May 29, 2008
Occupation: actor, hot piece
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: a funeral home in Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Not being a necrophile, I'm not really interested in hitting it with Harvey's corpse. I am, however, interested in lauding his career, since he was in one of the greatest movies of all time: Mel Brooks's Western parody and masterpiece Blazing Saddles.
Blazing Saddles is probably one of the most politically incorrect movies I've ever seen, and it's awesome. I think it explains a lot concerning my inherent offensiveness level now that I grew up quoting lines like "Wait a minute while I whip it out" and "You said rape twice...I like rape." Nowadays, a movie like Blazing Saddles would probably never be made, because nobody not named Dave Chapelle could get away with dressing a black man in Klan robes and presenting this as humorous. Nor would modern day audiences find dialogue such as "Alright, we'll give land to the niggers and the chinks, but we don't want the Irish!" to be side-splittingly funny. The genius of Blazing Saddles lies in its script taking some of the most offensive, despicable societal customs (ie: flagrant racism and bigotry) and satirizing them in a manner that is completely and unabashedly hilarious. I've probably seen Blazing Saddles 50 times, and I still laugh out loud hard when I watch it.
Harvey Korman plays corrupt political boss Hedley Lamarr in this movie, and he's brilliant. I never saw any of Harvey Korman's other work (with the possible exception of his voice-overs in "Tom and Jerry" cartoons), but his work in Blazing Saddles alone is an achievement of the highest order. When he says florid lines like, "My mind is a raging torrent, flooding with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives" it's the perfect set-up for his henchman to say, "Goddammit, Mr. Lamarr, you use your tongue prettier than a $20 whore." Nobody else could call stampeding cattle through the Vatican "kinky" with quite the same panache as Harvey Korman. If you don't believe me, watch this classic scene:
My only regret is that I couldn't find one of my favorite clips on YouTube, specifically where Hedley Lamarr's hired muscle Taggart is explaining what he's going to do to the people of Rock Ridge who have failed to socially implode upon assigning them a black sheriff and thus are blocking his efforts at expanding the railroad ("unfortunately there is one thing standing between me and that property: the rightful owners").
My only regret is that I couldn't find one of my favorite clips on YouTube, specifically where Hedley Lamarr's hired muscle Taggart is explaining what he's going to do to the people of Rock Ridge who have failed to socially implode upon assigning them a black sheriff and thus are blocking his efforts at expanding the railroad ("unfortunately there is one thing standing between me and that property: the rightful owners").
Taggart: We'll work up a "number 6" on 'em.I salute Harvey Korman for his outstanding skills as a thespian, and hope that his soul has found repose being totally hysterically funny in the afterlife alongside Madeline Kahn's. Rest in hilarity, Harvey.
Lamarr: "Number 6?" I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that one.
Taggart: Well, that's where we go a-ridin' into town, a whampin' and whompin' every livin' thing that moves within an inch of its life. Except the women folks, of course.
Lamarr: You spare the women?
Taggart: Naw...we rape the shit out of 'em at the Number 6 dance later on!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, movies, people who died
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Beverly Hills Chihuahua
DOB: September 26, 2008
Occupation: 50% warrior, 50% lover, 100% chihuahua
Hometown: Walt Disney Studios
Current residence: during previews at a theater near you
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally kids movies are something I avoid like the plague, since I hate both children and the cutesy storylines that appeal to them. Furthermore, any movie with a talking animal (especially where said talking animal plays an integral role bastardizing the culture and history of a magnificent ancient civilization like the Aztecs) gets a big thumbs down in my book. I also generally avoid movies starring dogs, because there's almost always at least one dog death, and I can't handle that emotionally. I started crying during I Am Legend, and not just because it was a godawful time-squandering piece of trash, but because I just couldn't tolerate watching Will Smith strangle his sweet Caesar-y German Shepherd. I can't even talk about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows without choking up, and you had better believe that I unplugged the damn TV within watching the first 10 minutes of Amores Perros. In every respect, Beverly Hills Chihuahua seems like the kind of movie I would hate for myriad reasons, which is why I'm so shocked that I kind of want to see it.
Part of the reason for this may be due to the fact that when LL Cool Jew and I were roommates in 2005, I lived with her little long-haired Chihuahua, Dulcinea. Although Dulcinea (aka "the D") is not without her challenges (in particular, frequent medical problems, a tendency to urinate uncontrollably when startled or terror-stricken, and a sneaky habit of furtively shitting on various furniture and/or carpets), she is a very, very sweet, funny little dog and I am extremely fond of her. Obviously, LL Cool Jew is too, since she went and got ANOTHER long-haired wawa, Sergio, to keep the D company. Even if you hate dogs, you can't say that these two aren't pretty fucking cute:
LL Cool Jew told me that when she recently saw the trailer in the theater, she embarrassed her husband BigBagel because she actually started clapping delightedly. While I don't think I'd get so excited as to burst into raucous applauding, I wouldn't be embarrassed by LL's enthusiasm. If she's in New York when that shit drops, I'll go see Beverly Hills Chihuahua with her, even if it means sitting in a theater full of hateful children. After watching the trailer, I'm convinced that this movie might not make me homicidally crazed. In fact, in spite of the fact that it has none of the three elements I consider critical to a good movie (murder, explosions, people getting fucked), and many of the elements I consider terrible (possible dog death, musical numbers, shameless revisionist history) I think I might actually like it.
It's at least got to be more exciting than Beverly Hills CHONGAY, which would be approximately ninety minutes of this:
It's at least got to be more exciting than Beverly Hills CHONGAY, which would be approximately ninety minutes of this:
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, the D
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Most hilarious Presidential biopic EVER
I usually don't like Oliver Stone movies. In fact, the only ones I can think of that I did like were Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July. Oh, I also liked Wall Street. I guess JFK had its moments, but I got bored and all I remember is that Kevin Bacon was some kind of gigolo butt boy for closeted homo politicians. I think. I would have liked Any Given Sunday if it weren't for the constant annoying presence of Jamie Foxx, and when I was in high school my ex-boyfriend was always listening to the Natural Born Killers soundtrack, but otherwise Oliver Stone can lick my twat. I would rather let Dick Cheney buttfuck me with a birdshot-loaded hunting rifle than watch that 9/11 movie he made, and if one of his movies doesn't have something to do with the Vietnam War or young Michael Douglas playing an asshole yuppie, I'm not really interested.
However, I can't fucking WAIT to see his new movie W., about none other than our current commander-in-chief. First, he cast Josh Brolin as Dubya, and I've had a hard-on for Brolin ever since he was the hottest Pony Express employee in the history of mail carriers on "The Young Riders."
Also, a script leaked to Cindy Adams of the peerless New York Post indicates that this movie is going to be absolutely fucking hilarious. Choice snippets of dialogue include:
- Bush to General Tommy Franks: "I don't want to fire no $2 million dollar missile at a $10 dollar empty tent and hit a camel in the ass."
- Bush on Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton: "My mother waddles faster than that lardass."
- Bush on Gitmo: "We'll move these terr'ists to Guantanamera."
- Bush on being corrected by Cheney that the place in Cuba is actually called "Guantanamo": "Vice, when we're in meetings, I want you to keep a lid on it. Keep your ego in check. Remember, I'm the president."
- Bush, Sr. to a college age Dubya: "You never kept your word once...you're only good for partying, chasing tail, driving drunk."
- Bush during his decision to go to war in Iraq: "Wolfowitz, got any Maalox on you? And trim your ear hairs while you're at it."
- Bush on Saddam Hussein: "Saddam's been dicking us around for 11 years. I told my father to get rid of the sucker."
- Bush to education reformers: "Rarely is the question asked, 'Is our children learning?'"
The Post has all sorts of other details about the film, including descriptions of scenes featuring Dick Cheney stepping in cow shit while visiting the ranch in Crawford and Bush eating his favorite meal (a bologna sandwich) in the White House. I would watch this movie just to see Brolin call Colin Powell "Balloonfoot" and bitch at him for not being more punctual. It sounds like it's going to be The Naked Gun of presidential biopics. Compared to films like All the President's Men (which I fell asleep during) and JFK (which, again, the only part I remember is Kevin Bacon's turn as a gay man-whore), this sounds like a rollicking good time. Props to Oliver Stone for striking comedy gold. Come opening day, I'm going to eat some "special" brownies and prepare to laugh until my stomach hurts.
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, movies, politics, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, April 21, 2008
Death and the City
I was not at all excited for the new Sex and the City movie due out next month. Apart from Samantha's adventures in sluttery, I could care less about new storylines involving these superficial, ugly old broads going shoe shopping and banging ugly old dudes. However, thanks to a recent interview by the ugliest of the ugly old broads, Cynthia Nixon, I now have something to get excited about. Supposedly, one character is going to bite the big one in the new movie.
As far as I'm concerned, as long as one character is getting killed off, why not take them all out (except Samantha)? The producers have labored under the delusion that any of these characters (again, except Samantha) are likable or fun. These women are a bunch of obnoxious old shrews with little character apart from their love of overpriced footwear and their tendency to act like junior high retards regarding the men in their life. I think any of the following scenarios would be good, or to use the SatC ladies' favorite adjective--FABULOUS:
1. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha sit down to a table of cosmopolitans at some upscale lounge. Samantha goes to fuck the bartender in the bathroom and while she's gone, a meteorite crashes through the roof right onto their table, killing them instantly in a blaze of cosmic dust and shattered martini glasses.
2. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha attend a prestigious gallery opening. While Samantha is off banging some artist type in the bathroom, Mr. Big walks in with an Uzi and takes everyone out because it's the only way to get Carrie's fickle, whiny ass to quit him once and for all. Then he kills himself, both for much-needed closure and because he's way hotter when he's Detective Mike Logan on various "Law and Order" franchises.
3. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha go shoe shopping. While Samantha steps out of the Manolo Blahnik store to bang some random guy in the bathroom of the Starbucks next door, a freak shelf collapse kills the remaining three women via impalement by stiletto heels.
4. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha visit the spa. While Samantha is banging one of the facial technicians, Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda are boiled to death when the sauna's thermostat goes inexplicably haywire.
5. Carrie goes bankrupt due to spending far beyond the means of an unemployed columnist, gets evicted from her Upper East Side apartment, and contracts drug-resistant tuberculosis. While crashing with Charlotte and Miranda, she gives them the consumption as well, and they all die. Samantha is spared because she is too fabulous to hang out with Carrie after she joins the ranks of the homeless, and she's probably banging some dude in a bathroom somewhere.
6. Miranda finally nags Steve to his breaking point. While they are at some function where Samantha is banging some dude in the bathroom, Steve walks in with a bomb strapped to his chest and blows the place up. Only the bathroom where Samantha is skanking it up survives the explosion.
7. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha are forced to take the subway somewhere. Samantha changes her mind upon venturing into the dirty subterranean realm of the common folk and retreats to a nearby bathroom where she bangs some guy. Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda are unaccustomed to how the subway works, and accidentally step into the path of an oncoming F train, thinking that's how they are supposed to board it.
8. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha go to a sushi restaurant. While Samantha is banging the sake delivery man in the bathroom, Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda eat an improperly cut piece of blowfish and die when their hearts explode. Actually, I don't know if improperly cut blowfish really makes your heart explode, but that happened on an episode of "The Simpsons" once, so it's likely.
9. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha throw a botox party. Samantha is banging the plastic surgeon in the bathroom while Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda all die from acute botulinum poisoning thanks to the massive amounts of botox required to youth up their craggy-ass faces.
10. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha take a road trip to the Hamptons. Upon arrival, Samantha promptly gets down to business banging the pool boy at their rental. Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda just spontaneously drop dead because they suck.
However this goes down, it's going to be awesome. Anything that will put these hags out of their misery and relegate them to late-night reruns on TBS where they belong is right on in my book.
Labels: movies, people who died, retard rage, Sex and the City
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Ben Stein
DOB: November 25, 1944
Occupation: lawyer, law professor, Nixon and Ford White House speechwriter, comedian, Darwin hater
Hometown: Washington, DC
Current residence: Malibu, California and Sandpoint, Idaho
Douchebaggery: I'd like to start by saying that I've always liked Ben Stein. He seems smart and I enjoy his dry sense of humor. Up until now, I've never had any issues with Ben Stein. However, I just saw an ad for his new documentary, EXPELLED: No Intelligence Allowed. Initially I thought this was going to be a film about Ben Stein making fun of academics being assholes. So I went to his blog. I was seriously annoyed at what I read:
I’m Ben Stein – many of you know me from the classic film, “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” or from my Comedy Central show “Win Ben Stein’s Money”. Still others of you may know me as a speechwriter, for presidents Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford. You may even have read my books, attended one of my lectures at The American University, Washington DC, or seen me on the talk shows.
I’m glad you found this site, because I want to share with you my thoughts from time to time here about a subject that is very near and dear to me: freedom. EXPELLED: No Intelligence Allowed is a controversial, soon-to-be-released documentary that chronicles my confrontation with the widespread suppression and entrenched discrimination that is spreading in our institutions, laboratories and most importantly, in our classrooms, and that is doing irreparable harm to some of the world’s top scientists, educators, and thinkers.
America is not America without freedom. In every turning point in our history, freedom has been the key goal we are seeking: the Mayflower coming here, the Revolution, the Civil War, World War II, the Cold War. Tens of millions came here from foreign oppression and made a life here. Why? For freedom. Human beings are supposed to live in a state of freedom. Freedom is not conferred by the state: as our founders said, and as Martin Luther King repeated, freedom is God-given.
A huge part of this freedom is freedom of inquiry.
Freedom of inquiry is basic to human advancement. There would be no modern medicine, no antibiotics, no brain surgery, no Internet, no air conditioning, no modern travel, no highways, no knowledge of the human body without freedom of inquiry.
This includes the ability to inquire whether a higher power, a being greater than man, is involved with how the universe operates. This has always been basic to science. ALWAYS.
Some of the greatest scientists of all time, including Galileo, Newton, Einstein, operated under the hypothesis that their work was to understand the principles and phenomena as designed by a creator.
Operating under that hypothesis, they discovered the most important laws of motion, gravity, thermodynamics, relativity, and even economics.
Now, I am sorry to say, freedom of inquiry in science is being suppressed.
Under a new anti-religious dogmatism, scientists and educators are not allowed to even think thoughts that involve an intelligent creator. Do you realize that some of the leading lights of “anti-intelligent design” would not allow a scientist who merely believed in the possibility of an intelligent designer/creator to work for him… EVEN IF HE NEVER MENTIONED the possibility of intelligent design in the universe?EVEN FOR HIS VERY THOUGHTS… HE WOULD BE BANNED.
In today’s world, at least in America, an Einstein or a Newton or a Galileo would probably not be allowed to receive grants to study or to publish his research.Since when has Ben Stein appointed himself the honorary Kansas Board of Education anti-evolution spokeswhore? Granted, I thought the whole "Bueller...? Bueller...?" was genius, but his portrayal of a public school teacher didn't make me think that he was qualified to tell them what to teach.
They cannot even mention the possibility that–as Newton or Galileo believed–these laws were created by God or a higher being. They could get fired, lose tenure, have their grants cut off. This can happen. It has happened. EXPELLED: No Intelligence Allowed comes to theaters near you in February 2008. To learn more, check out my blog here often … and explore the rest of our site for new developments, or to volunteer to help spread the word.
Sincerely,
Ben Stein
I agree with Ben that freedom is the essential American tenet, and that freedom of inquiry is one of the most basic aspects to human advancement. I also agree that this is essential to science. However, when he gets into complaining about the "anti-religious dogmatism" aspect of his argument, I start to roll my eyes. While Ben Stein is surely knowledgeable in matters of law, political speechwriting, and conservative economics, I absolutely disagree that any kind of religion has any place in the realm of science or science education.
I am a scientist. In spite of what people might think about my sex life or my ridiculousness or my attention whorishness or my writing, my actual job is experimental science. I know my shit and I am good at it. I have been working in a lab since I was sixteen. That's almost FOURTEEN YEARS at the fucking bench. I think that, in spite of my unfortunate tendency to generate negative data since I've gotten into the mouse business, I am very proficient at this task. I respect my PI, and I know that he would not have welcomed me into his lab or tolerated my many non-scientific scandals if he didn't think I was a competent and talented scientist who would be a credit to his legacy. My competency is inexorably linked to my ability to design and execute experiments effectively.
I am also a religious person. I am Catholic, and though I wasn't confirmed and I'm tremendously lousy at living up to church rules (particularly those regarding sexuality), I believe in God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit and the Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth and all that dogmatic crap. I believe that God is the ultimate creator, and life would not be here without God.
That said, there is no way that God can be tested experimentally. Ben Stein might bitch that scientists might not be able to get grants addressing the role of the divine in creation, but has this fucker ever tried to get a RO1 grant? It's almost impossible to get a damn grant in this current economy and NIH budget even with the most direct, promising project. My PI is such an expert in his field that he wrote a damn textbook. He did his postdoc with a very famous Nobel laureate, he has the distinction of being the first in his field to achieve a major milestone when he cloned and sequenced a virus in the late seventies, and you ought to see his Wikipedia page. He is an endowed full professor at Columbia and nonetheless, he had trouble securing his last grant. Grants are hard to come by these days thanks to the Bush administration's emphasis (or lack thereof) on supporting scientific research. How on earth could a review committee (or "study section," in NIH parlance) justify a grant addressing the role of a higher power in creation? How do you design experiments to test something like that? If anyone has any ideas as to what controls you could include in such an experiment, I would love to hear them. Einstein, Newton, and Galileo may have been men of faith, but that doesn't mean they incorporated their religious beliefs into the methods they used to evaluate their theories experimentally. Just because Einstein, Newton, and Galileo believed in God doesn't mean they included that in all the ball-dropping or stargazing or number-crunching that characterized their greatest scientific achievements.
I went to Catholic school for twelve years. In high school, I was taught both the theory of evolution and scientific creationism (this was before "intelligent design" was employed to give the latter more intellectual credibility). We were taught that they aren't incompatible. Catholics don't interpret the Bible literally, so it's not like I'm bound by my faith to believe that the world was created in seven days exactly as the Old Testament says. I definitely do not think that the theory of evolution excludes the possibility of a divine creator. I can (and do) believe that evolution was God's means of creating life as we know it. However, I have no idea how I could go into lab and test this hypothesis. Science is a method for understanding the physical truth of our world. Science is not a substitute or a competitor for religious faith, and it's irresponsible to suggest that a religious element needs to be added to science education in public schools if only because it distracts from teaching kids about the scientific method as the divine falls outside the realm of testable hypotheses.
Ben Stein is smart when it comes to economics and political commentary and making fun of dumbasses. However, until he throws on a lab coat and executes a well-designed, properly-controlled experiment, he needs to quit bitching about "Big Science" conspiring like Big Tobacco to systematically eliminate God from the classroom. Science doesn't exclude the possibility of God, and operating under any kind of assumption about the influence of the divine isn't "intelligent" or faithful to the rational methods of inquiry that Galileo, Newton, and Einstein themselves employed. Stick to awarding titles like "America's Most Smartest Model," Ben.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Dear God, movies, retard rage, science
Monday, March 17, 2008
Daily Douchebag: George Lucas
DOB: May 14, 1944
Occupation: pompous asswipe, extremely wealthy douchebag, ruiner of great franchises
Hometown: Modesto, California
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I love the Indiana Jones movies (or at least the ones about Judeo-Christian relics and not odd rituals and the gross edible vermin that exist in remote parts of India) and I love Star Wars Episodes IV-VI, but I can't stand George Lucas. Today I read an article on CNN.com reminding me why.
Recently, George Lucas was pimping out his new computer-animated movie AND television series Star Wars: The Clone Wars, and had a few things to say about how completely destroying one of the most beloved film franchises ever made has been going.
"You've got the whole assembly line built, and then you say, 'Hey, we can make up something," George said regarding the creative process behind what undoubtedly represents yet another ass-raping of everything that originally made Star Wars great. George Lucas thinks he can replace the compelling plot from the first three movies with a lot of disjointed, nonsensical plotlines that are mainly excuses to show off his large CGI budget. Even good parts of the new movies, like where Yoda has a light saber fight with Saruman the White from LOTR, are aggravating because there's such a pervasive sense of George Lucas's masturbatory delight in his cutting edge special effects. These special effects also create a major problem in the chronology of these movies: how did technology get WORSE? In episodes I-III, there are all sorts of fancy spaceships, robot armies, clone farms, etc., and in episode IV they build a Death Star that looks like it was made out of papier mache and packing material staffed with Storm Troopers wearing outfits made out of ventilation ducting and giant Legos? What happened to all the fucking robot armies and high tech body armor?
Another problem with all the new Star Wars stuff is that it plays up all the things that sucked about the original Star Wars movies (annoying robots, Ewoks/other similarly useless species existing solely as a shameless ploy to sell toy crap to kids, incompetent assholes--ie: C3P0 and Jar Jar Binks--who create plot complications via stupidity, etc.). It's like George Lucas sat around thinking up ways to piss me off. I can just see him now, twirling his greased pompadour on his porch at Skywalker Ranch, saying, "And I think we need to include more children...yes, that's the ticket...more kids. And let's explain the origin of the Force as an intracellular rickettsial infection. That seems plausible as a source for the dualistic spiritual energy controlling the fates of the main characters of this film. And make sure all the robots make beeping noises that are as stupid as possible."
Adding insult to injury is that George Lucas talks about the new work as though it's on par with the Bible in terms of social impact, or that his heavy-handed messianic characterization of Anakin Skywalker brings new meaning to the word "profound." I liked the original Star Wars movies a lot, but not so much that I would consider converting to Jedi or believing in the Force as an actual higher power; yet to hear George Lucas talk, you'd think he came up with better shit than Jesus. In the interview I read today, he is remarkably humble, saying, "It's like 'Band of Brothers' in space, with Jedi." Amazingly, Lucas actually only compared his "Clone Wars" TV series to the Golden Globe and Emmy-winning miniseries about World War II rather than the New Testament. Maybe his ego is actually diminishing in his older age along with his volume of heavily shellacked hair.
Finally, there is pretty much no way I'm going to like anything with the name Star Wars lacking one of these three key things:
1. Lando Calrissian being totally smooth
2. Han Solo being a fine-ass scoundrel
3. Princess Leia in a gold bikini
I'm sorry, but Hayden Christensen looking like he just stepped away from a Christopher Street glory hole, Ewan MacGregor rocking softball dyke hair, and Natalie Portman dressed like a space-age geisha doesn't even remotely compare to the original hot pieces of Star Wars. In fact, it cheapens and disgraces it, and not even an entire planet full of Chewbaccas can make up for it.
Since I already got suckered into seeing episodes I-III, TRUST that after being fooled three times and shame on me, I won't be repeating history and joining all the dorks in Darth Vader masks at the multiplex for The Clone Wars. This is an assembly line that needs to be shut the fuck down.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, movies, nerd alert
Friday, March 07, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Tom Hanks
DOB: July 9, 1956
Occupation: world's most annoying actor
Hometown: Concord, California
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I have a special place in my heart for young Tom Hanks. Not only was "Bosom Buddies" one of the greatest TV shows ever, but cinematic accomplishment such as that seen in Splash, Volunteers, Bachelor Party, Dragnet, and Turner and Hooch is a treasured addition to the American film lexicon.
That said, I completely HATE almost every other Tom Hanks movie ever made. Big was about children so I naturally hated it. Philadelphia was a real drag (although in fairness, I have yet to see an AIDS movie that can be described as "a rollicking good time" or "laugh-out-loud hysterical"). Forrest Gump was almost three hours of unbearably heavy-handed treacle. Apollo 13 was boooooorrrrrrriiiiiinnnnnngggg. Saving Private Ryan stopped entertaining me as soon as the Omaha Beach part was over (and since Tom Hanks's character didn't die there, the movie was ruined). In Cast Away, the volleyball was a more compelling character. Any form of The Da Vinci Code--whether printed on a page or broadcast on a screen--is sufficient to get me foaming at the mouth with ire and disdain. Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail are the kind of movies that make me consider a career in movie theater suicide bombing. Trust that for the good of my fellow man, I haven't seen either one. Casting Tom Hanks in a movie these days is the quickest way to make me NOT go see a movie. For example, I took one look at Charlie Wilson's War and saw that not only was Tom Hanks playing the titular male lead, it also had Julia Roberts sounding like she forgot how to do the grating Southern accent she butchered in Steel Magnolias and was thus resorting to a bad imitation of it. That's the kind of movie that makes me want to smoke a cigarette in a bathtub full of gasoline. Death by explosion is preferable.
In addition to Tom Hanks's recent decade of obnoxious, infuriating film roles is something Tom Hanks said the other day while he was touring the U.S. Capitol building the other day to promote his new miniseries John Adams. In between joking around with Nancy Pelosi and posing for pictures, Tom Hanks decided to weigh in with his political opinions, because he's a movie star and apparently people might care who he's voting for. He confirmed his support for Senator Barack Obama's presidential bid and said, "I wish the election was being held tomorrow. I'm bored!"
Did you hear that, America? If you are undecided on the Democratic candidates, you better just suck it up and get on Team Obama, because Tom Hanks isn't being entertained by this whole so-called "primary" season. Never mind that this is the most entertaining presidential race I can remember since Bush Sr. and Dukakis were battling it out back in the 80s, or that more of America is riveted by the electoral hijinks going on in the Hillary vs. Obama race than any primary face-off I can remember. Tom Hanks is bored, so let's hurry this election the fuck up. In fact, why don't we just skip the election and appoint Obama King? I mean, if Tom Hanks is bored by the Democratic process, it must not be all it's cracked up to be, so maybe he can install a monarchy and save us the trouble of actually deciding who to vote for. Besides, if Obama is good enough for Tom Hanks, he's good enough for America. There's nobody more qualified to tell us who our president should be than an actor who has starred in movies about World War II and NASA.
God, SHUT UP, Tom Hanks! I'm bored by YOU.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, movies, politics
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Patrick Swayze
Name: Patrick Wayne Swayze
DOB: August 18, 1952
Occupation: actor, dancer, hot piece
Hometown: Houston, Texas
Current residence: Van Nuys, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was extremely distressed yesterday when I read on the gossip internets that Patrick Swayze has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and only has a few weeks to live. I initially responded with denial, thinking there was no way this could be true. However, a quick search of more legitimate news sources than Dlisted showed that sadly, he is indeed undergoing chemotherapy at Stanford and does indeed have pancreatic cancer, although he wouldn't confirm the short timeline the gossip pages gave him. That doesn't make me feel very optimistic, however, because pancreatic cancer is right up there with kidney cancer, lung cancer, and metastatic melanoma on the list of cancers you absolutely don't want to get. Pancreatic cancer has the highest fatality rate of any cancer, and has a median survival time of 3 to 6 months following diagnosis.
Although he hasn't been doing much lately, Patrick Swayze was in some of my favorite movies, and NO, I don't mean Dirty Dancing. I hate the movie Dirty Dancing with every cell of my body. When I was in grade school and slumber parties were the thing to do, all the girls in my class invariably wanted to watch either Dirty Dancing or Grease, and I'd take popping either film into the VCR as the cue to crawl into my sleeping bag and get some shut-eye. If I had my way, I'd put Baby in a damn corner and never let her come out. Better yet, fuck a corner; I'd persuade that chick there was either a dance contest or a cask of Amontillado sherry in my basement and brick her ass in for eternity so I could never be perturbed by her misadventures in learning how to mambo. The only thing good to come out of Dirty Dancing was Patrick's dirty sex song "She's Like the Wind." However, as much as Dirty Dancing was a cinematic travesty that every bitch on the planet save myself inexplicably loves, Patrick Swayze starred in some films that were fully robbed when they weren't nominated for Oscars. Those movies are, of course, Red Dawn and Road House.
I've gone off about Red Dawn on more than one occasion, but much like blow jobs or pizza, discussion of this brilliant film never goes out of style. In case you have somehow been deprived of this awesomeness, Red Dawn is a film from 1984 in which the Soviet Union invades the U.S. We'd all be calling each other "comrade" if it weren't for Patrick Swayze, the quarterback of a Colorado town's football team, who leads his pals Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, and Lea Thompson in a resistance against the invading freedom-hating commies. Trust that you haven't lived until you've seen Patrick Swayze decked out in forest camo plotting guerilla acts of terror against the Russians or cradling C. Thomas Howell in his arms as he dies. I know that if I were a dying teenage insurgent, the last thing I'd want to see before succumbing to my mortal wounds would be Patrick Swayze's tear-streaked face, and the last thing I'd want to hear would be his dulcet voice singing "The Star Spangled Banner."
While I have not discussed my fondness for Road House to the extent I have Red Dawn, I now realize that is a gross oversight on my part. Road House totally rules. This movie is about a rough bar in Jasper, Missouri, where Patrick Swayze--with a fresh Ph.D in philosophy from NYU--seeks employment as a bouncer, or a "cooler" as it's known in the film. That right there is believable, because I don't know what the hell else you do with a doctorate in philosophy besides get a job as a bar. Although Swayze's character Dalton doesn't share much insight from his scholarly work during the film, we occasionally get hints that he's privy to a deeper level of existentialist understanding (such as when he's being tended to by the town doctor, and he refuses anasthetic, telling her "Pain don't hurt.") Otherwise, he mainly spends most of the movie kicking the asses of the various thugs working for the local Jasper crime boss. Actually, "kicking ass" is a misnomer, because his signature move is actually ripping out a man's throat with his bare hands. Let's just say that it is most inadvisable to tell a philosopher with expertise in manual trachea removal that you "used to fuck guys like you in prison." Man, Road House rules so hard.
Anyway, I'm going to pray to St. Jude to intercede with the big JC on Swayze's behalf, so he might recover and go on to rectify the wrong caused by the making of Road House 2: Last Call without him by completing the trilogy with Road House 3: After Hours in epic fashion. Get well, Patrick!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, for serious people, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, movies
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Senility encroaches
I'm rapidly losing any and all respect for Jack Nicholson. First, I learn that he has to employ the Mystery Method to pick up chicks. Now, I learn that he may be the dumbest political strategist on the planet. Put his ass in a home already.
To prove that The YouTubes isn't a phenomenon just for the kiddies, Jack Nicholson took to his iMovie software and made a video endorsing Hillary Clinton's campaign. He used clips of some of the more recognizable characters he's played throughout his storied career as one of Hollywood's biggest stars. Too bad there's just one problem: all these characters are crazy and/or homicidal!
In case you aren't familiar with these iconic movie villains:
The Joker from Tim Burton's Batman: a disfigured career criminal prone to lethally gassing innocent civilians, mutilating women with acid, randomly shooting people, and product tampering.
Jack Torrance from The Shining: an abusive, alcoholic writer who goes crazy while serving as caretaker for an isolated haunted hotel and attempts to murder his family with an axe.
Randall McMurphy from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: A convicted statutory rapist who cons his way into a mental ward, wreaks havoc, attempts to strangle the admittedly sadistic nurse, and winds up lobotomized.
Col. Nathan Jessep from A Few Good Men: A USMC commander who conspires to murder a disgruntled whistle-blowing soldier.
This just testifies to the combined arrogance and senility of Hollywood A-listers like Jack Nicholson and Rob Reiner, who apparently helped put this little video together. Either they think Jack Nicholson's geriatric star power is sufficient to make their audience forget that when Jack Torrance says, "Things could be better, Lloyd," he's actually talking about hacking his family to death to a hallucinatory bartender encouraging him to fall off the wagon, or that Americans are just too stupid to notice. I guess Jack Nicholson couldn't find out-of-context clips from Something's Gotta Give or The Bucket List that would have the same stirring rhetorical chutzpah as those from movies where he portrayed homicidal maniacs. Jack Nicholson should spend the twilight of his life doing what he does best: banging broads a half-century his junior, constitutively wearing sunglasses, and going to Laker games. Stay out of politics and succumb to your dementia with some dignity!
Although on the bright side, if anything just put a nail in Hillary's coffin, this is it. Obama has Oprah stumping for him, and Hillary has Hollywood's greatest evildoers encouraging the American moviegoing public to vote for her. Obama wins.
To prove that The YouTubes isn't a phenomenon just for the kiddies, Jack Nicholson took to his iMovie software and made a video endorsing Hillary Clinton's campaign. He used clips of some of the more recognizable characters he's played throughout his storied career as one of Hollywood's biggest stars. Too bad there's just one problem: all these characters are crazy and/or homicidal!
In case you aren't familiar with these iconic movie villains:
The Joker from Tim Burton's Batman: a disfigured career criminal prone to lethally gassing innocent civilians, mutilating women with acid, randomly shooting people, and product tampering.
Jack Torrance from The Shining: an abusive, alcoholic writer who goes crazy while serving as caretaker for an isolated haunted hotel and attempts to murder his family with an axe.
Randall McMurphy from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: A convicted statutory rapist who cons his way into a mental ward, wreaks havoc, attempts to strangle the admittedly sadistic nurse, and winds up lobotomized.
Col. Nathan Jessep from A Few Good Men: A USMC commander who conspires to murder a disgruntled whistle-blowing soldier.
This just testifies to the combined arrogance and senility of Hollywood A-listers like Jack Nicholson and Rob Reiner, who apparently helped put this little video together. Either they think Jack Nicholson's geriatric star power is sufficient to make their audience forget that when Jack Torrance says, "Things could be better, Lloyd," he's actually talking about hacking his family to death to a hallucinatory bartender encouraging him to fall off the wagon, or that Americans are just too stupid to notice. I guess Jack Nicholson couldn't find out-of-context clips from Something's Gotta Give or The Bucket List that would have the same stirring rhetorical chutzpah as those from movies where he portrayed homicidal maniacs. Jack Nicholson should spend the twilight of his life doing what he does best: banging broads a half-century his junior, constitutively wearing sunglasses, and going to Laker games. Stay out of politics and succumb to your dementia with some dignity!
Although on the bright side, if anything just put a nail in Hillary's coffin, this is it. Obama has Oprah stumping for him, and Hillary has Hollywood's greatest evildoers encouraging the American moviegoing public to vote for her. Obama wins.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, movies, politics, retard rage
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Michael Gambon and Tilda Swinton (tie)
DOB: October 19, 1940 and November 5, 1960, respectively
Occupation: acclaimed thespians; true players for real
Hometown: Dublin, Ireland and London, England respectively
Current residence: London, England and Naim, Scotland, respectively
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Sure, these much-lauded (and now in Tilda's case, Oscar winning) masters of the theatrical craft seem like they probably spend most of their spare time taking tea and crumpets and other activities that buttoned-up British people do. However, don't let their looks deceive you: these two are straight players who run their stables with more aptitude than even Todd "Too $hort" Shaw, Don Magic Juan, or other pimps of legend. Both of them have homes and spouses, and keep a hot younger piece on the side.
Michael has proved that playing a gay wizard in no way prevents him from enthusiastically loving the ladies in real life. He's married to Lady Anne Gambon, his loving wife of 45 years. He also lives in a bachelor flat close to the boudoir of his 42-year-old mistress Philippa Hart. Tilda lives with her baby daddy and their twins, but spends her down time traversing the world with her 29-year-old Kiwi boyfriend Sandro Kopp. She even left the old ball and chain back in Scotland and brought her younger fucktoy to the Oscars with her this year! According to Tilda, they are all the bestest of friends.
I like these two because they are both improbably hot, and are working that to their full advantage. Normally I don't dig on shaggy old men like Michael because, in the words of T-Pain, he's "wrinkly and got too much hair...I don't like hair in my mouth." Also, my taste in women is limited to lipstick lesbo blondes rather than androgynous would-be David Bowie impersonators. However, both Michael and Tilda are what my friend Rack calls "ugly sexy". By normal estimation, these two should be considered unattractive, but there's a certain intangible hotness to them. Having copious quantities of "ugly sexiness" is likely why they're both able to nail extramarital side pieces several decades younger. Well, either that or Philippa Hart is crazy about Harry Potter and Sandro Kopp was smitten with that hot chain-mail dress number Tilda Swinton wore during the battle scene from The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. I thought that movie sucked, but I perked up immediately when she showed up clad in fur and metal to open a can of swords and evil magic all over some leonine allegorical Christian ass. Tilda Swinton hadn't done much to sway my attention before that, but once I got a gander of that outfit, I was all for breaking me off a piece of battle-ready White Witch.
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Harry Potter, hot chicks, hot dudes, movies, sluts
Monday, February 25, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Young(er) Michael Douglas
DOB: September 25, 1944
Occupation: hot fucking piece and I mean that SERIOUSLY
Hometown: Hollywood, California
Current residence: Pacific Palisades, California, New York, New York, Aspen, Colorado, Bermuda, Majorca, Spain, Swansea, Wales, and Ridgewood, New Jersey.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I saw a little classic footage of Michael Douglas, complete with flowing mullet, racing to the stage to accept his Oscar for Wall Street and caught my breath. Michael Douglas may not have aged well, and all the plastic surgery he's had has somehow made him look even more geriatric, but in the younger part of his middle age, he was a hot piece of ass.
LL Cool Jew was watching the Oscars with me via text message, and I felt compelled to weigh in on this particular memorable Oscar moment. "Young michael douglas was h o t," I texted. She wasn't seeing things my way, unfortunately, but that's probably because she has no taste in men. KIDDING, BigBagel! She replied: "u r a sick individual."
In turn, I replied snippily, "If by sick u mean awesome."
As I said, I realize that geriatric Michael Douglas doesn't have a whole lot of sex appeal, but how can you deny young(er) Michael Douglas's hotness? In Wall Street he managed to actually make sleazebag trader types--who I consider in real life to be one of the most off-putting, boring, detestable, obnoxious species of men ever to wear suits--seem sexy. I'd let him hit it if he were rocking the Gordon Gekko crispy I-mean-business gel-imbued power mullet and suspenders and bitching at me that "lunch is for wimps" any day. And in Fatal Attraction, I can totally see why Glenn Close went so crazy for him, because I'd throw on the Madame Butterfly record and fuck that cheating husband every which way and all over my apartment. Basic Instinct was one of the first R-rated movies that I snuck into, and I still get hot thinking about the sex scenes in that movie. And don't get me started about Michael's role as expatriate treasure-hunting, bird-collecting, international hot piece Jack Colton in Romancing the Stone.
I would not have thought twice about running my fingers through that lush adventure mullet. I would have totally reenacted all kinds of awesome scenes from Romancing the Stone with him. He could wrestle alligators, say things like "one hell of a morning has turned into one bitch of a day!" and "oh, man, the Doobie Brothers broke up!", and slide down a wall of mud and land with his head in my crotch. Somehow this will all have to be done with the sense of urgency that comes with trying to thwart Danny DeVito when he's hot on your trail. You know, it's that whole we-should-fuck-now-because-we-could-die kind of imperative, desperate, survival situation sex...except instead of the threat of death, there's the threat of having a fat, winded, frustrated fat man steal your treasure map. It would be so hot. Seriously, I've seen Romancing the Stone about 80,000 times and I've put a lot of thought into this.
Anyway, I think this proves that I'm not a sick individual. It's perfectly healthy to spend one's time having sexual fantasies about comic adventures through Colombia seeking giant emeralds with a homeless, exiled petty criminal rocking a mullet and a set of dirty khakis. In fact, I wonder about people who DON'T experience arousal when they think about Young(er) Michael Douglas. There's basically no way you can deny Young(er) Michael Douglas's inherent sexiness, and I defy LL Cool Jew to try. I'm not sick! I'm perfectly normal! NORMAL!
I would not have thought twice about running my fingers through that lush adventure mullet. I would have totally reenacted all kinds of awesome scenes from Romancing the Stone with him. He could wrestle alligators, say things like "one hell of a morning has turned into one bitch of a day!" and "oh, man, the Doobie Brothers broke up!", and slide down a wall of mud and land with his head in my crotch. Somehow this will all have to be done with the sense of urgency that comes with trying to thwart Danny DeVito when he's hot on your trail. You know, it's that whole we-should-fuck-now-because-we-could-die kind of imperative, desperate, survival situation sex...except instead of the threat of death, there's the threat of having a fat, winded, frustrated fat man steal your treasure map. It would be so hot. Seriously, I've seen Romancing the Stone about 80,000 times and I've put a lot of thought into this.
Anyway, I think this proves that I'm not a sick individual. It's perfectly healthy to spend one's time having sexual fantasies about comic adventures through Colombia seeking giant emeralds with a homeless, exiled petty criminal rocking a mullet and a set of dirty khakis. In fact, I wonder about people who DON'T experience arousal when they think about Young(er) Michael Douglas. There's basically no way you can deny Young(er) Michael Douglas's inherent sexiness, and I defy LL Cool Jew to try. I'm not sick! I'm perfectly normal! NORMAL!
Labels: aging, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, movies, sex
Daily Douchebag: people who were at the Oscars because WHY?
Names: Jessica Alba, Miley Cyrus, Katherine Heigl
DOB: various
Occupation: inexplicably popular fuckwit actors who aren't good enough to get invited to the Oscars by being nominated for anything, but they get invited anyway
Hometown: various
Current residence: Kodak Theater, Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: It's bad enough that I have to hear about these assholes all the time on the gossip internets, but I thought I could rely on the Oscars to be relatively free of talentless dipshits. All the events and premieres every other day of the year are populated with the likes of Disney Channel stars and skanks from "Grey's Anatomy," but usually at the Oscars they clear out this riffraff in favor of admirable broads like Cate Blanchett, Dame Helen Mirren, and Tilda Swinton. Unfortunately, this year it seemed like there was an excessively lengthy parade of dumb bitches with no good reason whatsoever for being there other than to piss me off: Miley Cyrus, Katherine Heigl, and Jessica Alba were everywhere acting like idiots. What, no invitation for Jessica Simpson, Spencer and Heidi, or the Olsen twins?
I can't even see what the producers' reasoning for bringing these twats onstage was. None of these hookers were associated in any way with a movie actually nominated for an award.Katherine Heigl is an unappealing shrew who thus far has made one comedy movie (unless you count her repertoire of made-for-TV, not-even-good-enough-to-be-a-"SciFi original movie" films), and when she's not stinking up the small screen on "Grey's Anatomy," she's generally nagging and/or whining about something to the press. On this occasion, she did nothing save somehow simultaneously channel the spirits of Meredith Baxter Birney playing Elyse Keaton in "Family Ties", a Christmas decoration, and a call girl from the 80s on her way to get bukkaked by a gang of Japanese businessmen. Not even the cocksucker red lipstick can make her seem like a good time. Jessica Alba was good for pretty much one thing: looking hot. Now that she's pregnant, getting awfully fat in the face, and even more idiotically self-righteous and grouchy than usual, she's managed to achieve total uselessness. And Miley Cyrus? MILEY CYRUS? Since when do the Oscars mandate the presence of Hannah Fucking Montana showing up to mug her deflating blow-up doll face for the cameras on the red carpet? As the Oscars reminded us constantly, there are a billion people watching it, so it's not like they need her to pull in the lucrative tween consumer demographic. I imagine she probably got invited so one of the producers could get their kids tickets to her concert or something. Apparently parents kill each other over these things, so I wouldn't put it past them to invite her ass to the Oscars for the (far inferior to the aborted R. Kelly/Jay-Z tour of the same name) "Best of Both Worlds" show. Still, all these hookers were at the Oscars WHY? It's a sad day for film when Dame Judi Dench has to give up her seat to Jessica Alba.
On the bright side, at least Paris Hilton wasn't there.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, movies, sluts
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Fool's-ish games
I was just trying to get some multitasking done, and by "multitasking" I mean doing technology analysis for my part-time job during commercials on "Nip/Tuck." My sojourn through a pharmaceutical industry market database was rudely interrupted by a seriously overexcited movie announcer bellowing "Fool's Gold is the NUMBER ONE MOVIE IN AMERICA." Try as I might to tune it out, I was getting so pissed off that I couldn't help but watch it, if only out of scientific curiosity regarding my capacity for rage. I was having major telecidal impulses (telecidal=when you want to make like the bumper sticker and kill your television) as a result.
Then, I had a revelation. I realized exactly what I hate about movies like Fool's Gold. I hate the bitches. I mean I REALLY hate them. Women are portrayed horribly in these crappy fucking chick flicks. Based on the ubiquitous and completely infuriating trailers, it seems that Kate Hudson spends 90% of the movie bitching at her poorly-groomed ex until all that hateful shrewishness makes her so horny that she throws herself at him like a yowling cat in desperate heat. What kind of self-respecting bitch wants to identify with that? If I had some lazy, long-haired hippie ex-husband with body odor (and I thank God smellevision hasn't been invented yet, because I shudder to think of what would offend my olfactory senses every time McConaughey's ass showed up onscreen), my reaction to his ass showing up would NOT involve humoring a desire to join him seeking mysterious Caribbean treasure. Even if I somehow concluded that such an endeavor would be beneficial to me in spite of my stank former spouse's shaggy ass hanging around, I would not get frustrated during my wild goose chase quest for sunken pieces of eight and fuck his busted ass out of desperation. Women like Kate Hudson's character in this movie aren't romantic or comical: they are petulant, nagging bitches who are sexually frustrated and pathetic. How the fuck am I supposed to either relate or aspire to that? I am insulted at the most fundamental level that Hollywood thinks I would or should.
That said, I've written the words "Fool's Gold" entirely too frequently for my liking. Next thing you know I'm going to start doing a "Daily Thing I Hate About Fool's Gold and Similar Shitty Fucking Valentine's Day Romantic Not-Funny Comedies." This has got to stop.
Then, I had a revelation. I realized exactly what I hate about movies like Fool's Gold. I hate the bitches. I mean I REALLY hate them. Women are portrayed horribly in these crappy fucking chick flicks. Based on the ubiquitous and completely infuriating trailers, it seems that Kate Hudson spends 90% of the movie bitching at her poorly-groomed ex until all that hateful shrewishness makes her so horny that she throws herself at him like a yowling cat in desperate heat. What kind of self-respecting bitch wants to identify with that? If I had some lazy, long-haired hippie ex-husband with body odor (and I thank God smellevision hasn't been invented yet, because I shudder to think of what would offend my olfactory senses every time McConaughey's ass showed up onscreen), my reaction to his ass showing up would NOT involve humoring a desire to join him seeking mysterious Caribbean treasure. Even if I somehow concluded that such an endeavor would be beneficial to me in spite of my stank former spouse's shaggy ass hanging around, I would not get frustrated during my wild goose chase quest for sunken pieces of eight and fuck his busted ass out of desperation. Women like Kate Hudson's character in this movie aren't romantic or comical: they are petulant, nagging bitches who are sexually frustrated and pathetic. How the fuck am I supposed to either relate or aspire to that? I am insulted at the most fundamental level that Hollywood thinks I would or should.
That said, I've written the words "Fool's Gold" entirely too frequently for my liking. Next thing you know I'm going to start doing a "Daily Thing I Hate About Fool's Gold and Similar Shitty Fucking Valentine's Day Romantic Not-Funny Comedies." This has got to stop.
Labels: celebrities, movies, ranting, retard rage
Jack off
I read on the gossip internets that Jack Nicholson claims the world's best pick-up line is as follows:
Why does Jack Nicholson need to use this strategy anyway? I realize that he's a septugenarian, but he's still Jack Fucking Nicholson! He's rich, he's famous, and he sits courtside at Laker games. I would think that even at his ripe old age, he could just pull out his weiner, say "I'm Jack Nicholson," and let the object of his affection put two and two together and start sucking. He doesn't need to waste time inventing negs or developing a lame "avatar" (another key feature of the Mystery Method, this involves coming up with an idiotic nickname like "Ajax" or "The Matador" and wearing absurd fashion ensembles that look like the bastard spawn of a pair of fuzzy dice and an off-the-rack pimp costume from Party World.) Jack Nicholson's star just faded dramatically now that I know he has to rely on seduction tactics commonly employed by socially inept fucktards who spend all their copious down time playing Halo and jacking off to Cinemax.
What a fucking loser. And that's not a neg fishing for action with Jack or anyone else attending Mystery's school of douchebaggery. That's just a straight-up neg for the sake of negativity.
"You walk up to someone you like and you're feeling relaxed, they think, 'Oh, here comes the shark' and you say to them, 'When did you get pregnant?' You will have somebody off balance after that particular line."Are you fucking kidding me? Jack Nicholson uses the fucking MYSTERY METHOD to pick up chicks? In case you don't know what the Mystery Method is, LL Cool Jew once described it as a means of "teaching ugly virgins to insult women they want to sleep with within three minutes of meeting them to confuse and unbalance them, thereby exploiting unstable women's attraction to emotional retards and abusers," resulting in "lots and lots of nerd virgins eager to pay Mystery to teach them what wife-beaters have known for years--that misogyny is a powerful aphrodisiac to insecure women." An essential concept in the Mystery Method skill set involves the use of "negs," which are backhanded compliments intended to lower a mark's "value," thus causing her to want to "qualify" to sleep with the dude doing the "negging" to compensate for her insecurities. I should add that this effect is enhanced by the dude "peacocking," which involves adorning oneself with garish fluffy tophats, chrome aviation goggles, and cloaks that look like something an Anne Rice-loving drag queen would rock at a Renaissance Faire. Woe betide the douchebag who attempts to bed me with such piss-poor game. For one thing, it's unnecessary since I'm a big slut. For another, it will only piss me off, and then we'll see who leaves the situation feeling insecure and unqualified. One time this fat, ugly guy peacocking with a combover, stonewashed jeans, and an appletini (*scoff*) rated me "a seven" after he rated LL Cool Jew--who is married and thus off the market--"a ten." As I was the available girl in our two-set, he was trying to make me want to bang him based on the fact that my friend is hotter than me. It failed. I gave him my best bitch-face and said, "Oh yeah? Well, you're a FOUR." Especially now that I've discovered a hidden talent for drink-throwing, the Mystery wannabes dropping negs on my Razzified ass like bombs on Hiroshima had best keep their distance and behave themselves if they don't want to be scrubbing scotch out of their crushed velvet lapels.
Why does Jack Nicholson need to use this strategy anyway? I realize that he's a septugenarian, but he's still Jack Fucking Nicholson! He's rich, he's famous, and he sits courtside at Laker games. I would think that even at his ripe old age, he could just pull out his weiner, say "I'm Jack Nicholson," and let the object of his affection put two and two together and start sucking. He doesn't need to waste time inventing negs or developing a lame "avatar" (another key feature of the Mystery Method, this involves coming up with an idiotic nickname like "Ajax" or "The Matador" and wearing absurd fashion ensembles that look like the bastard spawn of a pair of fuzzy dice and an off-the-rack pimp costume from Party World.) Jack Nicholson's star just faded dramatically now that I know he has to rely on seduction tactics commonly employed by socially inept fucktards who spend all their copious down time playing Halo and jacking off to Cinemax.
What a fucking loser. And that's not a neg fishing for action with Jack or anyone else attending Mystery's school of douchebaggery. That's just a straight-up neg for the sake of negativity.
Labels: assholes, LL Cool Jew, movies, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
Monday, February 11, 2008
Fool's rush in
I am having a hard time figuring out who I'd like to hit because I'm really not in any kind of mood to declare my love or fondness for any person or group of people today, as today is actually Sunday night and I'm still hung over from Saturday night's disaster of scotch and personal drama. Although I got over the personal drama, I'm still suffering the physical sequelae of consuming approximately eight glasses of Johnnie Walker Black Label blended scotch, followed by at least two Jaegermeister shots. I'm so sick I even had to call in sick from a date, which is really lame, but my dry heaving-ass is no condition for romance. I want to get an early start in the old laboratory tomorrow, so I figured I'd do my blogging tonight and publish it tomorrow and save myself some time in the morning. Clever, eh? Anyway, since while waiting for the Grammys to start I was just convalescing in my bed flipping between "American Gladiators" and a "Rock of Love" rerun I've now seen approximately eighty-five times, I might as well get tomorrow's--which is now today's--posts rode hard and put away wet, or whatever it is real journalists say when they finish writing.
This movie basically consists of Kate Hudson being a whiny shrew in various tropical locations, and Matthew McConaughey looking like an unshorn hippie with a penchant for making the Hollywood version of Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning's typical slack-jawed yokel expression. And would someone kindly tell me why bitches think this dude is hot? He's like the Mel Gibson of his generation: inexplicably being heralded three years ago as "the sexiest man alive" and boasting a massive following of older ladies who fantasize about being wrapped in his stumpy Tyrannosaurus rex arms. I'll pass.
In addition to the mystery of McConaughey's alleged good looks, I have never understood romantic comedies, and I have ESPECIALLY never understood romantic action/adventure comedies. Why is it funny that Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey spend a movie engaging in a lot of inane banter that is supposed to pass for sexual tension while looking for some historically implausible treasure? I don't want their annoying asses flirting or getting rich via acquisition of sunken doubloons or doing anything else except maybe dying in a freak woodchipper accident. I mean, thanks to the incessant trailers for this clusterfuck of irritation I know that in one scene they go down in a seaplane crash, but the chances that this means a grisly death for the lead actors are slim. They probably swim out unscathed, kiss, and make banal quips at each other. I didn't see what kind of proven onscreen chemistry the idiots are flocking to the theaters for as I didn't see How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (obviously), but I'm pretty sure that it was just as formulaic and fucking stupid. Adding an element of danger in the form of some bullshit treasure hunt doesn't make an already bad movie funnier. Besides, there was only one movie where this kind of premise ever worked, and Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey are not Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas, and Fool's Gold is a pale imitation of the greatness that is Romancing the Stone.
Anyway, I was trying to think about who I would want to hit besides myself, and I was idly skimming the weekend's news and came upon a report of this weekend's box office returns. This put any notion of lauding anybody or anything far, far out of my mind:
LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- "Fool's Gold" found real treasure as the romantic adventure starring Matthew McConaughey and Kate Hudson led the weekend box office with a $22 million debut.
Martin Lawrence's family reunion comedy "Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins" opened at No. 2 with $17.1 million, according to studio estimates Sunday.
Disney's "Hannah Montana & Miley Cyrus: Best of Both Worlds Concert," the 3-D concert film that was the previous weekend's top movie, fell to third place with $10.5 million, a sharp drop from its $31.1 million opening. The movie has grossed $53.4 million after 10 days.
Ugh. Good thing I didn't make any movie plans this weekend, because I would rather see the movie that just had a trailer on Vh1. I didn't catch the name, but the trailer started with "The safety of a federal witness is in the hands of ONE MAN...LARRY THE CABLE GUY." In fact, I would rather sit through fucking Cocoon--which is one of the most appalling cinematic shitshows of all time as it features old people in bathing suits and having sex--in 3-D IMAX than see any of these films. but ESPECIALLY Fool's Gold. I've been seeing Fool's Gold trailers ad nauseum for the last week and at this point, I think I would instantly kick anyone who suggested I see Fool's Gold squarely in their genitalia on principle, because anyone who wants to see this garbage should be prevented from reproducing by any means necessary. Humanity does not need any more people creating a market for movies like Fool's Gold, since the gene pool already has enough alleles conferring stupidity floating around in it.
Wait, even though people who watch and judge movies professionally universally hated it, Americans were lining up to see Fool's Gold because they just fucking love to see two hours of "a divorced couple reunited in a quest for 18th-century treasure lost at sea."? How could you hate that? It sounds hilarious! I'd love to see two fucking hours of compelling scenes such as these:Released by Warner Bros., "Fool's Gold" came in a bit under the $23.8 million opening of McConaughey and Hudson's hit romance "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days," which debuted over the same pre-Valentine's Day weekend in 2003.
With Valentine's Day on Thursday, the studio is counting on "Fool's Gold" to hold up well, said Jeff Goldstein, Warner vice president of distribution.
Critics hated "Fool's Gold" but audiences were eager to catch McConaughey and Hudson, who play a divorced couple reunited in a quest for 18th-century treasure lost at sea.
"A great marketing campaign, two appealing stars, and reviews be damned," said Paul Dergarabedian, president of box-office tracker Media By Numbers. "Heading into Valentine's week, it's sort of a natural."
In addition to the mystery of McConaughey's alleged good looks, I have never understood romantic comedies, and I have ESPECIALLY never understood romantic action/adventure comedies. Why is it funny that Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey spend a movie engaging in a lot of inane banter that is supposed to pass for sexual tension while looking for some historically implausible treasure? I don't want their annoying asses flirting or getting rich via acquisition of sunken doubloons or doing anything else except maybe dying in a freak woodchipper accident. I mean, thanks to the incessant trailers for this clusterfuck of irritation I know that in one scene they go down in a seaplane crash, but the chances that this means a grisly death for the lead actors are slim. They probably swim out unscathed, kiss, and make banal quips at each other. I didn't see what kind of proven onscreen chemistry the idiots are flocking to the theaters for as I didn't see How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (obviously), but I'm pretty sure that it was just as formulaic and fucking stupid. Adding an element of danger in the form of some bullshit treasure hunt doesn't make an already bad movie funnier. Besides, there was only one movie where this kind of premise ever worked, and Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey are not Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas, and Fool's Gold is a pale imitation of the greatness that is Romancing the Stone.
People are fucking stupid and have horrible taste. I have realized that my esteem for my fellow man is inversely proportional to my fellow man's willingness to drop their hard-earned cash on movies like Fool's Gold. This makes me pray that some kind of apocalyptic cataclysm results in the end of culture as we know it, because I would rather live in a Mad Max-type of world where I engage in vicious shotgun and blast fuse-mediated battles for petrol with gay BDSM bikers in the Australian outback than in one where people line up to see Fool's Gold like lemmings at a goddamned cliff. No fucking thank you. I do NOT approve.
Labels: assholes, movies, oh the horror, ranting, retard rage
RIP Chief Brody
I was very sad to hear that Roy Scheider passed away at the age of 75 this weekend. He had multiple myeloma and he was old anyway, but I still experienced a pang of sadness at the news. As far as movies go, there are a few that had a dramatic impact on my world. In no particular order, these films include The Ten Commandments, Gone With the Wind, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, The Naked Gun, Aliens, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Ghostbusters, Back to the Future, Robocop, Romancing the Stone, The Running Man, and Ruthless People. However, while all these movies are my treasured favorites, there is one film that rises above all of them in terms of having the most lasting effect on me: Jaws.
I saw Jaws when I was five, because I desperately wanted to see it and finally my mom relented. It's rated PG, after all, and the worst language in it ("smile, you son-of-a...") is obscured by an exploding scuba tank in the shark's mouth. She figured it wouldn't be the worst thing if I saw Jaws since I wanted to so badly. I decided after a trip to Sea World when I was three that my life's ambition was to be a marine biologist, and I determined that seeing Jaws was critical to my training as such. It turns out that this would have been better left out of my early childhood marine biology curriculum, because it convinced me that great white sharks like to eat girls, and are so terrifying they can come onto land. Although that didn't happen in Jaws, I wasn't entirely sure something as determinedly hungry as the shark wouldn't get under the carpet in the hallway at my parents' house, and swim up to my room and pluck me from my day bed like some kind of little girl midnight snack. I insisted that my parents turn the hall light on and leave my door open so I could see that inevitable dorsal fin when it came swimming up the carpet to get me and try to avoid it as best as possible. That arrangement lasted for seven years, until I finally conceded that great whites couldn't swim up carpeted hallways in junior high.
Although I started off being terrified out of my wits by Jaws, this movie became one of my favorites. It's awesome and fun to watch, and I realized in hindsight that Chief Brody is a hot piece. He spends most of the movie smoking, drinking giant tumblers of wine, and fighting with the local bureaucrats, and then he conquers his fear of water to blow up the shark with a scuba tank and his trusty thirty-ought. He was even hot shit when he was up to his rolled-up shirtsleeves in fish guts working the shark boat's chum station.
The world is a less sexy place now that Chief Brody isn't running around keeping the beaches of New England safe from marauding sharks. Alas.
I saw Jaws when I was five, because I desperately wanted to see it and finally my mom relented. It's rated PG, after all, and the worst language in it ("smile, you son-of-a...") is obscured by an exploding scuba tank in the shark's mouth. She figured it wouldn't be the worst thing if I saw Jaws since I wanted to so badly. I decided after a trip to Sea World when I was three that my life's ambition was to be a marine biologist, and I determined that seeing Jaws was critical to my training as such. It turns out that this would have been better left out of my early childhood marine biology curriculum, because it convinced me that great white sharks like to eat girls, and are so terrifying they can come onto land. Although that didn't happen in Jaws, I wasn't entirely sure something as determinedly hungry as the shark wouldn't get under the carpet in the hallway at my parents' house, and swim up to my room and pluck me from my day bed like some kind of little girl midnight snack. I insisted that my parents turn the hall light on and leave my door open so I could see that inevitable dorsal fin when it came swimming up the carpet to get me and try to avoid it as best as possible. That arrangement lasted for seven years, until I finally conceded that great whites couldn't swim up carpeted hallways in junior high.
Although I started off being terrified out of my wits by Jaws, this movie became one of my favorites. It's awesome and fun to watch, and I realized in hindsight that Chief Brody is a hot piece. He spends most of the movie smoking, drinking giant tumblers of wine, and fighting with the local bureaucrats, and then he conquers his fear of water to blow up the shark with a scuba tank and his trusty thirty-ought. He was even hot shit when he was up to his rolled-up shirtsleeves in fish guts working the shark boat's chum station.
Labels: hot dudes, movies, people who died, Razzification
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Justin Long
DOB: June 2, 1978
Occupation: hawking Macs, trashing PCs, starring in shiteous movies, and sticking his dick into Drew Barrymore's fug ass
Hometown: Fairfield, Connecticut
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I LOATHE those "I'm a Mac, I'm a snotty, pretentious asshole" commercials promoting computers such as the one on which I am typing right now. Most of the time, I am very pleased with my MacBook. However, sometimes it's just as much of a pain in the ass as any other kind of computer. Yesterday, for example, I had to wait five hours while it failed to successfully migrate all my files from my work computer for a second time. After those five hours I had to move the files manually anyway because for whatever reason, the "Migration Manager" didn't like moving the mp3 file for "Yeah" by Big Kuntry King and cancelled out the entire process. If Justin Long had showed up and been all, "I'm a Mac, firewires are awesome," I would have punched him in his smug, smirking face.
Supposedly, Justin's condescending personification of a Mac computer is supposed to make me want to be Mac-snobby, as well. I will NEVER be one of those tools who runs around saying shit like "I have two gigs of RAM and I'm running Leopard" or the typical nobody-cares crap that Mac snobs generally spout off with little or no provocation. While Justin's performances on the silver screen are forgettable at best, his work in the Mac ads is inescapable for me, as I'm both a TV junkie and a Mac owner. I could ignore Herbie: Fully Loaded, but sadly, as I love my computer almost as much as my dogs, I'm not only confronted by Justin, but thanks to Apple's marketing department, I'm fucking REPRESENTED by him. Fuck!
Justin sucks and I hope his career tanks and Apple goes in a different direction with their advertising strategies. Now that he's mildly famous for his Mac commercials, he keeps showing up on my celebrity gossip webpages sucking face with none other than Drew Barrymore. I hate Drew Barrymore. Between her tormenting the world with filling its theater screens with shiteous romantic comedies and perfecting the Bassett Houndish expression that people seem to think is cute, Drew Barrymore is a permanent bane to our culture. I don't need more paparazzi footage and boring gossip about Drew Barrymore, and I sure as shit don't need said internet gossip to feature her sucking face with this Justin Long dipshit.
Besides, Justin Long went to Vassar. Actually, he dropped out of Vassar to play the love interest of the legendary Ms. Britney Spears in her cinematic classic Crossroads. Vassar breeds douchebags. Okay, so I know a few smart, cool people who went to Vassar, but they've got to be exceptions. Vassar is a veritable cavalcade of losers compared to the factory of awesomeness that is Smith Col--wait, what am I saying? Everyone knows that Smith College is not a "factory of awesomeness." More like "factory of ugly boobmashers listening to Melissa Ferrick and looking for stuff to complain self-righteously about." I shouldn't throw stones about him going to a college full of fugly bitches. So I can't hate on our co-ed Seven Sister Vassar too much, except to say that if Vassar's student body has as many losers as Smith's, then those are who Justin Long was probably hanging out with when he went there. He was probably involved with the Vassar equivalent of the Smith acapella group scene. What an asshole.
Labels: celebrities, computer incompetence, Daily Douchebag, Dumb Smith bitches, movies, you're ugly
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John Gibson
DOB: 1946
Occupation: FOX News talk show host, insensitive cad, sworn enemy of the British Broadcasting Corporation
Hometown: ???
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I used to watch FOX News a lot, because the people on it are so ridiculous. Between their whole Bush propagandist freedom schtick and their intentionally obnoxious, constantly editorializing personalities, I found FOX News to be completely hilarious. However, that got tired after awhile. You can only watch Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter giving each other palpable fuck-me eyes while spouting a steady stream of outrageous asshole gibberish for so long before you decide to see if Bravo is showing any episodes of "Project Runway" that you've seen five times already.
When I do watch FOX, I usually skip right past "The Big Story," because John Gibson is boring as well as boorish, and he looks like the villain in a bad Lifetime movie. I could see him playing a child-molesting stepfather or a date-raping corrupt city councilman opposite the survivor-victim female protagonist portrayed by Rena Sofer or Rebecca Gayheart. Every once in a while, Gibson produces some extreme assholery, like his crusade against those damn America-hating foreigners at the BBC or his wishing for "another 9/11" to galvanize support for Bush and the Iraq war. Most of the time, however, he creeps me out, so I don't watch his show, and I sure as shit don't listen to his radio program. Besides, I'm more into the hotness that is Shepard Smith.
Anyway, John Gibson had one of his rare moments of achievements in being a dick yesterday when he started going off on Heath Ledger. He mocked him with audio clips of the infamous "I don't know how to quit you" and came up with a few theories about why Heath Ledger made such an early departure from this mortal coil. This created some controversy, because apparently making fun of Heath Ledger is off-limits now that he's no longer with us, and because making fun of gay movie characters sounds like homophobia to idiots. Frankly, I would be more upset about the fact that the Reverend Fred Phelps is taking his "GOD HATES FAGS" signs down under to picket Heath's funeral because, according to Westboro Baptist Church spokeswhore Shirley Phelps-Roper, "he got on that big screen with a big, fat message: God is a liar and it’s OK to be gay." Their press release describes Brokeback Mountain as a "sordid, tacky bucket of slime seasoned with vomit" and "He (God) hates all persons having anything whatsoever to do with it." They also add, "Heath Ledger thought it was great fun defying God Almighty and His plain word; to wit: God Hates Fags! & Fag-Enablers!... Heath Ledger is now in Hell, and has begun serving his eternal sentence there - beside which, nothing else about Heath Ledger is relevant or consequential." Now once I got to the "seasoned with vomit" part I said, "A-HA! Homophobia alert!" Actually, that happened when I went to the URL godhatesfags.com. The Westboro Baptist Church thinks Heath is currently roasting over an eternal flame at the business end of a pitchfork for being a "fag-enabler," and I'm going to call a spade a spade and say that the Phelpses are indeed homophobic. I don't really think that making fun of scenes from Brokeback Mountain on a FOX News radio show necessarily is the same thing, but you can decide for yourself.
Perez Hilton is incensed about this--because he does SUCH a service for the gays by being the most annoying queen in the history of Manic Panic hair dye and other brightly colored accessories for plumage enhancement and outing every celebrity he can think of who MIGHT be hitting it on the same-sex tip because they don't deserve private lives--and provided this synopsis of Gibson's insensitive eulogizing of Heath Ledger:
Playing an audio clip of the iconic quote, 'I wish I knew how to quit you' from Ledger’s gay romance movie Brokeback Mountain, Gibson disdainfully quipped, 'Well, he found out how to quit you.' Laughing, Gibson then played another clip from Brokeback Mountain in which Ledger said, 'We’re dead,' followed by his own, mocking 'We’re dead' before playing the clip again."I think this is actually kind of funny, at least the part about John Edwards and speculation about Heath's portfolio taking a dive down on Wall Street. Tasteless, maybe, but COME ON. It's Heath Ledger! Who cares? I know Heath Ledger's death was surprising and a big tragedy and everyone is devastated and he was talented and blah blah blah, but this is Heath Ledger, not fucking JFK. Heath Ledger from 10 Things I Hate About You (filmed in Tacoma, WA!) and the appalling two hour movie rendition of a Medieval Times matinee jousting showcase known as A Knight's Tale. Okay, so Brokeback Mountain was fine, but still...Heath Ledger didn't end the damn Cold War or broker peace or invent a vaccine or get Africa out of debt or do anything besides convince everyone that he was a gay cowboy and not an Australian Johnny Depp wannabe hipster, knock up that chick from "Dawson's Creek," and move to Brooklyn. It's not like making a couple dumb splices of a memorable scene from Brokeback Mountain is the equivalent of making fun of Holocaust survivors or something really loathsome and inexcusable.
Gibson called Ledger a "weirdo" with a "serious drug problem" and suggested that Ledger killed himself because he had "a serious position in the (stock) market" or perhaps "watched the Clinton-Obama debate last night. I think he was an Edwards guy, cause he saw his Edwards guy was just completely irrelevant."
Besides, this is FOX NEWS! How can anyone get mad about something a FOX host says that is crass or offensive? That describes virtually ALL of their programming. John Gibson was just doing his damn job: reporting unsubstantiated sensationalist facts and being an asshole. I applaud him for having such a high standard for professionalism. I also am glad SOMEONE is trying to be funny about Heath Ledger, because if I have to read one more breaking story about how Heath Ledger liked his coffee or how he helped some dumbass change a tire once or how John Travolta had a huge hard-on for him, I'm going to go crazy. I get it. Heath Ledger was nice. It's sad that he's dead. That's a downer, so why not try to add some levity with a couple mean-spirited jokes? Good show, John Gibson. You may not have much class, but at least your black heart is in the right place.
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, media whores, movies, people who died, TV, vulgar display of faggotry
Friday, December 21, 2007
Daily Douchebag: whoever greenlighted THIS
DOB: yesterday, apparently
Occupation: making piss-poor, straight-to-video movies
Douchebaggery: I absolutely DO NOT understand who has decided that Paris Hilton is a marketable commodity, or that people want to go see a movie in which her "acting" skills are expected to carry the film. Furthermore, they better expect a fucking Sophie's Choice caliber performance out of her if the premise of this movie is that Paris is a "hottie." Paris Hilton reminds me of the Barbie dolls my aunts would give me to discourage what they felt were unladylike pursuits (reading, science, career ambitions, lack of interest in husband-attracting or child-rearing). The Barbies didn't really do the job, because after I'd use them to wage war against and defeat my brother's army of GI Joes and Masters of the Universe figures on account of their comparative Brobdingnagian stature and failed to notice my dog dragging them out into the yard, they would be considerably worse for the wear and decidedly opposed to an image of idealized female beauty. Their hair would turn into a dreadlocked plastic mess, they would have teeth marks in their perma-tiptoed feet, and they would look like they just drank a quart of Ripple spiked with GHB and got gangbanged by a community college basketball team. Despite all her expensive clothes and extensions and Z-list model boyfriends, that's the image Paris invokes for me.
Speaking of revolting images, I would like to remind everyone that while Paris does look better than her co-star the "nottie," the last time I checked, THIS was not hot:
So note to whoever decided to give the go-ahead to The Hottie and The Nottie: way to cost your production company a lot of money they're not going to recoup. And thanks for cursing modern culture with this monstrosity. Even seeing it on the shelf at Blockbuster is an affront to standards of decency.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, gross, media whores, movies, oh the horror, sluts, viruses rule
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The Immaculate Ms. Britney Spears
Anyone who has ever been to my apartment can vouch for the fact that I'm crazy about the Virgin Mary. I have pictures and statues of her everywhere. I've had honeys come over, look around suspiciously, and say, "Hey, are you really religious or something?" I always put their mind at ease with something along the lines of, "Relax, baby, Catholic girls grow up to be either virgins or whores, and you're in luck, because I'm the latter." I don't know why I have these icons everywhere, but after twelve years in Catholic school, they make me feel at home. Anyway, today my interests came full circle when the internets informed me that the Blessed Virgin (or BV, as I like to call her) is about to be represented on the silver screen by no less than the legendary Ms. Britney Spears! YES!!!!
This is like my dream come true. I always wondered how Britney would follow up her seminal film Crossroads (which was shafted at the Oscars in favor of Chicago, just another example of how Hollywood REALLY has fucked up priorities in picking a musical over the tale of a not-yet-a-girl-not-yet-a-woman's coming of age road trip). Now I know: some French movie producer is angling to cast Britney as the BV in a movie called Sweet Baby Jesus. The movie will feature Brit-Brit as a pregnant teenager with no apparent baby daddy who gives birth in Bethlehem, Maryland (not Bethlehem, PA? That's bullshit!). The baby is then lauded as the second coming of Jesus H. Christ. Sweet baby Jesus, indeed!
I know that everyone is scoffing at this notion and that Christians will probably start using a lot of loaded words like "blasphemy" and "heresy" to describe the premise of JC returning in glory to make his final judgment via Brit-Brit's vadge, but I love it. Britney is down with religion, and I think she'll do it justice. If you don't believe me as to her level of piety and devotion, then look no further than the Blackout album liner:
Britney has obviously spent a lot of time reflecting on Catholicism and the nature of sin and talking about it with her local parish priest, so I wouldn't be shocked if the archangel Gabriel was giving her the good news that she got the call from upstairs. Think of how awesome the Nicene Creed (now called the "Profession of Faith" post-Vatican II) would be revised to reflect Britney's MOG (mother of God) status:
We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty,
maker of heaven and earth, of all C-section scars seen and unseen.
We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God,
eternally begotten of the Father,
God from God, Light from Light,
true slut from true slut, begotten, not made,
one in Being with the Father.
Through him all things were made, including Jenkem, Red Bull, and ecstasy.
For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven:
by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the legendary Ms. Britney Spears,
addicted to meth, and became man.
For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate;
he suffered, died, and was buried beside the paparazzo Brit ran over on her post-Golgotha Starbucks run.
On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures;
he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father.
He will come again in glory with a cry of "It's Jesus, bitch!" to judge the living and the dead,
and his kingdom will have no end and will also have a stripper pole.
We believe in the Holy Spirit,
the Lord, the giver of obscene wealth and Marlboro Lights,
who proceeds from the Father and the Son.
With the Father and the Son he is worshipped and glorified.
He has spoken through the Prophets AKA TMZ, Perez Hilton, Dlisted, etc. etc.
We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church.
We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
We look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.
Amen.
Man, mass would be so much better if they spiced up the POF to laud Britney's contributions. I really can't think of a better BV. She'd be cold as fire and hot as ice, and if you've ever been to heaven, this is twice as nice. As long as I'm rewriting prayers, I decided to update the Hail Mary in celebration. The old Ave Maria is getting a little tired, anyway; it's due for some sprucing up. I don't keep up on my rosaries like I should (surprise, surprise), but maybe I will if I can rock out a few decades of this variation:
Hail Britney, full of Frappucino
The Lord is with thee
Blessed art thou amongst meth-addled skanks
And blessed is the fruit of thy syphilitic womb, Jesus.
Holy Britney, mother of God and Sean Preston and Jayden James,
Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our meth. I mean death!
Father-Son-Holy Spirit, Amen.
I know that everyone is scoffing at this notion and that Christians will probably start using a lot of loaded words like "blasphemy" and "heresy" to describe the premise of JC returning in glory to make his final judgment via Brit-Brit's vadge, but I love it. Britney is down with religion, and I think she'll do it justice. If you don't believe me as to her level of piety and devotion, then look no further than the Blackout album liner:
Britney has obviously spent a lot of time reflecting on Catholicism and the nature of sin and talking about it with her local parish priest, so I wouldn't be shocked if the archangel Gabriel was giving her the good news that she got the call from upstairs. Think of how awesome the Nicene Creed (now called the "Profession of Faith" post-Vatican II) would be revised to reflect Britney's MOG (mother of God) status:
We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty,
maker of heaven and earth, of all C-section scars seen and unseen.
We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God,
eternally begotten of the Father,
God from God, Light from Light,
true slut from true slut, begotten, not made,
one in Being with the Father.
Through him all things were made, including Jenkem, Red Bull, and ecstasy.
For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven:
by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the legendary Ms. Britney Spears,
addicted to meth, and became man.
For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate;
he suffered, died, and was buried beside the paparazzo Brit ran over on her post-Golgotha Starbucks run.
On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures;
he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father.
He will come again in glory with a cry of "It's Jesus, bitch!" to judge the living and the dead,
and his kingdom will have no end and will also have a stripper pole.
We believe in the Holy Spirit,
the Lord, the giver of obscene wealth and Marlboro Lights,
who proceeds from the Father and the Son.
With the Father and the Son he is worshipped and glorified.
He has spoken through the Prophets AKA TMZ, Perez Hilton, Dlisted, etc. etc.
We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church.
We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
We look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.
Amen.
Man, mass would be so much better if they spiced up the POF to laud Britney's contributions. I really can't think of a better BV. She'd be cold as fire and hot as ice, and if you've ever been to heaven, this is twice as nice. As long as I'm rewriting prayers, I decided to update the Hail Mary in celebration. The old Ave Maria is getting a little tired, anyway; it's due for some sprucing up. I don't keep up on my rosaries like I should (surprise, surprise), but maybe I will if I can rock out a few decades of this variation:
Hail Britney, full of Frappucino
The Lord is with thee
Blessed art thou amongst meth-addled skanks
And blessed is the fruit of thy syphilitic womb, Jesus.
Holy Britney, mother of God and Sean Preston and Jayden James,
Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our meth. I mean death!
Father-Son-Holy Spirit, Amen.
Labels: Britney Spears, Catholicism, celebrities, Dear God, I LOVE IT, movies
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Steven Spielberg and George Lucas
DOB: December 18, 1946 and May 14, 1944, respectively
Occupation: most powerful men AKA biggest obnoxious jackasses in Hollywood
Hometown: Phoenix, Arizona and Modesto, California, respectively
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I could go on for hours about how much these two annoy me, but at some point I have to go to lab, so I'll just stick to what pissed me off about them today. I just saw the teaser poster for this upcoming film, which makes my blood boil every time I think of it:
Add to it that Harrison Ford looks like he should be eating strained peas in a home somewhere. That movie poster is photoshopped to shit, because we all know that these days Indiana Jones looks a lot more like a dude in his 60s having an aging crisis rather than a rakishly handsome, sexually voracious artifact hunter with keen whip skills and a fear of snakes. He needs to be sequestered comfortably in Northampton, Assachusetts in his Seelye Hall office writing his treasure hunting memoirs, not running around looking for hokey crap like this skull. And furthermore, ARE there going to be Nazis in this movie, or what? Watching Indiana Jones singlehandedly thwart Der Fuhrer's designs at harnessing the awesome power of the divine is the best part. I could watch him punch and/or shoot and/or otherwise maim and kill Nazis all day. However, since he's obviously considerably older than he was in the first three movies, I would assume that World War II has long since ended and it's the late 1950s by now for Indy. So unless he runs off to South America to track down aging escaped Nazi war criminals like Sir Laurence Olivier in The Boys From Brazil (and even if he did, it wouldn't be anywhere near as dope as when that little Hitler clone sets his pack of Rottweilers on Dr. Mengele AKA the hotness that is Gregory Peck), I don't see how he's going to be running around kicking Nazi ass from a chronological perspective alone. Maybe he'll be fighting Russians? Or maybe the EAST Germans? Either way, while I do love a good commie-stomping session, I prefer that to be delivered by Patrick Swayze, C. Thomas Howell, Charlie Sheen, Jennifer Grey, and Lea Thompson in Soviet-occupied Colorado. Since this isn't Indiana Jones and the Cast of Red Dawn, however, I am not sure I need to see my favorite Smith social sciences professor taking on the Cold War like he took on the Third Reich. There's just something inherently more satisfying to see a Nazi get punched in the face and thrown from a blimp than seeing some random pinko suffer the same fate, and at the hands of a pathetically old man.
To make matters worse, not only is this past the time where Indy can be fighting Nazis and act believably spry, Spielberg brought in Shia LaDouche to youth up the movie. I hate Shia LaBoeuf. He's a boring, obnoxious little brat, his popularity is one of the reasons I distrust kids these days so deeply, and they might as well bring Short Round back as long to ensure that they really annoy and piss off the audience. At least Short Round provided occasional comic relief. Granted, I wanted to reach through the screen and throttle him every time he was like, "Doctah Jone! Doctah Jone!"--which was usually accompanied by him or Kate Capshaw doing something idiotic to complicate the already unbearable plot of Temple of Doom--but at least he wasn't a tool who thinks he's the best thing since KY Liquid. I really get the vibe from Shia that he thinks he's God's gift to everything: women, movies, the environment, etc., and that irritates me. He has stupid tattoos and I can barely remember what he looks like. Earth to Shia: you're not special, and I associate your name with either a sect of Islam or French beef, not some hot Hollywood stud. So don't think you're hot shit just because you're in this abortion of an Indiana Jones movie.
I just don't think there needed to be another one of these movies, especially not now when Harrison Ford is succumbing to the ravages of time. This movie is being made for one reason only: greed, and because of that, it's going to suck more dick than I do. Thanks a lot, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, for continuing to ruin the classic film franchises you've made by squeezing every last drop of profit out of them, no matter the cost. This movie is going to hang like a dark cloud over the Indiana Jones franchise for decades to come, even worse than Temple of Doom. Not that I'm surprised, as this is coming from the men who gave us A.I.:Artificial Intelligence and Jar Jar Binks, but it pisses me off nonetheless.
In fact, the only good thing about this movie that I can think of is that Cate Blanchett is in it, and I have the hots for that bitch something serious. However, I understand she only has a bit part in the movie. Oh well. At least there's five minutes of it I'll like. Probably.
Labels: aging, assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, movies, retard rage
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Billy Dee Williams
Real Name: William December Williams, Jr. (!)
DOB: April 6, 1937
Occupation: smooth-ass actor
Hometown: Harlem, New York, New York
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Ever since I was a little kid, I've heard my mom go on and on about how she thinks Billy Dee Williams is the sexiest piece of ass on the planet. Whenever we watch The Empire Strikes Back and Lando first strolls out to flash his lady-killing grin at Princess Leia in the Cloud City, my mother without fail falls into a state of giggly, rapturous praise. "Oh, that Billy Dee! He's so charming! He's so handsome!" In fact, in Return of the Jedi, my mother shows no interest whatsoever in the goings on at Jabba's palace until Lando shows up as part of the effort to break Han Solo out of his carbonite prison to atone for selling his ass out in the previous movie.
While I never achieved my mother's level of Billy Dee adoration, I saw the above picture of him picking up Thanksgiving dinner this year and have to give the man his due. He is pretty fucking hot for a SEVENTY YEAR OLD. Normally I don't think dirty thoughts about the elderly, but I would be lying if I said I didn't contemplate what it would be like hitting that hot geriatric piece. This is also encouraging, because it proves that alcohol--or at least Colt 45--does a body good. As I'm on the Billy Dee health plan, I'm fixing to be one hot old bitch in another forty years.
Speaking of Colt 45, I managed to dig up an old TV ad in which the hotness known as William December Williams, Jr. talks about his favorite beverage. "There are two rules to remember if you want to have a good time. Rule number one: never run out of Colt 45. Rule number two: never forget rule number one." If that's not hot, I don't know what is.
Billy Dee truly cornered the market on smooth, and he hasn't given that shit up now, even in his twilight years. While I certainly had fun fingerbanging the turkey with my platonic life partner this Thanksgiving, I have to confess that part of me wishes I was enjoying some delicious, frosty-cold cans of malt liquor with Lando Calrissian. What a foxy old man.
Labels: aging, alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, movies
Friday, November 02, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Rush Propst
DOB: ???
Occupation: high school football coach; jack of all illicit trades
Hometown: Ohatatchee, Alabama
Current residence: Hoover, Alabama
Douchebaggery: I had no idea who Rush Propst was until yesterday when I got this frantic e-mail from LL Cool Jew:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandists.org)I read the article and I still really had no idea why this Rush Propst dude was famous. As I get older, my MTV watching has waned over the years. In fact, the other day someone asserted that "TRL" had since been canceled, and I couldn't say for sure whether or not this was true. In fact, I'm so old that I'm still mentally living in the era where Carson Daly hosted that trash and "Bugaboo" by Destiny's Child was topping the countdown. I do watch some MTV trash every so often. "Laguna Beach" had its moments, and there have been some priceless fucking episodes of "True Life," and I'm torn between being proud and horrified of the fact that I watch "The Hills" from time to time. However, I feel almost too dated to really get into MTV like I used to, which is a shame, because apparently I miss things that I should by all accounts love. One of these things is "Two-a-Days: Hoover High."
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: PLEASE blog this. PLEASE?
http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1573178/20071031/id_0.jhtml
Apparently this show follows the Hoover High Buccaneers and the ins and outs of playing for a crazy high school football team. LL Cool Jew was kind enough to give me the rundown, since she's so into MTV that she still watches those "Real World vs. Road Rules Challenge: The Inferno"-type shows:
LL Cool Jew: hayNeedless to say, I'm eagerly anticipating receipt of my "Two-a-Days" box set, if only because anything that's like "Varsity Blues: the Reality Series" has the potential to be the greatest TV show ever. In case you somehow missed the mind-blowing awesomeness that is Varsity Blues, you should know that it is not only the single finest demonstration of the craft by James Van Der Beek AKA Dawson of his eponymous creek, it's truly one of the finest cinematic offerings of ALL TIME, if only to listen to Jon "Coach Bud Kilmer" Voight shriek at Dawson's character Johnny "The Mox" Moxon stuff like "You are the GODDAMN DUMBEST SMART KID I KNOW!" The Mox's intelligence is demonstrated by him smuggling a copy of Slaughterhouse Five into his playbook for a little sideline reading. Apparently Coach Kilmer is not a Vonnegut fan, because he catches The Mox doing this and says, "Pull something like this again and I'll cut your ass, boy!" In West Canaan, Texas, the only reading players on the fabled Coyotes should be doing is of the Bible, so they can craft memorable variations on the 23rd Psalm like "yea, though I may walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no faggots from Bingville." Man, Varsity Blues rules so hard.
Razzy: haaaayyyy
LL Cool Jew: HAAAAY
LL Cool Jew: did you read about coach propst
LL Cool Jew: sorry to be a pest
LL Cool Jew: but it's so funny
Razzy: yes
Razzy: i love his look
Razzy: such a coach
LL Cool Jew: i know!
Razzy: he's like jon voight in varsity blues
Razzy: except worse!
LL Cool Jew: he SO DOES!
LL Cool Jew: it's so unsurprising that he forced the teachers to give his players good grades
Razzy: i know
Razzy: you know he just walked up to them and just got all beefy and up in their face
LL Cool Jew: and was like
LL Cool Jew: "you know everyone in hoover alabama wants to do what's right for the hoover buccaneers"
LL Cool Jew: god i loved that show
LL Cool Jew: guess what
Razzy: i never saw it!
Razzy: what?
LL Cool Jew: god hates fags
LL Cool Jew: :D
LL Cool Jew: oh
LL Cool Jew: my god
LL Cool Jew: angie
LL Cool Jew: you
LL Cool Jew: have
LL Cool Jew: to get with two-a-days
LL Cool Jew: it
LL Cool Jew: is the greatest
LL Cool Jew: show
LL Cool Jew: ever
Razzy: oh i know
Razzy: every time i go to church, jesus is like
Razzy: "get out, you fucking dyke"
LL Cool Jew: and you're like, "is that a new prayer? i don't know that one"
Razzy: "and i'm like, 'wait, i thought you only hated FAGS...you never said anything about slutty bisexuals'"
LL Cool Jew: hey
LL Cool Jew: send me the address where you receive packages
LL Cool Jew: i am sending you the two-a-days box set
LL Cool Jew: you have to watch it
LL Cool Jew: it's your birthday present
Razzy: are you serious?
LL Cool Jew: YES
LL Cool Jew: i think i might die if i can't share this moment in pop culture infamy with you
Razzy: aight i'll email it
LL Cool Jew: you don't understand dude
LL Cool Jew: you will love it
Razzy: i am sure
LL Cool Jew: the rush propst resignation is HUGE
Razzy: i bet
LL Cool Jew (5 minutes later after more discussion about how god hates fags): btw, two-a-days is en route
LL Cool Jew: you
LL Cool Jew: will
LL Cool Jew: DIE
Razzy: i can't wait!
LL Cool Jew: it will really grant you insight into my mississippi experience.
Razzy: i really can't wait!
LL Cool Jew: you know the premise right
Razzy: yeah, high school football
Razzy: right?
LL Cool Jew: it's the life of the hoover high school buccaneers
LL Cool Jew: the five-time-straight holder of the high school national championship
LL Cool Jew: the whole town is completely obsessed
LL Cool Jew: it's friday night lights on steroids
LL Cool Jew: and the show focuses on like five of the players and their girlfriends on the cheerleading squad and their insane families
LL Cool Jew: and, of course, rush propst
LL Cool Jew: the craziest, zaniest, most cartoonish high school football coach imaginable
Razzy: sweet, it's like "varsity blues" meets "laguna beach" by way of the deep dirrty
LL Cool Jew: who amassed a 108-15 record
Razzy: i can't wait
LL Cool Jew: YES!
LL Cool Jew: you will die at the haircuts
LL Cool Jew: if you haven't finished it already we'll watch some after kells
LL Cool Jew: (kells)
Razzy: TOTALLY
Razzy: (kells back atcha)
Anyway, I guess after tearing it up on "Two-a-Days," this Rush Propst character, much like Coach Kilmer, was found out for his less-than-savory Machiavellian efforts to win at all costs. While Coach Kilmer was sent slinking away in disgrace by The Mox for his teleological attitude toward unethical cortisone shots for temporarily repairing injured joints, Rush Propst, however, went out with a bang. After a 45-minute press conference/public apology delivered in full Buccaneers regalia, the public knew that Propst had spied on other teams a la Bill Belichick, played ineligible players in other games, forced teachers to change players' grades, pulled some dodgy financial shenanigans, and had an affair which resulted in a bastard child which resulted in him supporting a second family in another town. Okay, he denied everything except his bastard, but come on...the other stuff is probably true as well. And all the while, he was starring in a reality show on MTV and hubristically believing his ass wouldn't get caught. I'm actually not sure whether I should applaud or condemn him. One thing is for sure, though, and that is that I cannot fucking WAIT to get my "Two-a-Days" DVDs from LL Cool Jew.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, correspondence, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, movies, sportsmen, TV
Monday, October 15, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Cate Blanchett
DOB: May 14, 1969
Occupation: thespian, specializing in portraying virgin and/or elven queens
Hometown: Ivanhoe, Australia
Current residence: Sydney, Australia
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I really didn't pay much heed to poor critical reviews when I decided last week that seeing Elizabeth: The Golden Age on opening night was absolutely imperative. Any movie that involves Clive Owen looking all hot and unshaven, the epic struggle between Catholicism and Protestantism that had Europe all in a tizzy during the 16th century, naval battles, and fiery bitches riding around in full armor shouting things like, "Let them come with the armies of hell! They shall not pass!" pretty much falls into my must-see-ASAP category. So I went to see this movie with KatieScarlett on Friday night.
While the original Elizabeth was better, and while approximately 100% of the romantic scenes should have been replaced with scenes featuring Clive Owen sending kamikaze flame ships into the Spanish armada, I have to say that Cate Blanchett is the dope shit when it comes to acting with queenly authority. She's very good at marching around in crazy outfits and even crazier wigs with a regal bearing, and I would hate to be anyone incurring her displeasure. Being that I was PMSing, extremely sleep-deprived, unusually stressed, and hadn't had sex in over a week when I watched this movie, I was fully relating to Elizabeth's problems: overworked, underappreciated, and sexually frustrated. At one point I was getting a little misty-eyed because I could relate so seriously to Cate Blanchett's portrayal of the terrible burden borne by powerful, independent, intimidating, sexually frustrated women whose bitchy Catholic cousins are trying to assassinate them. Okay, none of my cousins have ever tried to pull a Mary Stuart and do me in, nor have I ever worried about charging them with treason and beheading them at the Tower of London, but still. It's as tough being a woman with a commanding presence now as it was in the 16th century. Dudes are threatened by you and thus it makes getting reliable, quality ass more difficult, and you end up with all sorts of responsibilities, and you have to look all hot and sexy while doing all of it. It can be completely exhausting. Then, just when you think that you chopped off your would-be throne-usurping cousin's head and everything is going to be back to normal, some effeminate, tyrannical religious zealot in Spain sends his army to blow your heretical Protestant asses into oblivion.
Cate Blanchett does a good job of getting her fucking act together and making lots of rousing speeches, reminding me that when faced with grave adversity, the true bitches don't run away with their tails between their legs. They execute their enemies, put on fly wigs, stand up straight, and rally their fighting seamen with oratory along the lines of, "Englishmen! That fleet bears in its bowels the horrors of the Inquisition! Stand and fight!" Then they hand the Spaniards a humiliating defeat, break out the mead and the mutton, and party like a rock star while establishing England as the world's greatest naval superpower for the next two centuries. That's some fierceness right there.
Anyway, Elizabeth: The Golden Age may not have achieved its potential for historical epic awesomeness, but I could still watch Cate Blanchett march around getting her order-barking on and having implied lesbian tension with her slutty lady-in-waiting Bess all day long. That is the royal hotness.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, epic geekery, History Channel, movies
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Some film lab in Munich
Location: Munich, Germany
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Some film-processing lab in Munich totally fucked up a key scene from Tom Cruise's new movie Valkyrie about a would-be Hitler assassin, and now Tom is complaining that he has to reshoot. While normally this would be disappointing because I love movies with Nazis, as Nazis are always so easy to wholeheartedly despise, I can't fucking stand Tom Cruise and any time his visage is wiped from existence is a good day for me.
Tom Cruise was my childhood crush. Even before Joey McIntyre, Tom Cruise's poster occupied a place of honor in my bedroom. I took one look at Lieutenant Pete "Maverick" Mitchell when I was eight and decided that he was the man for me. I was going to be the future Mrs. Angela Cruise and have lots of petite children with million-dollar smiles with him. However, then I got older, realized that he was both gay and shorter than me, and became aware of exactly what a weird creep Tom Cruise is. My love and desire turned to hate and contempt. Now every time I see his elevator shoe-wearing ass, I think of him controlling his fembot wife by eating her placenta, having Asian robot babies, and doing whatever type of strange, sci-fi shit OT-7s do when they get together to dish about Xenu. Catching a glimpse of him contaminating my favorite gossip pages on the internets is enough to make me irreversibly annoyed. Therefore, kudos to whatever German film processing lab botched all that heinous footage of Tom standing around in his eyepatch and SS uniform. You have done my blood pressure a service. Well played.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, movies
Friday, August 03, 2007
You had me at "Come take a walk with me through the streets of Chi town"
Man, this summer has been Kellsapalooza, and I'm not complaining. In addition to his dope Double Up album dropping and his case finally going to trial, (a case, I might add, which he is going to WIN), my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly is releasing another ten chapters to his magnum opus Trapped In the Closet. I don't know where else this can go, considering that in the last chapter a little person shit his pants as R. Kelly's expert couples counseling skills (and Beretta) negotiated peace between a chain-smoking cop and his trailer trash BBW wife Bridget (not a coincidence that her name rhymes with "pregnant by this midget"). However, I have no doubt that the R-uh in R&B will take it somewhere awesome. Here's a tantalizing preview, including Kells "reminiscing on all of the shit that went down" in the previous twelve chapters in case you missed them, replete with melodic "oh shit"s for emphasis:
These new episodes are going to be distributed by IFC--as in the fucking Independent Film Channel! I am so glad that Kells is finally being recognized as the true artist he is. Furthermore, it will be nice to see something on IFC besides pretentious indie films produced by boxy-spectacled Brooklyn artfags.
Man, the summer of R. Kelly just keeps on rolling on and kicking ass.
These new episodes are going to be distributed by IFC--as in the fucking Independent Film Channel! I am so glad that Kells is finally being recognized as the true artist he is. Furthermore, it will be nice to see something on IFC besides pretentious indie films produced by boxy-spectacled Brooklyn artfags.
Man, the summer of R. Kelly just keeps on rolling on and kicking ass.
Labels: boyfriends, I LOVE IT, movies, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kevin Smith
DOB: August 2, 1970
Occupation: director, staunch apologist of that New Jersey lifestyle that he lives, geek, poster child for poor cardiovascular health
Hometown: Red Bank, New Jersey
Current residence: Same--it's actually somewhat unbelievable he doesn't still live with his parents
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally I would say that there is not a damned thing hot about Kevin Smith's fat, New Jersey-worshiping ass. Furthermore, he often does a lot of stupid shit, like getting into it with Richard Roeper about whether or not the movie Jersey Girl sucked. However, that said, I love him just for this:
YES! If by some unfortunate twist of fate, I found myself at a geeked-out clusterfuck like ComicCon, it would be like letting Ted Nugent into a deer convention with his hunting bow. There would be no shortage of arrogant, sweating, pimpled dweebs for me to take aim at and destroy. And woe betide the fat fanboy loser who decides to ask a well-rehearsed snotty question revolving primarily around his opinion that my work sucks. Kevin Smith obviously feels the same way, because there's nothing better than him saying, deadpan, "then I'll take my cock out of your mother's ass" to this guffawing moron. In fairness, the large-breasted fat guy who asked Kevin Smith if he was ever going to make a movie without recurring characters (and amen to that...if I ever see Jay and Silent Bob again it will be too soon) that doesn't suck had a point. Most of Kevin Smith's movies blow more stank dick than a $5 Tijuana hooker. I guess Clerks and Mallrats were okay, but for me his ship sailed when he cast Alanis Morrissette as God in the hideous abortion known as Dogma. His constant need to cast Ben Affleck also inspires naught but a big thumbs DOWN. In fact, it makes me wish I were Vishnu or some other heavily-limbed Hindu god, so I could give him SIX thumbs down. However, I commend and recognize his prowess at mocking his own fatness just to deliver a blistering verbal beatdown to an overstepping, obese thirty-year-old virgin in a room full of his comic book-collecting, Spock ear-wearing, Jedi Knight-impersonating, World of Warcraft-playing peers. Even though Kevin's dick probably isn't much bigger than an inflamed tick bite, I'd close my eyes and tap his fat ass just for that.
Labels: comeuppance, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, fat fucks, movies, nerd alert
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Madison the mermaid
Real Name: Daryl Hannah
DOB: ???
Occupation: Mermaid
Hometown: the Atlantic Ocean
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I had a dream last night that I was aquatically cavorting in the Puget Sound at my parents' beach house with Madison the mermaid from the classic 80s movie Splash. Man, I loved that movie. Daryl Hannah back in the day was pretty fucking hot, and the part where she's trying to de-mermaid herself with a hairdryer after taking a bath cracks me up. Also, John Candy's trick of dropping his change so he can look up women's skirts was damned useful. Madison had a rough time. She crawled onto dry land out of New York Harbor, and if my only choices were swimming into the East or Hudson Rivers, I'd elect to throw on an "I heart NY" shirt and bone Tom Hanks as well.
I should be able to say about 10,000 more hilarious things about Splash right here, but I had a long dalliance with the sauce last night and my brain is like a Heineken-filled sponge. Bear with me. I'll get my shit together and post something better later today.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, movies
Monday, July 30, 2007
Best. SciFi Original Movie. Ever.
For some reason, I have not seen Shark Attack 3: Megalodon. This is surprising, because SciFi Original Movies are one of my weaknesses. I've seen everything from Mansquito to Snakehead Terror to Attack of the Sabretooth, and I'm not ashamed. Between all the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter talk, and the PhD in science, it's not like it's a secret that I'm a huge fucking nerd. I love these low-budge pieces of moderately creative trash. It's also surprising because I'm kind of obsessed with shark movies ever since Jaws scared the living shit out of me at the age of five. That movie was singlehandedly responsible for my sleeping with the door open and the hall light on for the next eight years (as well as my bizarre sexual fascination with Roy Scheider--Chief Brody was a hot-ass drunk). I was so frightened that somehow Jaws would find its way under the hall carpet and drag me shrieking from my bed in my sleep that I wanted to see it coming. Jaws managed to tear up a shark cage, sink a boat, and eat Robert Shaw's character Quint, and he survived the USS Indianapolis disaster, which means he was practically immune to sharks. I figured it wasn't all that unlikely that Jaws would find a way to swim onto dry land, travel to Puyallup, and bite the fuck out of my overimaginative ass.
Anyway, I'm sad that I haven't seen Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, because based on this clip alone, it looks the awesomest cautionary tale ever about why you should always adhere to the "women-children first" custom when abandoning ship, lest you reap your karmic reward.
I'm thinking whoever was behind this is going to be a serious contender come Oscar season. I mean, if Three 6 Mafia can win one for crafting "Whoop That Trick" and "It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp," then the geniuses behind this masterpiece should at least be nominated. I'm not sure whether the special effects or the acting is better. Between the hot chick screaming "What? What?" when that asshole steals her life preserver (I'd be like, "FUCK YOU, asshole!") and the clearly sleazy older guy laughing as he speeds to his ultimate doom on a Sea Doo, this movie shows some thespians truly mastering their craft.
From a scientific perspective, the shark is actually also pretty realistic. Carcharodon megalodon, the evolutionary ancestor to the modern-day Great White, lived 10-25 million years ago and was thought to eat whales and other extremely large aquatic creatures. Anyone who has ever visited the Museum of Natural History knows that I go absolutely fucking crazy when passing by the giant C. megalodon jaws they have suspended from the ceiling in the fossilized fish section. "Paleo-Jaws" had a seriously massive bite radius, as evidenced by this classic shark biologist shot:
It's not hard to believe that, if extant, C. megalodon would be devouring Mexican yachts full of formalwear-sporting douchebags similar to the manner depicted here.
As if this clip weren't enough, IMDB informs me that there are some amazing quotes in this movie. For example, at one point, the lead male protagonist says to the lead female protagonist, "I'm a little wired...what do you say I take you home and eat your pussy?" I'd like to see someone come up with something to beat that in a contest for the world's greatest pickup line. Also, apparently when the same chick dispatches the shark with a well-placed gunshot (extremely well-placed, given the shark's size), she crows, "You're extinct, fucker!" That's a victorious one-liner which is almost at Arnold Schwarzenegger caliber.
Anyway, I don't know when SciFi plans on rerunning Shark Attack 3: Megalodon again, but I'm SO watching it when it does. In fact, I might even pick up the DVD, because it will probably only set me back $2.99, and that could be the bargain of the damn century.
Anyway, I'm sad that I haven't seen Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, because based on this clip alone, it looks the awesomest cautionary tale ever about why you should always adhere to the "women-children first" custom when abandoning ship, lest you reap your karmic reward.
I'm thinking whoever was behind this is going to be a serious contender come Oscar season. I mean, if Three 6 Mafia can win one for crafting "Whoop That Trick" and "It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp," then the geniuses behind this masterpiece should at least be nominated. I'm not sure whether the special effects or the acting is better. Between the hot chick screaming "What? What?" when that asshole steals her life preserver (I'd be like, "FUCK YOU, asshole!") and the clearly sleazy older guy laughing as he speeds to his ultimate doom on a Sea Doo, this movie shows some thespians truly mastering their craft.
From a scientific perspective, the shark is actually also pretty realistic. Carcharodon megalodon, the evolutionary ancestor to the modern-day Great White, lived 10-25 million years ago and was thought to eat whales and other extremely large aquatic creatures. Anyone who has ever visited the Museum of Natural History knows that I go absolutely fucking crazy when passing by the giant C. megalodon jaws they have suspended from the ceiling in the fossilized fish section. "Paleo-Jaws" had a seriously massive bite radius, as evidenced by this classic shark biologist shot:
It's not hard to believe that, if extant, C. megalodon would be devouring Mexican yachts full of formalwear-sporting douchebags similar to the manner depicted here.
As if this clip weren't enough, IMDB informs me that there are some amazing quotes in this movie. For example, at one point, the lead male protagonist says to the lead female protagonist, "I'm a little wired...what do you say I take you home and eat your pussy?" I'd like to see someone come up with something to beat that in a contest for the world's greatest pickup line. Also, apparently when the same chick dispatches the shark with a well-placed gunshot (extremely well-placed, given the shark's size), she crows, "You're extinct, fucker!" That's a victorious one-liner which is almost at Arnold Schwarzenegger caliber.
Anyway, I don't know when SciFi plans on rerunning Shark Attack 3: Megalodon again, but I'm SO watching it when it does. In fact, I might even pick up the DVD, because it will probably only set me back $2.99, and that could be the bargain of the damn century.
Labels: hilarious shit, movies, nerd alert, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
Daily Douchebag: Shia LaBoeuf
DOB: June 11, 1986
Occupation: actor, "It Boy," annoying drag
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Current residence: LA, of course
Douchebaggery: Born from nomadic Cajun-Jewish carny parents descended from lesbian beat poets and Jewish comedians, Shia had lots of promise to be interesting rather than a colossal fucktard. Unfortunately, now that he's getting all kinds of buzz about being Hollywood's next big thing, he's about as annoying as they get. The pictures of him drinking Hpnotq out of the bottle and attempting to eat a fat kid merely scratch the surface of Shia The Beef's ability to be an obnoxious tool wherever he appears.
Since he has plenty of interview opportunities these days, he makes sure that he says something stupid and erroneously arrogant whenever possible. For example, after leaving his Disney channel show "Even Stevens," he said that working at Disney was great and all, but it was "dehabilitating for an actor." It is not insignificant to note that he hated school. Maybe if he'd been a little more on top of his studies, he wouldn't be adding extra syllables to "debilitating." He claims his career in show business was launched during his stint as a stand-up comic at the age of 10, and in order to fit in on the LA comedy club scene, his routine was extremely raunchy. He described his stage persona as a "world-weary Richard Pryor with a bowl cut." Oh no he DIDN'T just compare his ass at the tender age of 10 to Richard Fucking Pryor! For starters, I bet he didn't spend the bulk of his routine dropping N-bombs and highlighting racial tensions. In fact, this "X-rated" routine revolved primarily around his first wet dream.
His zingy one-liners about the perils of male pubescence have won him a number of film roles, almost all of which feature him as a sidekick who would be better off dead. For example, in I, Robot (which I hated anyway, as the plot was moronic, the robots were as scary as a Furby and just as vexingly repetitive, and it had Will Smith in it), I was praying that Shia's supporting street tough character would get ripped limb from limb by the armies of marauding robots. Sadly, he survived. In movies like Holes (which, despite the title suggesting pornography, is actually about juvenile delinquents and racism and was BOOOORRRRRIIIING) and Transformers where he has a more prominent lead role, you want to spend most of your time smacking him around for being an annoying pain in the ass. His next project, the unnecessary travesty of shameless Spielbergian greed that will be Indiana Jones 4, will see him attempting to be more fucking exasperating than Short Round from Indiana Jones and Temple of Doom. That's a pretty tall order, but if anyone is up for it, then it's certainly Shia.
Almost as though Hollywood knows that Shia the Beef is destined to gall audiences for decades to come, he has been proclaimed "The Next Tom Hanks."
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, movies
Monday, July 23, 2007
Daily Douchebag: John Cusack
DOB: June 28, 1966
Occupation: thorn in the side of pop culture, actor
Hometown: Evanston, Illinois
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: Every time I see John Cusack, I just want to punch him in that lopsided kisser and say, "Cheer up, asshole! I'm sick of seeing that simpering, hangdog expression on your face!" Even when he's happy, he looks pouty and confused. I don't know why, because his career as an actor has been inexplicably successful, considering he does the same kind of thing no matter what movie he's in: he's bumbling, self-deprecating, neurotic, insecure, and overcompensating, and for some reason, women find this cute and funny. Take, for example, the Say Anything poster above, a clear example of John Cusack, Cute Buffoon marketing tactics: "To know Lloyd Dobler is to love him." Whatever type of Svengali hoodwinkery he's using to convince most women that when they look at him they should say, "Awwwwwww" apparently does not faze me in the slightest, because my reaction to him is far different. Mine is more like this:
Hey, there's John Cusack, and what do you know, he's wearing that fucking London Calling shirt again. I get it, dumbass, you like the Clash. The world has known this since...what, 1986? I mean, I know we're all stupid and despite the fact that practically every non-horror movie you star in has a fucking Clash song on its soundtrack (probably sandwiched between tracks by the Thompson Twins and the Psychedelic fucking Furs), and despite the fact that whether you are portraying a hired assassin, an unconventional U.S. Marshal, or a record store owner you listen to this same music, we haven't yet gotten the point that you would like to be the poster boy for quirky '80s dudes. As if watching "I Love the 80s," "I Love the 80s Strikes Back", "I Love the 80s:3-D", "100 Greatest Teen Stars", "100 Greatest Child Stars", and whatever other bullshit Vh1 countdown show is lauding his 80s culture street cred didn't hammer that point home. Shut up about the 80s, already, you balding, pudgy, weak-faced dipshit.
When I was in high school, my best friend G-Boner was one of those pro-John Cusack girls. This may be partially due to her extreme 80s fetish (I think she still wears checkered Vans to this day). She ALWAYS wanted to watch Say Anything, I'd always protest, and I was not only treated to numerous viewings of this dumb movie, but numerous replays of its soundtrack in the tape deck of her '85 Celica as well. She cut out a picture of him as Lloyd Dobler lifting that boom box over his head and taped it to the cover of her TI-82 graphing calculator. I'd often have to restrain myself from smashing her graphing calculator cover because I could practically hear the Peter Gabriel issuing forth from it. If some obnoxious, lovesick beta male who I'd sent packing was squatting outside my window blasting "In Your Eyes," which has the dubious distinction of being both one of the cheesiest and most irritating love songs of all time, up at me when I was trying to cope with my life's entire anal retentive plan being disrupted (ie: masturbate in peace), I'd get out my thirty-ought and make that bitch dance the hell off my property. Grow a dick, have some damn dignity, and learn how to take rejection like a man, Lloyd Dobler! It might look cute in a movie, but that blasting-the-hokey-love-song-outside-the-window-of-the-chick-who-dumped-you looks desperate, pathetic, and mildly stalkerish in real life. That's grounds for alerting local law enforcement, not a committed relationship.
Since the only time John Cusack deviates from portraying characters who are variations on the theme of Lloyd Dobler are all those godawful PG-13 horror movies (no tits, no gore, no point), I have yet to see him in a movie role that I liked. Grosse Point Blank was fucking stupid, and John Cusack as what Lloyd Dobler would be like if he grew up to be a hit man was completely unconvincing. Obviously, I have not sat through all of High Fidelity, because the five minutes I did see made me want to bludgeon myself with the remote control. America's Sweethearts...SHA RIGHT. So far, his best work was in Con Air, and considering the only good things about that movie were "Johnny 23" the serial rapist (hilarious) and the multitude of scenes featuring Nicolas Cage's mullet greasily silhouetted against a giant explosion, that isn't saying much.
Ladies, wake up. John Cusack is always coming across as a pathetic loser, and there's nothing particularly sexy or charming about that. Quit going to see his movies, so he'll quit getting work! Dude needs to just go home and listen to "Rock the Casbah" and disappear.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, movies
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nick Nolte
DOB: February 8, 1941
Occupation: Actor, model (!-according to his Wikipedia page), wannabe homeless man
Hometown: Omaha, Nebraska
Current Residence: Malibu, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, it's not really fair to say that I actually really want to hit Nick Nolte for his "hotness", although I did put that old picture of him above up to show that indeed he could clean up pretty well, at least if "cleaning up well" means looking like a 70s porn star swirling a glass of Franzia chablis (hey, it turns ME on). He also doesn't look too bad as an intense coach getting ready to yell at Shaq on the Blue Chips DVD cover, and appearing in that film shows he certainly has a sense of humor about himself, which is always an attractive quality. Nick Nolte looks busted as hell most of the time, but that's precisely why I want to do him. You know he doesn't give a fuck.
Nick Nolte is about as dedicated a drunk as I've ever seen, and he loves every minute of it. He's not acting like he should be ashamed. He was expelled from his first high school because he buried beer in the football field, then dug it up and drank it during practice (he played placekicker and thus had to find some way to pass the time). His love of the sauce became notorious once he hit Hollywood. Once Katherine Hepburn remarked that he had fallen into every gutter in town, causing him to retort, "I've got a few to go yet." He treats his alcoholism like a degree from Harvard: it's his pride and joy, and he is entirely unashamed.
Really, you have to have a complete lack of humility to go out drinking and GHB-ing rocking this style:
Just the other day, Nick was caught napping on the floor of the Kauai airport after his flight was delayed. You have to be REALLY fucked up to sleep on an airport floor. Those floors are uncomfortable even to sit on. They're so hard I wonder if they're made partly of diamond. But he just settled down to sleep off the mai tais he probably drank on the way to catch his flight, like any random bum I might see on an A train:
I can ignore the Mad Dog 20/20-soaked vagrant wrapping because deep inside, Nick Nolte's got it going on. He doesn't give a damn about anything, and I bet that it's because he's got a fucking Burmese python between his legs. He's probably one of the hottest lays in Hollywood. Give him a Viagra for his whiskey dick and a couple rails of meth and he probably fucks like a rabid tiger. I'm dead serious. In my experience, it's always the guys who you think are going to absolutely suck in bed (drunk, ugly, old, badly dressed, badly groomed) who wind up blowing your mind. They don't care, so they don't try too hard. Most guys--especially the pretty ones--all are trying to overcompensate for whatever (usually a slender and/or short penis), at the expense of my orgasm. It's the guys who don't need to care, and who extend that unabashed nonchalance to the rest of their personalities who are the hottest, most uninhibited lays on the planet. I'm definitely getting that vibe from Nolte. I don't care if he is thirty-seven years older than me and appears indigent...I'd put a bag over his head (or in the absence of a bag, do him doggystyle, reverse cowgirl, or wheelbarrow) so as to keep his appearance from turning me off and probably have the best sex of my life. For real.
Labels: alcoholism, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, movies
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
TERRORIST ATTACK IN MIDTOWN MANHATTAN!!!!!!!!!!
Just kidding. It was totally an accidental steam pipe explosion. I just wanted to be an asshole and counteract the idiotic newscasters who are saying every five minutes, "It's NOT terror, I repeat, this is NOT terrorism," in between giving us reports about how firefighters might have been exposed to asbestos and how Blackberries all over Midtown aren't working. Obviously I understand why many New Yorkers immediately think "TERROR! TERROR!" whenever something like this goes down:
However, now that it's established that Al Qaeda's not behind this one, I'm more interested in the particulars of how this is going to make life for all of us here in Nieuw Amsterdam a royal pain in the ass. I'm lucky in the sense that I don't live on the 4, 5, or 6 trains and thus won't have to deal with what I suspect are going to be some righteous subway service disruptions. Also, I'm lucky in that I don't live on the East Side and I don't drive, because Old Faithful appears to be erupting in the middle of the intersection at 41st and Lex. I shudder to think of the tongue-lashing the car service driver is going to get for the inevitable traffic issues which will undoubtedly make LL Cool Jew's grandmother go ballistic the next time she's in the city and is trying to get from her apartment on the Upper East Side to Nobu in Tribeca. I would feel great sympathy for my friend Rack, who lives right around there, but she always walks everywhere, so I imagine she'll be able to avoid the Midtown East geyser. Unfortunately, I am suffering the pre-empting of "Jeopardy!" and "Access Hollywood" with breaking news reports that constantly reiterate (along with reminders that this was NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES an act of terrorism) that nobody knows jack shit about what is going on. Now they are giving us an annotated history of Consolidated Edison's installation and maintenance of the city's steam pipe infrastructure, and an ode to the destructive power of hot, pressurized water vapor.
I have a theory that this is not an accident or a terrorist attack. Anyone who saw Transformers and/or spends lots of time on trashy Hollywood gossip websites knows that J.J. Abrams, this huge fucking nerd who produces "Lost", is capitalizing on people's gullibility with a cryptic trailer for his as-yet-unnamed movie. Well, unnamed except for its CODE NAME, which is Cloverfield (and on a completely unrelated aside, isn't that the part of Houston where Lil' Flip lives? I swear to God that's where the concept for the T.I.-hating Clover Gs came from). The internets are predictably intrigued, and every dork online is opining about the trailer and how awesome it is: "OMG IT LOOKS SO AMAZING LOL!" and "HAND HELD CAMERAS?! WHAT AN AMAZING CONCEPT!"
I disagree with those assessments. First, two hours of that shaky, poorly-lit action is more likely to make me throw up instead of gasp in awe. Second, this is not an amazing concept. It looks to me like a remake of Godzilla vs. Mothra by way of "Britney and Kevin:Chaotic." Much like everything else J.J. Abrams has done, it will probably be slow, confusing, and convoluted to the point of inducing boredom. I gave up on "Lost" last season, as the only thing I lost with it was my patience. It was entirely too many mystery blacklight maps, death prophecies, bizarre magnetic phenomena, and improbable advanced spinal surgery/hostage situations, and not nearly enough adequate explanations or scenes featuring Sayid the Iraqi Torturer running around looking like the hottest, sweatiest, most swarthily fuckable Republican Guardsman of all time. I get the feeling that Cloverfield (or whatever the hell it's non-code name is, which I suspect will be revealed on January 18, 2008) is going to be equally meandering and pointless, which is EXACTLY why I suspect something is amiss with this completely not terror-related steam pipe explosion.
J.J. Abrams just took it upon himself to blow up Lexington Avenue to promote this Cloverfield bullshit. You know he has explosion people that can make this happen. So when you can't get a damn cab back uptown the next time one of your friends unfortunately decides to have a birthday party on the East Side because 41st Street looks like Yellowstone fucking national park, don't blame Con Ed or Osama. Blame J.J. Abrams, because this is the worst viral marketing stunt in history. And then throw his ass into solitary at Gitmo.
I have a theory that this is not an accident or a terrorist attack. Anyone who saw Transformers and/or spends lots of time on trashy Hollywood gossip websites knows that J.J. Abrams, this huge fucking nerd who produces "Lost", is capitalizing on people's gullibility with a cryptic trailer for his as-yet-unnamed movie. Well, unnamed except for its CODE NAME, which is Cloverfield (and on a completely unrelated aside, isn't that the part of Houston where Lil' Flip lives? I swear to God that's where the concept for the T.I.-hating Clover Gs came from). The internets are predictably intrigued, and every dork online is opining about the trailer and how awesome it is: "OMG IT LOOKS SO AMAZING LOL!" and "HAND HELD CAMERAS?! WHAT AN AMAZING CONCEPT!"
I disagree with those assessments. First, two hours of that shaky, poorly-lit action is more likely to make me throw up instead of gasp in awe. Second, this is not an amazing concept. It looks to me like a remake of Godzilla vs. Mothra by way of "Britney and Kevin:Chaotic." Much like everything else J.J. Abrams has done, it will probably be slow, confusing, and convoluted to the point of inducing boredom. I gave up on "Lost" last season, as the only thing I lost with it was my patience. It was entirely too many mystery blacklight maps, death prophecies, bizarre magnetic phenomena, and improbable advanced spinal surgery/hostage situations, and not nearly enough adequate explanations or scenes featuring Sayid the Iraqi Torturer running around looking like the hottest, sweatiest, most swarthily fuckable Republican Guardsman of all time. I get the feeling that Cloverfield (or whatever the hell it's non-code name is, which I suspect will be revealed on January 18, 2008) is going to be equally meandering and pointless, which is EXACTLY why I suspect something is amiss with this completely not terror-related steam pipe explosion.
J.J. Abrams just took it upon himself to blow up Lexington Avenue to promote this Cloverfield bullshit. You know he has explosion people that can make this happen. So when you can't get a damn cab back uptown the next time one of your friends unfortunately decides to have a birthday party on the East Side because 41st Street looks like Yellowstone fucking national park, don't blame Con Ed or Osama. Blame J.J. Abrams, because this is the worst viral marketing stunt in history. And then throw his ass into solitary at Gitmo.
Labels: assholes, movies, NYC, terror
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
How to blow off some steam, Bennett
I have officially discovered the greatest website on all of the internets except mine. This website is so awesome it almost defies description. It's like when Hera tricked the guileless Selene into asking Zeus to show himself in his full glory, and ultimately ends up burned to a charred pile of cremains. Like Selene, I had no idea what I was getting into clicking on this link, but now I feel like I belong in an urn or an ashtray. This website is JUST THAT AWESOME. It is, of course, Commandofans.com, a fansite devoted exclusively to the hotness that is Commando.
I stumbled upon it accidentally while I was looking for pictures of Cooke to compare to Bobby Lashley, and ended up spending almost an hour reading up about it. I've seen Commando probably more than thirty times, and I own the DVD. It rules. In case you're not up on Arnold Schwarzenegger's cinematic efforts, let me just briefly explain the plot. Basically, Arnold Schwarzenegger, as Colonel John Matrix, is a retired special ops-type commando genius who lives in a remote mountain cabin with his daughter Jenny (Alyssa Milano). He and Jenny just chill, and do housework. Jenny makes sandwiches and Arnold rips stumps out of the earth with his bare hands and just gratuitously carries heavy shit like tree trunks and large pieces of steel. His idyllic lifestyle of heavy lifting and training his daughter to hate communists is shattered when some goons show up and kidnap Jenny. They spirit her away and insist that Arnold kill the president of Val Verde, a fictional South American country. It seems that the democratically-elected president of Val Verde installed caused some problems (ie: ousting, loss of power) for a drug kingpin/military dictator General Arius, played by the guy who was Carla's husband on "Cheers." He then hired Bennett, a former co-worker of Arnold's who faked his death and is now freelancing as a mercenary, who recommends they coerce Arnold to break out his expert political assassination skills. They tell Arnold he won't get Jenny back until he gets back from his mission in Val Verde. Arnold calls their bluff, kills his escort with a well-placed spine-severing elbow to the face, and leaps from the landing gear of the ascending plane to Val Verde. Then he hooks up with Rae Dawn Chong, a stewardess and pilot trainee, who becomes his reluctant assistant as he kicks some henchmen ass to save Jenny. This involves beating the living daylights out of many people, righting an overturned banana yellow Porsche with his bare hands, breaking out of a paddy wagon via rocket launcher, suiting up with enough ordnance to outfit a small army to bust some ass in one of the greatest getting-equipped-with-military-hardware montages of all time, and delivering a whole lot of priceless one-liners. He lays waste to General Arius's compound (staffed by the most incompetent soldiers of all time), and then confronts his chain-mail vest-wearing nemesis Bennett. When the military actually shows up to help, Arnold has killed everyone and tells his former boss, General Kirby, that he's left nothing behind but corpses. "Only bodies," he states, as he leads Jenny and Rae Dawn Chong off into the sunset. God, Commando is so awesome.
Anyway, Commandofans.com captures this perfectly. The site has amazing quotes from Arnold analyzing the film:
My favorite part of Commandofans.com, though, was the gallery of fake movie posters about Bennett. Bennett is truly one of the most amusing bad guys in motion picture history, between his silly facial hair, his questionable fashion choices, and (in spite of claiming to fear Matrix because he's smart) his cocksure arrogance which is his ultimate downfall. I would gladly go see any of the fake, I-wish-they-were-real movies in the "Bennettspotting" gallery.
Having sat through all of Alien vs. Predator, I can confidently state that the plot of that film couldn't get any MORE absurd if it were called Alien vs. Predator vs. Bennett. Really, Bennett would have really lent some much-needed semi-intentional humor to it. He assuredly would have smashed the fuck out of them with any random crates or pallets conveniently laying around.
And Bennett makes a more convincing crusader than Orlando Bloom could ever hope to in his wildest dreams:
This inspires me far more to commit to the environment than anything Al Gore has ever done.
Although I know that Bennett did actually die trying to get Matrix, I would for sure buy a Bennett Cent album without thinking twice. I'd probably pre-order it.
And Schindler's List was boring and depressing, but I guarantee Bennett's List would have my full rapt attention. The premise of Schindler's List could only improve by incorporating dialogue that makes liberal use of the word "pissant."
You go out on the town, you have a few Electric Iced Teas with your old Green Beret buddies, and you lose your medieval body armor. What self-respecting mercenary wouldn't ask, "Dude, Where's My Chain Mail?"
If there's ever an epidemic of convoluted plots by drug lords, tyrannical military dictators, and hired guns to extort assassination services from retired military commandos, then don't blame Goser the Goserian. Blame Captain Bennett. I don't need Ray Parker, Jr. to tell me who to call.
Man, excepting RAZZY.org, Commandofans.com is the best website ever.
Anyway, Commandofans.com captures this perfectly. The site has amazing quotes from Arnold analyzing the film:
"In the beginning of this film, I play a loving gentle and understanding father to my daughter Jenny. I educate her and protect her; it's 180 degrees from the life I used to lead. Then she's kidnapped and I have to immediately snap back into the personality many associate with The Terminator and the Conan films. I become a fighting machine that will not stop until my objective is completed. The relationship with Cindy works as comic relief, and it adds another dimension to the character of Matrix. I did a lot of my own stunts in Commando, which I don't mind. I owe it to my fans because it's me they're coming to see. Maybe now, with computers, they can just add me in. But I don't think they have a big enough computer yet. What is it, a gigabyte? With these muscles, you're going to need a lot of those."It also has a lot of fun trivia (such as a section trying foolishly to estimate the vast number of deaths Arnold causes in the film), a historical account of the various coups troubling the People's Republic of Val Verde (little did I realize that the political struggles afflicting that nation would not be truly resolved until John McLain blew up that plane at the end of Die Hard 2: Die Harder), and a hilarious ranking of all the characters in the movie. In spite of my status as a true Arnold and Commando fan, I never realized that this movie had so much going on as to warrant an entire website about it. If only someone would now make a website devoted to Total Recall (getyourasstomars.com), Predator (ifitbleedswecankillit.com), or The Running Man (hehadtosplit.com), the internets would be complete. Sadly, these websites are all hypothetical and have yet to achieve the almost unbelievable genius of Commandofans.com.
My favorite part of Commandofans.com, though, was the gallery of fake movie posters about Bennett. Bennett is truly one of the most amusing bad guys in motion picture history, between his silly facial hair, his questionable fashion choices, and (in spite of claiming to fear Matrix because he's smart) his cocksure arrogance which is his ultimate downfall. I would gladly go see any of the fake, I-wish-they-were-real movies in the "Bennettspotting" gallery.
Having sat through all of Alien vs. Predator, I can confidently state that the plot of that film couldn't get any MORE absurd if it were called Alien vs. Predator vs. Bennett. Really, Bennett would have really lent some much-needed semi-intentional humor to it. He assuredly would have smashed the fuck out of them with any random crates or pallets conveniently laying around.
And Bennett makes a more convincing crusader than Orlando Bloom could ever hope to in his wildest dreams:
This inspires me far more to commit to the environment than anything Al Gore has ever done.
Although I know that Bennett did actually die trying to get Matrix, I would for sure buy a Bennett Cent album without thinking twice. I'd probably pre-order it.
And Schindler's List was boring and depressing, but I guarantee Bennett's List would have my full rapt attention. The premise of Schindler's List could only improve by incorporating dialogue that makes liberal use of the word "pissant."
You go out on the town, you have a few Electric Iced Teas with your old Green Beret buddies, and you lose your medieval body armor. What self-respecting mercenary wouldn't ask, "Dude, Where's My Chain Mail?"
If there's ever an epidemic of convoluted plots by drug lords, tyrannical military dictators, and hired guns to extort assassination services from retired military commandos, then don't blame Goser the Goserian. Blame Captain Bennett. I don't need Ray Parker, Jr. to tell me who to call.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, movies, Razzification
Friday, July 13, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Robin Williams
Name: Robin McLaurim Williams
DOB: July 21, 1952
Occupation: Actor, comedian, irritant
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: San Francisco, California
Douchebaggery: Robin Williams is one of those guys who was way, WAY better off as a cokehead. I thought Good Morning, Vietnam was great, but it was mostly because he was high as an astronaut during the filming of the entire movie. He seemed like he was ready to literally explode and take off like a damn rocket at any second, and it was obvious that he was so zany and crazy because he was doing mountains of what Young Jeezy would call "that residue that's iPod white."
Unfortunately for his body of work, he got clean and stopped being funny at all. I don't think he's made a movie I liked since Good Morning, Vietnam. Awakenings: Booooooooorrrrrrrring. Hook: Too many kids in it for my taste, and since the point of all that Peter Pan crap is eternal childhood for the purpose of acting like brats forever...fuck that! Mrs. Doubtfire: Movies where dudes dress in drag to pull some sort of elaborate legal ruse are never a good thing. Jumanji: Unless it's about a boy wizard engaged in a struggle with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, movies where kids are the main protagonist heroes get a big FAILING grade from me. Bicentennial Man: an excellent reason why talking robots would be the most annoying invention ever. The Birdcage: Are you kidding? Good Will Hunting: snore and gag. Patch Adams: a resounding SHA RIGHT! RV, Man of the Year, Death to Smoochy: PLEASE, God, NO MORE! With every new release, I've been begging Robin Williams to get back on the blow and re-embrace the f-word. He is the rare creature who is actually much, much more palatable when he's a raging drug addict.
Sadly, he's managed to stay off the blow. In fact, without so much as doing anything remotely funny, he fell off the wagon with booze and went to rehab before he could redeem himself in any way. Now he's sober again, and continuing to bring appallingly bad (not even bad like ATL which is awesome and hilarious, but just plain overwhelmingly, don't-watch-this bad). This week, he's in License to Wed, a movie starring Mandy Moore and some dude from "The Office." The premise of this film is that Mandy Moore and her busted fiance want to get married, and Robin Williams is an unconventional minister who puts them through a variety of madcap trials to determine their fitness for marriage to one another, including sneaking into their shower, saddling them with a pair of those fake babies they use to discourage poor teenage girls from getting knocked up, and generally doing everything possible to intrude and interfere with their relationship.
If I were getting married (*scoff*), and my parish priest insisted on putting me through such pointless trials, I would tell him to fuck off and just fly to Vegas. I have no doubt I would not get the go-ahead to marry anyway. The minister would inquire, "So you plan to honor and cherish your husband?" and I would say, "Yeah, sure, I'll give him blowjobs every morning with his damn coffee and newspaper," or "Does that mean I can't hook up with girls anymore?" And if the minister had some wiseass quip questioning my fitness as a compliant little wifey, I'd probably tell him to shut the fuck up about matters in which he has no experience and call me when he actually has sex. And if he were Robin Williams, I'd tell him to shut the fuck up until he's back on the white girl. Asshole needs to retire and quit tormenting the world with his manic, pathetic attempts at entertaining everyone before he inspires someone to shoot up their local Blockbuster. He's like the herpes of PG-rated comedies: painful, irritating, chronic, recurrent, and horribly embarrassing. His retiring from the spotlight would be the big dose of Valtrex the world so desperately needs.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, movies
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Vladimir Guerrero
Nicknames: Vlad the Impaler, Miqueas
DOB: February 9, 1976
Occupation: Right fielder, Anaheim Angels
Hometown: Don Gregorio, Nizao, Dominican Republic
Current Residence: Anaheim Hills, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Vlad won last night's MLB home run derby with the longest shot of the night. I'm down for dudes who can swing the long ball and who are known for their aggressive approach to hitting. I'd help polish his bats any old time he requested it.
Also, his name is VLADIMIR GUERRERO, which may be the hottest baseball player name ever. It's certainly the most awesome. It reminds me of the time my buddy FalloniusMonk hired a personal trainer named Johann Gomez. There's something really catchy about juxtaposing a super Bavarian or eastern European name with a caliente Latin one. Also, it enables possibly the best baseball nickname ever: Vlad the Impaler. Even Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn would be nervous about throwing his heater at a player with a nickname like that.
I've always had a thing for Angels right fielders. Remember that part in The Naked Gun where the Angels are playing the Mariners, and Reggie Jackson gets hypnotized by the evil Ricardo "Vincent Ludwig" Montalban to kill Queen Elizabeth II? "I must kill...the queen. I must kill...the queen." It's not like Reggie Jackson was so fine or anything, but every time I think of that I start chuckling, because that movie is my dad's all-time favorite (well, along with the original Longest Yard and Blame It on Rio). I've thus seen it a million times, and it's given me a lifelong affection for any man playing right field with that cherubic ball club.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Mariners, movies, sportsmen
Monday, July 09, 2007
Double the DVD hotness
I was dicking around on the internets and saw that this week, my checking account is going to be a little bit emptier because of not one but two DVD releases that I just got overwhelmingly excited about.
First is a show that I had completely forgotten about, which is an inexcusable lapse of judgment on my part. I used to jam on this crap when I was like nine, because who wouldn't love a show about a gutsy lady district attorney fighting crimes with and secretly pining for a subterranean lion creature named Vincent? Yes, folks, "Beauty and the Beast" has dropped on DVD! Apparently season 1's been out for awhile (surprisingly I have not seen this prominently displayed at my local Best Buy), but now season 2 is being released in its entirety.
In case you weren't the world's biggest loser like me and have forgotten the plot of this show, let me refresh. Linda Hamilton plays a New York City ADA who gets kidnapped by these dudes in some sort of East New York-ish looking neighborhood who offer to hail a cab for her. They cut up her face and are about to rape her when some thing that can best be described as an unholy combination of traveling minstrel, homeless guy, Phish devotee, and Thundercat jumps into their windowless cargo van and lays a world of hurt on some face-stabbing, would-be rapist loser ass. Then he takes the unconscious Linda Hamilton to his abandoned subway tunnel lair, where he lives along with an assortment of other mole people. The lair looks like a combination of a quaint Tuscan village and a 19th century Paris salon, and all the mole people are intellectuals, with Vincent being the smartest and most sensitive of them all. He writes poetry, paints, plays piano, and favors sweeping velvet cloaks, and also has a pretty good ability to perform slashed face repair with the precision and aesthetic sense of the world's finest plastic surgeon.
At first she is afraid, but then ADA Linda Hamilton grows to realize how special Vincent is and agrees to keep his identity secret once she returns to the world above and resumes her work as a prosecutor. Occasionally she calls for Vincent psychically to help her out with her more sticky cases, particularly if said cases involve voodoo, witchcraft, aliens, wizards, or some other supernatural phenomenon. Because he's smitten with her, Vincent can always tell when she's in trouble and rushes to her aid, depending on how the trains are running. His favorite method for traveling through NYC is by subway...ON TOP of the subway. Vincent would leap on the top of his local train and get to Catherine in like 2 seconds. I guess he lived by an express train and never had to get crosstown in order to save her.
Anyway, with all his showing up in the nick of time, Linda Hamilton starts to have strange feelings for Vincent, and most of the show involved her struggles with deciding whether or not to hook up with Vincent in spite of his feline appearance, penchant for tattered tunics, leather hauberks, and other choice feminine, faux-medieval selections from Rutger Hauer's old Ladyhawke wardrobe, and Air Supply hairstyle. There's a lot of hot woman-lion face-nuzzling and a LOT of emotional processing while she ponders whether or not to go for it:
Eventually I think there's some light making out between the two, and I don't know what happened then. I think the show got canceled. If I were Linda Hamilton's character, I would just be furious that after sucking face with his deviated septum, Vincent was not transmogrified into a hot prince or something. Apparently Vincent wasn't under some sort of spell; he always was and always will be an effeminate yet benevolent mythic creature squatting in an empty subway tunnel with a bunch of other freak outcasts. God, if I were Linda Hamilton, I would dump his ass. I mean, look at this guy! This is not look the king of the concrete jungle should be rocking.
Pardon the bad pun, but Vincent is a total pussy. Who would want to hook up with this asshole?! And where did he get these pictures done, the Glamour Shots booth at the Puyallup Fair? I bet he's all pillow talk and no fucking. BOOOORRRRRIIING. If I wanted that, I'd go find a girlfriend at Smith College. On second thought, Vincent's probably better looking than any hooker there, but still I'm not feeling his feline Fabio thing. I don't give a damn how good his poetry is, I'd pass on that furry fringe-loving mess. However, I probably won't pass on the DVD because "Beauty and the Beast" is just the type of nostalgic, ridiculous, late-80s trash that I love.
And speaking of ridiculous trash from the '80s, I saw that the special edition DVD I ordered months ago also drops tomorrow. Right after the 4th of July, while my patriotism is riding high...oh hell yes, it's RED DAWN!
WOLVERINES! If those images alone did not compel you to start shouting "USA! USA! USA!" and seeking some commie ass to put a cowboy boot in, then you are either a foreigner or a crappy American. I've already discussed the rocking asskickery that is Red Dawn at length, but to just give you a teaser, here's a quick summary of the plot. Since those ungrateful pussies in western Europe decided "to sit this one out" (according to a curmudgeonly old militia survivalist guy in the movie), all of us freedom-loving Americans get fucked by a surprise Russian-Cuban invasion, including lots of vodka-swilling and cigar-smoking soldiers performing mass executions and some light nuclear strikes where warranted. Patrick Swayze, C. Thomas Howell, Charlie Sheen, Lea Thompson, and Jennifer Grey don't take kindly to these Red sons-a-bitches suppressing basic human rights all over Colorado, and decide to orchestrate a guerilla terrorist insurgency. Scenes in this movie include C. Thomas Howell in full pseudo-Mujahadeen gear lobbing grenades at Soviet tanks, Patrick Swayze setting up ambushes looking like Puck (Shakespearean forest sprite, not the asshole from "Real World: San Francisco") with an automatic assault rifle, Lea Thompson planting fertilizer bombs at "Soviet-American Friendship Reeducation Centers", and everyone constantly shrieking "WOLVERINES!" It's the dopest.
Now I'll stop because undoubtedly everyone has to go DVD shopping and buy "Beauty and the Beast
" and Red Dawn. They are the hottest shit at Amazon this summer.
[RAZZY UPDATE: It's like AMC agrees with me! Red Dawn is on TV right NOW! AWESOME!]
First is a show that I had completely forgotten about, which is an inexcusable lapse of judgment on my part. I used to jam on this crap when I was like nine, because who wouldn't love a show about a gutsy lady district attorney fighting crimes with and secretly pining for a subterranean lion creature named Vincent? Yes, folks, "Beauty and the Beast" has dropped on DVD! Apparently season 1's been out for awhile (surprisingly I have not seen this prominently displayed at my local Best Buy), but now season 2 is being released in its entirety.
At first she is afraid, but then ADA Linda Hamilton grows to realize how special Vincent is and agrees to keep his identity secret once she returns to the world above and resumes her work as a prosecutor. Occasionally she calls for Vincent psychically to help her out with her more sticky cases, particularly if said cases involve voodoo, witchcraft, aliens, wizards, or some other supernatural phenomenon. Because he's smitten with her, Vincent can always tell when she's in trouble and rushes to her aid, depending on how the trains are running. His favorite method for traveling through NYC is by subway...ON TOP of the subway. Vincent would leap on the top of his local train and get to Catherine in like 2 seconds. I guess he lived by an express train and never had to get crosstown in order to save her.
Anyway, with all his showing up in the nick of time, Linda Hamilton starts to have strange feelings for Vincent, and most of the show involved her struggles with deciding whether or not to hook up with Vincent in spite of his feline appearance, penchant for tattered tunics, leather hauberks, and other choice feminine, faux-medieval selections from Rutger Hauer's old Ladyhawke wardrobe, and Air Supply hairstyle. There's a lot of hot woman-lion face-nuzzling and a LOT of emotional processing while she ponders whether or not to go for it:
And speaking of ridiculous trash from the '80s, I saw that the special edition DVD I ordered months ago also drops tomorrow. Right after the 4th of July, while my patriotism is riding high...oh hell yes, it's RED DAWN!
Now I'll stop because undoubtedly everyone has to go DVD shopping and buy "Beauty and the Beast
" and Red Dawn. They are the hottest shit at Amazon this summer.[RAZZY UPDATE: It's like AMC agrees with me! Red Dawn is on TV right NOW! AWESOME!]
Labels: I LOVE IT, movies, Razzification, TV, United States of Asskickery
Sunday, June 24, 2007
The rebellion is incorrectly styled
I could not be more excited because as ads all over bus shelters and subway platforms everywhere are informing me that THE REBELLION BEGINS on July 11!
Man, this is awesome, even though it means watching Harry Potter be a whining, antagonistic, angst-filled teenager for two hours. In the book, Harry was completely intolerable on account of being a typical 15-year-old: temperamental, moody, easily provoked, irrational, and full of piss and vinegar. I suppose it's probably realistic and fair to expect this sort of behavior from Harry, given that he's not only a teenager with raging hormones and what-have-you, but at the end of book four he watched Cedric Diggory get avada kedavre-d by the recently restored to his body Lord Voldemort, barely escaped the same fate himself thanks to a fortuitous use of his favorite Disarming Spell Expelliarmus and the subsequent even-more-fortuitous reverse spell effect on account of his and the Dark Lord's wands having the same phoenix feather core from Dumbledore's pet Fawkes, and then suffering a blitz of bad press suggesting that he's an attention-seeking media whore with a brain-addling scar. By contrast, when I was fifteen and acting like the world's biggest asshole, it was because my dumb ex-girlfriend cheated on and then dumped me and I developed an unhealthy fixation with suicide. I guess Harry Potter's excuse is better than mine was, but nonetheless, his "Boo hoo, nobody understands me, and I'm even going to be an asshole to Ron and Hermione because I have no other outlet for my misplaced rage" routine gets old FAST.
However, I still spent a bunch of time checking out all the screen shots and other assorted Harry Potter geek bullshit at the movie's official site, as well as a bunch of even dorkier fan sites. Sadly, it appears that there will be no full-frontal nude shots of Harry in this film (I can't imagine why). Also, I'm a little unhappy with some of the casting choices. For starters, casting Helena Bonham Carter as Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange.
I always pictured Bellatrix as having straight hair and being way hotter than this cooch. I'm having the same problems with her as I had with the casting of Gary Oldman as Sirius Black. I realize they're both supposed to look busted from over a decade of having the happiness sucked out of them by the dementors of Azkaban, but they're still both supposed to retain some vestiges of their pre-imprisonment hotness. Sirius Black would have been better played by Clive Owen, who could still pull off looking damaged and beaten down while reminding us why he'd lay waste Professor McGonagall and Peter Pettigrew in the UK's Hottest Animagus Ever contest (if such a thing existed). At least Gary Oldman can pull off crazy and rash, which is also important for Sirius. Helena Bonham Carter, on the other hand, looks like some kind of vampire whore with a bad spiral perm. She should be humping Vince Neil's vinyl-covered leg in a vintage Motley Crue video, not concocting elaborate ruses based on Harry's love for Sirius and his unwillingness to pay attention during Snape's Occlumency lessons to trick Harry and his DA loyalists into retrieving the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic. They should have shelled out for Cate Blanchett to dye her hair black and do Bellatrix; it would have been better acting and a better look than Helena, who is basically just Britishing up her signature tough but ridiculously needy goth bitch character.
Another bad casting choice is this hooker playing the goofy auror Nymphadora Tonks. According to the book, Tonks is cheerful, clumsy, and has a short, butchy haircut that is either bright purple or bubble-gum pink depending on her mood. She favors Weird Sisters shirts (the Ramones of the Wizarding world) over the standard Wizarding robes. Tonks is also always doing funny shit for laughs in book 5 (she spends most of book 6 pining away for Remus Lupin and consequently is a real drag to be around), like using her talents as a Metamorphmagus to replace her nose with a pig snout and stuff like that. They seriously should have gotten some comedienne to play Tonks, but instead they dug up this hooker:
Where did they find this brooding lezbot, Smith College? She looks like she's just finished overusing the phrases "like, that is so wrong" and "I feel that as a..." at a heated women's studies discussion panel and is on her way to perform a bunch of bad Indigo Girls covers with the Smiffenpoofs at the annual Smith acapella group sing-off. I can just imagine this ho raising her hand in some humanities (let's say for fun that it's "History of the Roman Empire") class and saying, "As an alternative-hair-colored daughter of a commodities trader from Connecticut who likes to sail, I feel that Caligula was probably just misunderstood and it's discriminatory to categorize him as a tyrant, he was a pioneer who fought for women's empowerment, just ask his sister Drusilla" or "As a recently-professed non-sex-having lesbian with a boobmashing partner on the rugby team, I feel that Messalina's nymphomania was fiction created to disparage her, since she was obviously a strong womyn-loving-womyn threatening the patriarchal Roman paradigm." This chick looks like she belongs in some sort of confusing clusterfuck performance art piece with the Dead Gays, while Tonks should be winking at people all the time and saying "Wotcher," whatever that means. BAD CASTING CHOICE!
Finally, I was looking at the poster and I was like, "Who is that hot blonde chick?" I identified every other character. There's Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Neville, Cho Chang...and who the fuck is that blonde chick? Then it hit me...THAT'S LUNA LOVEGOOD! I'm sorry, but this ho playing Luna is too hot and not even remotely crazy enough to pull off Looney Lovegood:
Luna is supposed to have stringy, dishevelled, dishwater blonde hair and a penchant for accessorizing with radish earrings and necklaces made out of butterbeer corks. She's supposed to be weird-looking and even weirder acting. This girl, however, looks like she's got all the boys at Hogwarts in a dead swoon on account of looking like a proto-porn star. Actually, all three of these chicks look like the Plastics from Mean Girls, and the only one of them who is supposed to be conventionally good looking is Cho Chang. Cho Chang is hot (and check out the ass on her!), but she also gives some serious dominatrix face, and I recall Cho spending most of book 5 crying and being confused. Hermione's look is also a problem, and I hate to criticize Hermione. I identify with Hermione more than any other character (duh), as she's always so eager to show off her smarts that she blurts out answers in class and practically jumps out of her chair raising her hand, she likes to play the field when it comes to boys, she always has her nose in a book, she's intolerant of stupidity and always has a waspish retort for idiotic statements or queries, she's extremely passionate about her beliefs, she doesn't take any bullshit, her vengeance is merciless, and she is not the prettiest girl but works with what she's got. I AM Hermione, or at least her American Muggle counterpart. Because of how deeply I feel Hermione, I have to point out that the movie stylists spent WAY too much time fixing her fucking hair! That shit is supposed to look like birds nest in it!
Of course all this isn't going to stop me from getting my geek on and suffering the presence of thousands of horrible, screaming children at the movie theater on July 11th, but it bugs me nonetheless and will continue to do so. I still haven't gotten over the Gary Oldman-as-Sirius Black thing and that's from two movies ago. Hopefully, the actress playing Dolores Umbridge will be horrible enough (despite not being fat enough) to distract me from all the inconsistencies that I tend to dwell on. At least the trailer is dope enough to make me hyperventilate more than just a little with excitement:
P.S. To everyone who seems to have taken a new interest in this post I wrote last December about how Harry Potter should not have anal sex with Draco Malfoy, YES, dumbasses, I KNOW it's Photoshopped and I did not think it's going into this movie, nor did I think it was approved by J.K. Rowling or Warner Brothers, nor did I think it was anything but a stupid picture that some geek with too much time on their hands made for shits and giggles. I do not expect some kind of gay sex plot twist to occur in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so quit e-mailing and commenting shit like "loLz, that picture's fake" or "you must be very stupid not to realize that's Photoshop" or passing on your fan fiction recommendations. I KNOW IT'S FAKE! Everyone who calls me stupid should stop congratulating themselves on their superior intellect and take a look in the mirror, because I'd argue that you're not exactly Nobel laureate material if you think I'm always serious when I profess my site to be 100% useless bullshit.
However, I still spent a bunch of time checking out all the screen shots and other assorted Harry Potter geek bullshit at the movie's official site, as well as a bunch of even dorkier fan sites. Sadly, it appears that there will be no full-frontal nude shots of Harry in this film (I can't imagine why). Also, I'm a little unhappy with some of the casting choices. For starters, casting Helena Bonham Carter as Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange.
Another bad casting choice is this hooker playing the goofy auror Nymphadora Tonks. According to the book, Tonks is cheerful, clumsy, and has a short, butchy haircut that is either bright purple or bubble-gum pink depending on her mood. She favors Weird Sisters shirts (the Ramones of the Wizarding world) over the standard Wizarding robes. Tonks is also always doing funny shit for laughs in book 5 (she spends most of book 6 pining away for Remus Lupin and consequently is a real drag to be around), like using her talents as a Metamorphmagus to replace her nose with a pig snout and stuff like that. They seriously should have gotten some comedienne to play Tonks, but instead they dug up this hooker:
Where did they find this brooding lezbot, Smith College? She looks like she's just finished overusing the phrases "like, that is so wrong" and "I feel that as a..." at a heated women's studies discussion panel and is on her way to perform a bunch of bad Indigo Girls covers with the Smiffenpoofs at the annual Smith acapella group sing-off. I can just imagine this ho raising her hand in some humanities (let's say for fun that it's "History of the Roman Empire") class and saying, "As an alternative-hair-colored daughter of a commodities trader from Connecticut who likes to sail, I feel that Caligula was probably just misunderstood and it's discriminatory to categorize him as a tyrant, he was a pioneer who fought for women's empowerment, just ask his sister Drusilla" or "As a recently-professed non-sex-having lesbian with a boobmashing partner on the rugby team, I feel that Messalina's nymphomania was fiction created to disparage her, since she was obviously a strong womyn-loving-womyn threatening the patriarchal Roman paradigm." This chick looks like she belongs in some sort of confusing clusterfuck performance art piece with the Dead Gays, while Tonks should be winking at people all the time and saying "Wotcher," whatever that means. BAD CASTING CHOICE!
Finally, I was looking at the poster and I was like, "Who is that hot blonde chick?" I identified every other character. There's Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Neville, Cho Chang...and who the fuck is that blonde chick? Then it hit me...THAT'S LUNA LOVEGOOD! I'm sorry, but this ho playing Luna is too hot and not even remotely crazy enough to pull off Looney Lovegood:
Luna is supposed to have stringy, dishevelled, dishwater blonde hair and a penchant for accessorizing with radish earrings and necklaces made out of butterbeer corks. She's supposed to be weird-looking and even weirder acting. This girl, however, looks like she's got all the boys at Hogwarts in a dead swoon on account of looking like a proto-porn star. Actually, all three of these chicks look like the Plastics from Mean Girls, and the only one of them who is supposed to be conventionally good looking is Cho Chang. Cho Chang is hot (and check out the ass on her!), but she also gives some serious dominatrix face, and I recall Cho spending most of book 5 crying and being confused. Hermione's look is also a problem, and I hate to criticize Hermione. I identify with Hermione more than any other character (duh), as she's always so eager to show off her smarts that she blurts out answers in class and practically jumps out of her chair raising her hand, she likes to play the field when it comes to boys, she always has her nose in a book, she's intolerant of stupidity and always has a waspish retort for idiotic statements or queries, she's extremely passionate about her beliefs, she doesn't take any bullshit, her vengeance is merciless, and she is not the prettiest girl but works with what she's got. I AM Hermione, or at least her American Muggle counterpart. Because of how deeply I feel Hermione, I have to point out that the movie stylists spent WAY too much time fixing her fucking hair! That shit is supposed to look like birds nest in it!
Of course all this isn't going to stop me from getting my geek on and suffering the presence of thousands of horrible, screaming children at the movie theater on July 11th, but it bugs me nonetheless and will continue to do so. I still haven't gotten over the Gary Oldman-as-Sirius Black thing and that's from two movies ago. Hopefully, the actress playing Dolores Umbridge will be horrible enough (despite not being fat enough) to distract me from all the inconsistencies that I tend to dwell on. At least the trailer is dope enough to make me hyperventilate more than just a little with excitement:
P.S. To everyone who seems to have taken a new interest in this post I wrote last December about how Harry Potter should not have anal sex with Draco Malfoy, YES, dumbasses, I KNOW it's Photoshopped and I did not think it's going into this movie, nor did I think it was approved by J.K. Rowling or Warner Brothers, nor did I think it was anything but a stupid picture that some geek with too much time on their hands made for shits and giggles. I do not expect some kind of gay sex plot twist to occur in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so quit e-mailing and commenting shit like "loLz, that picture's fake" or "you must be very stupid not to realize that's Photoshop" or passing on your fan fiction recommendations. I KNOW IT'S FAKE! Everyone who calls me stupid should stop congratulating themselves on their superior intellect and take a look in the mirror, because I'd argue that you're not exactly Nobel laureate material if you think I'm always serious when I profess my site to be 100% useless bullshit.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, epic geekery, Harry Potter, movies, nerd alert, ranting, Razzification
Thursday, June 21, 2007
As God is my witness, my friends are also huge geeks
LL Cool Jew sent me some pictures from her wedding and all the festivities leading up to it. Myself and all the other bridesmaids all got dressed at LL Cool Jew's suite at the Union Square W Hotel, where they have some service called "Whatever, Whenever" or something. Basically this means you can call them up at any hour and be like, "I want a bottle of Strawberry Fields Boone's Farm, an economy sized pack of Rough Riders, a bag of pepper jerky, and a copy of Us Weekly" and they'll send some dude right up with it. We didn't ask for any of that, but we did call and demand a half dozen champagne glasses and a Gone With the Wind DVD. Well, we initially tried to get Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and The Ten Commandments, but for some inexplicable reason they didn't have any of those DVDs in their "epic awesomeness" collection (a major oversight, if you ask me). Anyway, this is how all brides-to-be should spend their last moments of freedom:
God damn, we're nerds. HUGE nerds.
"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!"Clearly I wasn't going hungry. I can't decide if I'm happy with the fact that my tits look absolutely ginormous in that bridesmaids dress or unhappy because it also makes the rest of me look upsettingly on the zaftig side. In spite of that, though, I think this picture perfectly illustrates why LL Cool Jew and I are friends. Nobody else can really get this excited about dorky epics based on excessively long books written by Smith College alumnae, and I really can't imagine who would use this to get pumped for their WEDDING, or who would use this as a third string wedding pep rally option after not being able to watch the Battle of Helm's Deep or the studly bald hunk of steaming sex that is Hot Jew Yul Brynner sneeringly tell Moses to take his plagues back to Goshen and shove it up his sanctimonious ass.
God damn, we're nerds. HUGE nerds.
Labels: epic geekery, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, movies, nerd alert
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Totally enamoRED DAWN!
If you haven't seen the movie Red Dawn, you need to go out and see it immediately. Yes, it may be buried in the extremely dusty Hypothetical Apocalyptic Cold War Scenario section of your video store, but it is SO worth unearthing. Red Dawn has aged like a fine wine. When it was released, I'm sure it did a fine job capitalizing on America's paranoia about shitty communist governments, and now it is capable of eliciting an equally vehement reaction in the form of awed unintentional hilarity. And I mean hilarity in the sense that it is literally astounding that something so improbable would resound so meaningfully in the present day. I was just a kid when this was out in theaters, so I didn't appreciate it at the time. Recently, I've seen it a little here and there on Spike TV and AMC (yes, it is an American Movie Classic, along with She-Devil, Kuffs, and Fletch Lives), and I've come to the conclusion that Red Dawn may be one of the most profoundly awesome movies in Hollywood history.
In case you are unfamiliar with Red Dawn, I'll provide a brief typically lengthy plot synopsis. The Soviets invade Colorado (oh, and Cuba helps too) via some sort of crazy plan involving hundreds of thousands of paratroopers leaping from Aeroflot jetliners ready to COMMUNIZE some freedom-loving motherfuckers. The Russians then, with a flourish of some "we will crush you" rhetoric, proceed to commit a multitude of egregious human rights abuses (summary executions, grenade massacres, staging concerts by people named Aleksandr, torture, enslavement, setting up vodka distilleries and re-education camps/gulags, etc...but luckily, no institutionalized prisoner organ harvesting). As if this weren't upsetting enough, the Russians are really being assholes about it, mocking sacred icons of Americana:
Basically, America is fucked, or as one colorful local in the movie puts it, "You boys landed right smack dab in the middle-a World War III!" Americans will all soon be forced to address one another as comrade while watching movies proclaiming in glorious generic dictator-speak that "America is a whorehouse where your revolutionary ideals have been corrupted!" However, one intrepid group of freedom fighters decides that they will not take Soviet occupation lying down. They are American, goddammit, and they'll die for their country and their basic freedoms! There's just one catch: they're a group of teenagers that reads like a who's who of 80s movies. America's hope lies frighteningly in the hands of Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, Lea Thompson, and their fearless yet reluctant leader, Patrick Swayze, son of a curmudgeonly martyr-to-the-cause played by Harry Dean Stanton. His leadership skills involve him shouting "Run! This way!" and looking stoic. Swayze and C. Thomas are galvanized to action by their fathers' tragic fate: being executed to a shout of "Fuego!" by a Cuban firing squad while singing "America the Beautiful" loud enough to drown out the sound of "Gimn Sovetskogo Soyuza" bumping grainily through the firing squad system. They decide to pull of a bunch of ballsy, garage bomb-type guerilla attacks against the invaders, and call themselves the Wolverines, after the high school football team the boys played for and the girls cheered for in happier, less totalitarian times. Like any good terrorist organization, they always take care to announce their identity by spray-painting "Wolverines!" on the charred hammer-and-sickle adorned metal war machine wreckage they leave in their wake. Then they show those terrorists on Al-Jazeera how REAL AMERICANS celebrate a violent and explosive insurgent success:
Fortunately, the Russians well-laid plan for invasion hits a snag when it becomes apparent that they don't speak Spanish and their Cuban comrades don't speak Russian, and their respective military bureaucracies are very incompatible. This wreaks havoc on the whole Communist Takeover infrastructure. Even more fortunate is the fact that the Wolverines are able to capitalize on the tangled red tape (get it? RED tape) of their oppressors and overthrow them with a deft combination of suicide bombing and negotiation with vintage early-'80s model Kalashnikovs. With a combination of spunk, good old-fashioned U.S. of A. stick-to-it-iveness, and guerilla tactics learned from a conveniently downed (while engaging some MIGs, of course) fighter pilot, they get 'er done so all of the Continental Divide can be "F.A." That is, "Free America."
You haven't lived until you've seen C. Thomas Howell in a letterman jacket and head-to-toe Winter Forest camo outerwear firing a couple of RPGs at a Russian tank advancing upon him, only to die in Patrick Swayze's arms. The only question I have is why Swayze didn't lovingly croon "She's Like the Wind" to him as he faded into that great Free American democracy in the sky.
I just purchased a copy of Red Dawn for my permanent collection, where it will take a place of honor on my particle board DVD shelf, right before Starship Troopers and right behind Predator on the awesomeness shelf. I don't know why, given the fact that if you replace "Wolverines" with "Sunni factions in Baghdad" this movie is basically the most prescient allegory ever for the Shitshow Formerly Known as Operation Iraqi Freedom, all these actors are bragging about being in Dirty Dancing, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Wall Street, Back to the Future, or The Hitcher. These guys should put Red Dawn as item numero uno on their IMDB pages. If George W. Bush had seen this film, he'd at least have had some idea of the tactics that clever, patriotic teenagers will resort to in order to expel an unwanted tyrannical occupying power. If they could give Oscars retroactively, Red Dawn would be first in line. Go see it, because it rules.
I just purchased a copy of Red Dawn for my permanent collection, where it will take a place of honor on my particle board DVD shelf, right before Starship Troopers and right behind Predator on the awesomeness shelf. I don't know why, given the fact that if you replace "Wolverines" with "Sunni factions in Baghdad" this movie is basically the most prescient allegory ever for the Shitshow Formerly Known as Operation Iraqi Freedom, all these actors are bragging about being in Dirty Dancing, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Wall Street, Back to the Future, or The Hitcher. These guys should put Red Dawn as item numero uno on their IMDB pages. If George W. Bush had seen this film, he'd at least have had some idea of the tactics that clever, patriotic teenagers will resort to in order to expel an unwanted tyrannical occupying power. If they could give Oscars retroactively, Red Dawn would be first in line. Go see it, because it rules.
Labels: I LOVE IT, international intrigue, movies, Razzification
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Bad Dreamgirls
Last night I was watching the finale "Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll," and while I stand by my opinion that it is the worst show on television, I've now become morbidly fascinated by its overwhelming shitshowiness in a manner that is almost pathological. It invokes the kind of feelings in me that I imagine would ensue if I watched a scat porn starring Dennis Hastert and Rosie O'Donnell: totally consuming fascinated horror. Between Lil' Kim's dramatically fluctuating BMI and questionable rayon shirt choices, the Stepford Ho contestants who, when asked "What do you like about the product you're selling?" respond with "Yes," the SUPER bitchy gay choreographer who shrieks with horror when the dumb bitches fuck up subtly while shaking their pussies at each other, and former Sugar Ray frontman Mark McGrath's smarmy and unnecessarily arrogant hosting and interviewing demeanor, this show is the most explosive trainwreck to hit the C-Dub network ever. Or the WB/UPN, for that matter.
To validate how outrageously bad this show is, it also has the worst commercials. As I was contemplating whether or not to flip to the Anna Nicole "THS" that I've already seen 50 times during the ads, this particular solicitation perked my attention. "Something amazing is coming," it cautioned me.
Okay, I'm in. What's amazing? I minimized this channel guide and was hit with a very bad, very anti-Razzified sight: Beyonce, fat ass Jennifer Hudson, and that other bitch dancing around in their Supremes outfits and hawking the DVD release of Dreamgirls. I think that Dreamgirls may be the most repellant movie ever committed to film, and the mere idea of seeing it, much less purchasing the DVD, is causing my blood pressure to spike alarmingly high. Dreamgirls combines two movie genres that I despise: musicals and chick flicks. I have a very strict hierarchy for types of movies I like and it goes something like this:
Best: horror, old school Schwarzenegger, and Varsity Blues have a three-way tie. I'd watch C.H.U.D. or Predator with equal relish. PG-13 horror movies (ie: Boogeyman) do not count. However, anything with a giant shark, interplanetary Earth-Mars political machinations, some senseless slasher with awesome accessories (chainsaw/meat apron, hockey mask, fancy knife-wielding flying ball, etc.), hookers with three boobs, time-traveling killer cyborgs, murderous pun-spewing leprechauns, rocket launchers, Cold War nuclear intrigue, Paris Hilton getting a steel pole driven through her head, evil Communists, teenagers having their faces eaten off, or Japanese ghosts can pique my interest.
Second Best: Historical or Tolkien-based epic adventure. This genre would be top if it didn't disappoint me so much and so often. For every Gladiator, Master and Commander, and all sixteen hours of the sublime extended edition Lord of the Rings, there is a King Arthur, Eragon, Kingdom of Heaven, Alexander, and 300, where the magnificent and commendable Xerxes was reduced to what the bastard child of Yul Brynner and RuPaul would look like if he dressed in leather drag and worked as a sadistic dom at some underground gay bar catering to pain fetishists.
Third Best: Action movies that don't have Nicolas Cage and/or John Travolta in them. I welcome explosions, fully automatic assault rifles doing lots of shooting, and generally large special effects budgets, but if I ever have to watch Face/Off or Con Air again, there will be another type of explosion. A derisively verbal explosion. From me.
Fourth Best: Movies that amuse me. Specifically, The Naked Gun, Blazing Saddles, Airplane, Spaceballs, Trading Places, Three Amigos, Dirty Work, Ghostbusters, Fletch, Caddyshack, The Big Lebowski, and Ruthless People.
Fifth Best: Harry Potter movies. Fuck all you HP haters. Harry Potter kicks ass. And I wouldn't kick Daniel Radcliffe out of bed either, after his 18th birthday, anyway.
Tolerable and I might like it once in a while: Documentaries about interesting things like war, sex, or guns, movies about disturbing crimes, historical movies without epic military combat (ie: Elizabeth), and cautionary tales about the dangers of scientists playing God.
Bad: Children's movies, cartoons, anything involving Celine Dion theme songs, and movies about dance contests. The best part of Titanic was when the fucking boat sank, but the two and a half hours preceding that made me want to go down with the damn ship.
Worse: Christmas movies. If my cranky, incompetent, pussified father informed me that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, I would have told him to cut the bullshit, sober up, and go beat the crap out of that asshole Mr. Potter. None of this wandering aimlessly around town being a loser until you happen to discover the spirit of Christmas or whatever. And while It's a Wonderful Life gets most of my ire in this genre, I don't like ANY Christmas movies. I don't like that Christmas Story movie about Ralphie and his gun that everyone thinks is so great, and don't get me started on Jim Carrey's bastardized portrayal of the Grinch. Unless the Christmas movie stars a puppet elf with aspirations of becoming a dentist, count me out.
Much Worse: Movies where awesome dogs die. DO NOT get me started about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows, because this results in me starting to cry, which is both highly embarrassing and annoying to the person talking with me about it. Old Yeller, AKA the best doggone dog in the West, sacrificed himself to save his human family from an angry she-bear afflicted with the hydrophobia and all he got in return was the standard 19th century frontier treatment for rabies: a 12-gauge shotgun shell in the face. It is one of the greatest tragedies of the American cinema.
Hell on earth: a tie between musicals and chick flicks. I may have been the only girl in American history to hate both Dirty Dancing and Grease. When I was a tween and attending slumber parties was the social activity of choice, Dirty Dancing and Grease were the must-rent movies. In spite of the slightly raunchy subtext of both films (pregnancy and underage substance abuse), these movies make me want to commit seppuku because they are so fucking irritating. For one thing, in Dirty Dancing, Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze were unable to recapitulate the magical chemistry they exuded onscreen while leading the guerilla insurgency against the invading Soviet hordes in Red Dawn. For another, every time I see John Travolta, I just want to punch him in that stupid asshole-shaped dimple in his chin, and I certainly don't need to see him singing about Sandra Dee. I hate all the boring processing and the completely contrived representation of the way love and relationships work in chick flicks, and most of these movies are veritable Lord of the Rings-esque in length. Beaches and Steel Magnolias were both fucking interminable, and the only part about those movies that cheered me up in the end was the death of a main character. They would have been significantly improved if ALL the main characters died, preferably in a gas main explosion, a weaponized anthrax attack, or a horrible riding lawnmower accident. Nothing would be more satisfying than seeing Bette Midler get cut to ribbons by a rampaging John Deere, but apparently that ending didn't test well with the audience of middle-aged fat women that Beaches was obviously geared towards. My mother loves musicals, and those are also all like three hours long. I just don't get why people enjoy a character who, when faced with a major life decision, bursts into song about it. Are you a disfigured loser living in the catacombs beneath the Paris opera who spends all his time orchestrating a diabolical plan to kidnap and rape the understudy soprano and posing as a ghost? Well, light some candles and hit the pipe organ for some melodious lamentation, by all means. Got AIDS? ...And a one...and a two...time for some jazzy dance numbers! Nazis in Austria got you down? Well, gather the family and and sing "Edelweiss." What sort of retard uses showtunes to compensate for a lack of effective coping skills? Even more despicable is that the songs always totally suck. To date, the only song in a musical I've ever enjoyed was that "Springtime for Hitler" song in The Producers, and that was because it was slightly offensive. Seeing musicals and/or chick flicks fills me with all sorts of Seung-hui Cho-esque urges, so it is best for everyone if I just avoid these types of movies entirely.
Dreamgirls: Dreamgirls now gets its own category for managing to amalgamate the most horrible qualities of both the movies above. Furthermore, it also stars Beyonce, who has been on my shit list for a long time. In spite of my weakness for some good old-fashioned Destiny's Child once in awhile (I will never stop loving "can you pay my automo-bills?", nor will I ever be ashamed enough to do so), I cannot stand Beyonce. Her solo career has annoyed me ever since that stupid "Crazy in Love" song was torturing listeners of everything save talk radio and country ad nauseum throughout summer 2003, and I would rather wear a Nazi uniform to church than so much as try on one of her shiteously tacky rap video hooker costumes from her "coutoure" fashion line. If I want to look like a clap-dribbling prostitute, I can find something way cheaper at any local Ricky's store. In addition to Beyonce, Dreamgirls also features the supremely repugnant asshole Jamie Foxx. My feelings concerning Jamie Foxx, his overwhelmingly large veneers, and his general demeanor of insufferable smugness are well-documented. If there was ever a way to make a combined musical-chick flick even worse, it's to cast Beyonce and Jamie Foxx in major roles alongside a fat "American Idol" castoff and a tranny-loving deadbeat dad like Eddie Murphy. Dreamgirls is the stuff of my nightmares, and the only way it can be considered "something amazing" is in the sense that my eyes melting out their sockets upon seeing it would indeed be amazing. Shitty for me, but amazing nonetheless.
To validate how outrageously bad this show is, it also has the worst commercials. As I was contemplating whether or not to flip to the Anna Nicole "THS" that I've already seen 50 times during the ads, this particular solicitation perked my attention. "Something amazing is coming," it cautioned me.
Okay, I'm in. What's amazing? I minimized this channel guide and was hit with a very bad, very anti-Razzified sight: Beyonce, fat ass Jennifer Hudson, and that other bitch dancing around in their Supremes outfits and hawking the DVD release of Dreamgirls. I think that Dreamgirls may be the most repellant movie ever committed to film, and the mere idea of seeing it, much less purchasing the DVD, is causing my blood pressure to spike alarmingly high. Dreamgirls combines two movie genres that I despise: musicals and chick flicks. I have a very strict hierarchy for types of movies I like and it goes something like this:
Best: horror, old school Schwarzenegger, and Varsity Blues have a three-way tie. I'd watch C.H.U.D. or Predator with equal relish. PG-13 horror movies (ie: Boogeyman) do not count. However, anything with a giant shark, interplanetary Earth-Mars political machinations, some senseless slasher with awesome accessories (chainsaw/meat apron, hockey mask, fancy knife-wielding flying ball, etc.), hookers with three boobs, time-traveling killer cyborgs, murderous pun-spewing leprechauns, rocket launchers, Cold War nuclear intrigue, Paris Hilton getting a steel pole driven through her head, evil Communists, teenagers having their faces eaten off, or Japanese ghosts can pique my interest.
Second Best: Historical or Tolkien-based epic adventure. This genre would be top if it didn't disappoint me so much and so often. For every Gladiator, Master and Commander, and all sixteen hours of the sublime extended edition Lord of the Rings, there is a King Arthur, Eragon, Kingdom of Heaven, Alexander, and 300, where the magnificent and commendable Xerxes was reduced to what the bastard child of Yul Brynner and RuPaul would look like if he dressed in leather drag and worked as a sadistic dom at some underground gay bar catering to pain fetishists.
Third Best: Action movies that don't have Nicolas Cage and/or John Travolta in them. I welcome explosions, fully automatic assault rifles doing lots of shooting, and generally large special effects budgets, but if I ever have to watch Face/Off or Con Air again, there will be another type of explosion. A derisively verbal explosion. From me.
Fourth Best: Movies that amuse me. Specifically, The Naked Gun, Blazing Saddles, Airplane, Spaceballs, Trading Places, Three Amigos, Dirty Work, Ghostbusters, Fletch, Caddyshack, The Big Lebowski, and Ruthless People.
Fifth Best: Harry Potter movies. Fuck all you HP haters. Harry Potter kicks ass. And I wouldn't kick Daniel Radcliffe out of bed either, after his 18th birthday, anyway.
Tolerable and I might like it once in a while: Documentaries about interesting things like war, sex, or guns, movies about disturbing crimes, historical movies without epic military combat (ie: Elizabeth), and cautionary tales about the dangers of scientists playing God.
Bad: Children's movies, cartoons, anything involving Celine Dion theme songs, and movies about dance contests. The best part of Titanic was when the fucking boat sank, but the two and a half hours preceding that made me want to go down with the damn ship.
Worse: Christmas movies. If my cranky, incompetent, pussified father informed me that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, I would have told him to cut the bullshit, sober up, and go beat the crap out of that asshole Mr. Potter. None of this wandering aimlessly around town being a loser until you happen to discover the spirit of Christmas or whatever. And while It's a Wonderful Life gets most of my ire in this genre, I don't like ANY Christmas movies. I don't like that Christmas Story movie about Ralphie and his gun that everyone thinks is so great, and don't get me started on Jim Carrey's bastardized portrayal of the Grinch. Unless the Christmas movie stars a puppet elf with aspirations of becoming a dentist, count me out.
Much Worse: Movies where awesome dogs die. DO NOT get me started about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows, because this results in me starting to cry, which is both highly embarrassing and annoying to the person talking with me about it. Old Yeller, AKA the best doggone dog in the West, sacrificed himself to save his human family from an angry she-bear afflicted with the hydrophobia and all he got in return was the standard 19th century frontier treatment for rabies: a 12-gauge shotgun shell in the face. It is one of the greatest tragedies of the American cinema.
Hell on earth: a tie between musicals and chick flicks. I may have been the only girl in American history to hate both Dirty Dancing and Grease. When I was a tween and attending slumber parties was the social activity of choice, Dirty Dancing and Grease were the must-rent movies. In spite of the slightly raunchy subtext of both films (pregnancy and underage substance abuse), these movies make me want to commit seppuku because they are so fucking irritating. For one thing, in Dirty Dancing, Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze were unable to recapitulate the magical chemistry they exuded onscreen while leading the guerilla insurgency against the invading Soviet hordes in Red Dawn. For another, every time I see John Travolta, I just want to punch him in that stupid asshole-shaped dimple in his chin, and I certainly don't need to see him singing about Sandra Dee. I hate all the boring processing and the completely contrived representation of the way love and relationships work in chick flicks, and most of these movies are veritable Lord of the Rings-esque in length. Beaches and Steel Magnolias were both fucking interminable, and the only part about those movies that cheered me up in the end was the death of a main character. They would have been significantly improved if ALL the main characters died, preferably in a gas main explosion, a weaponized anthrax attack, or a horrible riding lawnmower accident. Nothing would be more satisfying than seeing Bette Midler get cut to ribbons by a rampaging John Deere, but apparently that ending didn't test well with the audience of middle-aged fat women that Beaches was obviously geared towards. My mother loves musicals, and those are also all like three hours long. I just don't get why people enjoy a character who, when faced with a major life decision, bursts into song about it. Are you a disfigured loser living in the catacombs beneath the Paris opera who spends all his time orchestrating a diabolical plan to kidnap and rape the understudy soprano and posing as a ghost? Well, light some candles and hit the pipe organ for some melodious lamentation, by all means. Got AIDS? ...And a one...and a two...time for some jazzy dance numbers! Nazis in Austria got you down? Well, gather the family and and sing "Edelweiss." What sort of retard uses showtunes to compensate for a lack of effective coping skills? Even more despicable is that the songs always totally suck. To date, the only song in a musical I've ever enjoyed was that "Springtime for Hitler" song in The Producers, and that was because it was slightly offensive. Seeing musicals and/or chick flicks fills me with all sorts of Seung-hui Cho-esque urges, so it is best for everyone if I just avoid these types of movies entirely.
Dreamgirls: Dreamgirls now gets its own category for managing to amalgamate the most horrible qualities of both the movies above. Furthermore, it also stars Beyonce, who has been on my shit list for a long time. In spite of my weakness for some good old-fashioned Destiny's Child once in awhile (I will never stop loving "can you pay my automo-bills?", nor will I ever be ashamed enough to do so), I cannot stand Beyonce. Her solo career has annoyed me ever since that stupid "Crazy in Love" song was torturing listeners of everything save talk radio and country ad nauseum throughout summer 2003, and I would rather wear a Nazi uniform to church than so much as try on one of her shiteously tacky rap video hooker costumes from her "coutoure" fashion line. If I want to look like a clap-dribbling prostitute, I can find something way cheaper at any local Ricky's store. In addition to Beyonce, Dreamgirls also features the supremely repugnant asshole Jamie Foxx. My feelings concerning Jamie Foxx, his overwhelmingly large veneers, and his general demeanor of insufferable smugness are well-documented. If there was ever a way to make a combined musical-chick flick even worse, it's to cast Beyonce and Jamie Foxx in major roles alongside a fat "American Idol" castoff and a tranny-loving deadbeat dad like Eddie Murphy. Dreamgirls is the stuff of my nightmares, and the only way it can be considered "something amazing" is in the sense that my eyes melting out their sockets upon seeing it would indeed be amazing. Shitty for me, but amazing nonetheless.
Labels: movies, musicals suck, oh the horror, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Feeling the hate for the baby collector
I used to have a huge, HUGE girl crush on Angelina Jolie, back when she used to do all sorts of lunatic shit, like collect knives, fuck girls, get tattoos, and make out with her brother. she might have been a little insane, but in a really hot way.
You'd never know when she'd haul off and do something completely, ridiculously nuts. I even liked her when she was wearing a vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood around her neck and talking about jumping enthusiastically on his manorexic trailer park dick in the limo on the way to the SAG awards. She was slutty, bizarre, out of her mind, and did not give a fuck. Consequently, I thought she was one of the most smoking pieces of ass on the planet.
Unfortunately, then Angelina's priorities changed and the U.N. appointed her their international spokeswhore, and it all went downhill from there. She decided that it would be much better to morph into what she calls "a citizen of the world" and what I call a STUCK-UP FUCKING BITCH, and a homewrecking, uptight, baby-stealing adoption junkie to boot. Before everyone jumps all over me for being mean to Saint Angelina, let me just catalogue her numerous asshole moves so that you can all see for yourselves what a fucking haughty hypocrite this cuntface ho-bag is.
First, in spite of claiming that Madonna's an asshole and that she would NEVER adopt a kid illegally, she hired a shady adoption agent who bribed Cambodian officials and bought first baby Maddox from his impoverished mother for a measly hundred clams. This prompted Cambodia to tighten up their adoption laws. You know you've seriously fucked up when an impoverished and underdeveloped nation famous for its killing fields decides that its orphans would be better off staying put instead of being sold to wealthy celebrities. Thanks to the tougher Angelina-prompted adoption laws, Casey Johnson, heiress to the Johnson and Johnson Band-Aid fortune, is bitching that Angelina ruined her chances of illegally adopting a Cambodian urchin of her own. Now, she's apparently fucked up again while acquiring the latest child for her collection because the kid's mom, a heroin addict named Dung, didn't sign off on the adoption and is supposedly going to demand she return him. I can't wait until Dung rallies all the Human Rights organizations to start denouncing Angelina for what she is: a fetishistic baby thief. Don't they have any orphans in Vietnam who are actually orphans that she could snag for her collection instead? On top of that, the kid is three, and upon getting him, she changed his name to Pax Thien from Pham Sang Quang. One would think that with all her world travels and experience with childrearing, she would know that there IS a difference between a human toddler and a stray dog at the pound, and one of those differences is that they KNOW THEIR OWN FUCKING NAMES BY THE AGE OF THREE. I hopes she socks some of the money she makes whoring out pictures of her new kids away for Pax's therapy when he's older. And for that matter, her biological baby Shiloh, who she called a "blob" and who is obviously her least favorite child. Shiloh never gets to go along with mommy and the rest of the brood when they pick out new siblings.
Also, instead of humanitarian aid, she figured that it would be much better to bring along a team of photographers on her latest vacation to the refugee camps in Chad and Darfur. I'm sure that kid really appreciates you telling him that he's seventy pounds underweight after you forced his ass onto that digital scale for the cameras. Bring his ass some food and medicine, instead, ho!
Furthermore, she had Newsweek tag along and take these photos of Angelina in action can market herself as the "voice of the victims." Yeah, there's nothing posed about these at all. I can just hear this bitch directing her team of stylists, makeup artists, and photographers to make the shots extra poignant:
Hey, let's do this in BLACK AND WHITE, to show everyone that I'm SUPER serious about this. Okay, first show me debriefing the U.N. humanitarian force. Hang on, I have to put on my $500 Marc Jacobs aviator shades on. They make me look like an army general. It shows people that I'm serious about this shit! Hey, and try to not to get too much of my private Gulfstream IV jet in the background...I want people to think I'm travelling with the riffraff, I mean, with the aid workers.
Cut the crap, soldier, where's the morgue? I need a shot of me grieving over some dead fucker's body.
Perfect. Alright, let's lighten things up a little. People need to see how I'm the only thing that can bring these people joy. Get some kids over here, and tell those lazy fucks in wardrobe that I need a head scarf. Now tell these kids some knock-knock jokes to get them smiling. What? You say they're not in a joking mood after the Sudanese government bombed the shit out of their villages and killed their entire families? Well, how do you say, "I just called Dominos, the pizza should be here any minute" in Arabic? No, wait, how do you say, "If you're good and you smile at me, I'll adopt you?" Yeah, that's it! Make it look like I'm the only thing that's ever brought hope to their worthless lives!
Maybe I will adopt one. I've got Zahara already, and if I could get a little African boy, I can complete the set.
Hey, here's a good one. Get a picture of me hugging his emaciated ass. Make sure I look REALLY empathetic.
Touching. That's perfect. It's the cover shot! Now get one of just me contemplating this great human tragedy.
Boo hoo, this is sad. Hey, "sad" rhymes with "Chad." I think that makes for a snappy headline! Are you writing this down, people? Nobody's going to care unless they see how sad I am, because I'm an expert on the world's problems. Nobody's going to give a shit about stupid Darfur unless they can see how much it's affecting ME!
Jesus Christ, I hate this woman. I know all about Darfur without this bullshit faux photojournalism. They have ads all over the damn subway about the hundreds of thousands who have died there, so it's not like I'm shocked to see that the situation over there seriously blows for the refugees. Furthermore, Angelina sold the first pictures of her and Pax Thien to Hello! magazine for $2 million dollars. Now she's saying that she's going to use $100,000 of that to build a hospital in the Sudan. While that's nice, WHAT'S SHE DOING WITH THE OTHER $1.9 million?
For someone who professes to care so deeply for her family, she also doesn't seem to have much respect for anyone else's. It's not that I'm on "Team Aniston", as I think Jennifer Aniston is a fugly, humorless, no-talent sourpuss without feminine features or really any endearing qualities. Given that her greatest impact on society was popularizing stupid layered haircuts and starring in one of the most annoying sitcoms in the history of television, I have no love for her. Also, if I were Brad Pitt, I'd probably jump at the opportunity to stick my dick in Angelina. However, she was simply the latest to have her man stolen by Angelina. Previously, Billy Bob Thornton was engaged to Laura Dern, and he dumped her by phone on the way to the Vegas chapel to marry Angelina. Angelina also hates her father, Jon Voight, without mercy. Interestingly enough, the reason she hates him is because he cheated on her mother and ruined their marriage. Way to break the cycle of adultery, Angelina. Nothing says "family values" like breaking up marriages and hating your dad for doing exactly that.
Then there's the matter of her insufferably snotty attitude. She has claimed to dislike American traditions such as Thanksgiving (because it's gluttonous and self-indulgent) and awards shows (supposedly she gave Ryan Seacrest the silent treatment on the red carpet at the Golden Globes this year because she considers awards shows to be "a waste of time and money.") I actually enjoy this trash, as do many other people, and they keep a lot of people fed and employed. For example, all the lesser judging staff on "America's Next Top Model" (Mr. and Miss J) and Joan and Melissa Rivers. You know those crones would starve if they didn't have shit to talk on the red carpet. In any event, awards shows are far less of a waste of time and money than THESE:
Wait, there's more...
And let's not forget the EXTREMELY worthwhile contributions to improve the quality of life for masturbating video game addicts everywhere with her performance in this powerful cinematic franchise:
And where would society be without THESE extremely useful contributions? Nominate her for a Nobel Peace Prize, already!
And don't overlook these oldies but not-goodies:
A waste of time and money? That basically describes Angelina's ENTIRE movie career, with the exceptions of Gia and Girl, Interrupted. I only liked Gia because there's was all sorts of hot girl-on-girl action in that with the chick who currently plays the fertility doctor on "Lost", and while I thought Girl, Interrupted sucked, apparently she was good in it because she played a mentally deranged slut. In other words, she played herself. Both movies continue to positively impact our society by getting lots of replay on the Lifetime Movie Network. It takes some serious nerve to be such a pompous cunt about what you're wearing at the Golden Globes when you've played second fiddle to Jack Palance in Cyborg 2.
It's funny that up until she started cruising the third-world for kids, telling everyone else what an inferior job they're doing solving the world's problems, and stinking up movie screens with her piss-poor film projects, she was getting along with her (totally awesome) dad John Voight. She hasn't spoken to him since made the appallingly rude request to merely meet his grandchildren and subsequently said she has "serious emotional problems." I guess she was more stable back when she was collecting knives and frenching her brother. That Angelina is dead to me now. The only remnant of her old life is that fact that for awhile Maddox was sporting the same faux-hawk popularized by her ex-girlfriend:
I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather attend a weeklong seminar dedicated exclusively to Bono talking about AIDS and debt than see more footage of Angelina riding around on her high horse and acting like the world's greatest humanitarian. That would be like a luxury vacation compared to bearing witness to any more Angelina worship. Finally, the mainstream media seems to agree with me, as Us Weekly has decided that the beatification of Angelina for all her saintly deeds has gone far enough. Behold, this week's cover:
It's about damn time the media turned on her, because I swear the next time I see this snatch parading around acting like the second coming of Christ on one of my internet gossip sites, I'm going to punch out my computer monitor. Thank you, Us Weekly, for feeling the hate!
You'd never know when she'd haul off and do something completely, ridiculously nuts. I even liked her when she was wearing a vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood around her neck and talking about jumping enthusiastically on his manorexic trailer park dick in the limo on the way to the SAG awards. She was slutty, bizarre, out of her mind, and did not give a fuck. Consequently, I thought she was one of the most smoking pieces of ass on the planet.
Unfortunately, then Angelina's priorities changed and the U.N. appointed her their international spokeswhore, and it all went downhill from there. She decided that it would be much better to morph into what she calls "a citizen of the world" and what I call a STUCK-UP FUCKING BITCH, and a homewrecking, uptight, baby-stealing adoption junkie to boot. Before everyone jumps all over me for being mean to Saint Angelina, let me just catalogue her numerous asshole moves so that you can all see for yourselves what a fucking haughty hypocrite this cuntface ho-bag is.
First, in spite of claiming that Madonna's an asshole and that she would NEVER adopt a kid illegally, she hired a shady adoption agent who bribed Cambodian officials and bought first baby Maddox from his impoverished mother for a measly hundred clams. This prompted Cambodia to tighten up their adoption laws. You know you've seriously fucked up when an impoverished and underdeveloped nation famous for its killing fields decides that its orphans would be better off staying put instead of being sold to wealthy celebrities. Thanks to the tougher Angelina-prompted adoption laws, Casey Johnson, heiress to the Johnson and Johnson Band-Aid fortune, is bitching that Angelina ruined her chances of illegally adopting a Cambodian urchin of her own. Now, she's apparently fucked up again while acquiring the latest child for her collection because the kid's mom, a heroin addict named Dung, didn't sign off on the adoption and is supposedly going to demand she return him. I can't wait until Dung rallies all the Human Rights organizations to start denouncing Angelina for what she is: a fetishistic baby thief. Don't they have any orphans in Vietnam who are actually orphans that she could snag for her collection instead? On top of that, the kid is three, and upon getting him, she changed his name to Pax Thien from Pham Sang Quang. One would think that with all her world travels and experience with childrearing, she would know that there IS a difference between a human toddler and a stray dog at the pound, and one of those differences is that they KNOW THEIR OWN FUCKING NAMES BY THE AGE OF THREE. I hopes she socks some of the money she makes whoring out pictures of her new kids away for Pax's therapy when he's older. And for that matter, her biological baby Shiloh, who she called a "blob" and who is obviously her least favorite child. Shiloh never gets to go along with mommy and the rest of the brood when they pick out new siblings.
Also, instead of humanitarian aid, she figured that it would be much better to bring along a team of photographers on her latest vacation to the refugee camps in Chad and Darfur. I'm sure that kid really appreciates you telling him that he's seventy pounds underweight after you forced his ass onto that digital scale for the cameras. Bring his ass some food and medicine, instead, ho!
Furthermore, she had Newsweek tag along and take these photos of Angelina in action can market herself as the "voice of the victims." Yeah, there's nothing posed about these at all. I can just hear this bitch directing her team of stylists, makeup artists, and photographers to make the shots extra poignant:
Hey, let's do this in BLACK AND WHITE, to show everyone that I'm SUPER serious about this. Okay, first show me debriefing the U.N. humanitarian force. Hang on, I have to put on my $500 Marc Jacobs aviator shades on. They make me look like an army general. It shows people that I'm serious about this shit! Hey, and try to not to get too much of my private Gulfstream IV jet in the background...I want people to think I'm travelling with the riffraff, I mean, with the aid workers.
Cut the crap, soldier, where's the morgue? I need a shot of me grieving over some dead fucker's body.
Perfect. Alright, let's lighten things up a little. People need to see how I'm the only thing that can bring these people joy. Get some kids over here, and tell those lazy fucks in wardrobe that I need a head scarf. Now tell these kids some knock-knock jokes to get them smiling. What? You say they're not in a joking mood after the Sudanese government bombed the shit out of their villages and killed their entire families? Well, how do you say, "I just called Dominos, the pizza should be here any minute" in Arabic? No, wait, how do you say, "If you're good and you smile at me, I'll adopt you?" Yeah, that's it! Make it look like I'm the only thing that's ever brought hope to their worthless lives!
Maybe I will adopt one. I've got Zahara already, and if I could get a little African boy, I can complete the set.
Hey, here's a good one. Get a picture of me hugging his emaciated ass. Make sure I look REALLY empathetic.
Touching. That's perfect. It's the cover shot! Now get one of just me contemplating this great human tragedy.
Boo hoo, this is sad. Hey, "sad" rhymes with "Chad." I think that makes for a snappy headline! Are you writing this down, people? Nobody's going to care unless they see how sad I am, because I'm an expert on the world's problems. Nobody's going to give a shit about stupid Darfur unless they can see how much it's affecting ME!
Jesus Christ, I hate this woman. I know all about Darfur without this bullshit faux photojournalism. They have ads all over the damn subway about the hundreds of thousands who have died there, so it's not like I'm shocked to see that the situation over there seriously blows for the refugees. Furthermore, Angelina sold the first pictures of her and Pax Thien to Hello! magazine for $2 million dollars. Now she's saying that she's going to use $100,000 of that to build a hospital in the Sudan. While that's nice, WHAT'S SHE DOING WITH THE OTHER $1.9 million?
For someone who professes to care so deeply for her family, she also doesn't seem to have much respect for anyone else's. It's not that I'm on "Team Aniston", as I think Jennifer Aniston is a fugly, humorless, no-talent sourpuss without feminine features or really any endearing qualities. Given that her greatest impact on society was popularizing stupid layered haircuts and starring in one of the most annoying sitcoms in the history of television, I have no love for her. Also, if I were Brad Pitt, I'd probably jump at the opportunity to stick my dick in Angelina. However, she was simply the latest to have her man stolen by Angelina. Previously, Billy Bob Thornton was engaged to Laura Dern, and he dumped her by phone on the way to the Vegas chapel to marry Angelina. Angelina also hates her father, Jon Voight, without mercy. Interestingly enough, the reason she hates him is because he cheated on her mother and ruined their marriage. Way to break the cycle of adultery, Angelina. Nothing says "family values" like breaking up marriages and hating your dad for doing exactly that.
Then there's the matter of her insufferably snotty attitude. She has claimed to dislike American traditions such as Thanksgiving (because it's gluttonous and self-indulgent) and awards shows (supposedly she gave Ryan Seacrest the silent treatment on the red carpet at the Golden Globes this year because she considers awards shows to be "a waste of time and money.") I actually enjoy this trash, as do many other people, and they keep a lot of people fed and employed. For example, all the lesser judging staff on "America's Next Top Model" (Mr. and Miss J) and Joan and Melissa Rivers. You know those crones would starve if they didn't have shit to talk on the red carpet. In any event, awards shows are far less of a waste of time and money than THESE:
Wait, there's more...
And let's not forget the EXTREMELY worthwhile contributions to improve the quality of life for masturbating video game addicts everywhere with her performance in this powerful cinematic franchise:
And where would society be without THESE extremely useful contributions? Nominate her for a Nobel Peace Prize, already!
And don't overlook these oldies but not-goodies:
A waste of time and money? That basically describes Angelina's ENTIRE movie career, with the exceptions of Gia and Girl, Interrupted. I only liked Gia because there's was all sorts of hot girl-on-girl action in that with the chick who currently plays the fertility doctor on "Lost", and while I thought Girl, Interrupted sucked, apparently she was good in it because she played a mentally deranged slut. In other words, she played herself. Both movies continue to positively impact our society by getting lots of replay on the Lifetime Movie Network. It takes some serious nerve to be such a pompous cunt about what you're wearing at the Golden Globes when you've played second fiddle to Jack Palance in Cyborg 2.
It's funny that up until she started cruising the third-world for kids, telling everyone else what an inferior job they're doing solving the world's problems, and stinking up movie screens with her piss-poor film projects, she was getting along with her (totally awesome) dad John Voight. She hasn't spoken to him since made the appallingly rude request to merely meet his grandchildren and subsequently said she has "serious emotional problems." I guess she was more stable back when she was collecting knives and frenching her brother. That Angelina is dead to me now. The only remnant of her old life is that fact that for awhile Maddox was sporting the same faux-hawk popularized by her ex-girlfriend:
I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather attend a weeklong seminar dedicated exclusively to Bono talking about AIDS and debt than see more footage of Angelina riding around on her high horse and acting like the world's greatest humanitarian. That would be like a luxury vacation compared to bearing witness to any more Angelina worship. Finally, the mainstream media seems to agree with me, as Us Weekly has decided that the beatification of Angelina for all her saintly deeds has gone far enough. Behold, this week's cover:
It's about damn time the media turned on her, because I swear the next time I see this snatch parading around acting like the second coming of Christ on one of my internet gossip sites, I'm going to punch out my computer monitor. Thank you, Us Weekly, for feeling the hate!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, media whores, movies, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, vanity
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Jake Taylor has really let himself go
Last night, I arrived home to see several gigantic trailers and production trucks pulling up to the sidewalk outside my house. I got all excited, thinking they might be filming more episodes of "Law and Order:SVU" there and I could get a glimpse of Tracy "Ice-T" Marrow, his buxom ho-bag of a wife CoCo, or the hotness that is Mariska Hargitay running around my hood. However, I couldn't discern from the "No Parking By Order of the Mayor's Office of Film and TV Production" signs what they were filming, so I basically forgot about it.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
Yes! Tom Berenger, the actor who immortalized Cleveland Indians catcher Jake Taylor in one of the greatest movies ever made, Major League. In case you haven't seen this film, it's a silly but sublime movie with an awesomely 80s cast (also including Charlie Sheen as volatile ex-con pitcher Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Corbin Bernsen--who thanks to "L.A. Law" was unbelievably a stud of the era--as wealthy, womanizing shortstop Roger Dorn, Wesley Snipes as wisecracking, base-stealing outfielder Willie Mays Hayes, Bob Uecker as the drunken commentator, and Rene Russo as Jake Taylor's librarian ex-girlfriend.) There's also a cast of awesome supporting characters, including the super cunty team owner's trophy widow, the curmudgeonly old coach, an aging born-again pitcher (who sucks), the Tribe's dedicated fans in all their Indian gear, and the Dominican-Haitian-Mexican designated hitter Pedro Cerrano, who speaks Spanish, practices voodoo, and at one point tells the born-again "chingate, cabron." (Obviously the writers suffered from the surprisingly common confusion that drives J-Sexy crazy, that all the nations of the Caribbean are on one big island and share one big blurred culture.) Major League was a favorite in the Razzy household growing up, so I recognized Jake Taylor's ass IMMEDIATELY, in spite of the fact that he's blown up like Lil' Kim.
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, celebrities, doggity style, fat fucks, Harlem world, intentional buffoonery, movies, NYC, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Episode Whatever: I am a weak-minded fool
A lot of people wonder "how much I paid" for Chingy!, since he's a purebred Pug and all. I've always had German Shepherd mix mutts like my devastatingly handsome Caesar, and I wasn't trying to be like the Angelina Jolie of dog adoption or anything. He used to belong to this creepy doorman at the first building I lived in, and he said that if he couldn't find Chingy! a new home, he'd be euthanized. In spite of my hatred for most living things, including children, plants, and many adult humans, I have a soft spot for dogs so I grudgingly agreed to take him "temporarily." That was four fucking years ago.
Now, when I tell the story of acquiring this little monster, I prefer to do so inventively. Not everyone gets it from the dialogue, though, because apparently not everyone's dad took them to see Return of the Jedi in the theaters when they were four, and had the combination of the Pit of Sarlacc and the noise that accompanied the outer space dogfighting between the Empire and the Rebel Fighters scare them to tears, ensuring that every part of that movie was committed almost verbatim to memory. Anyway, since I'm sick of explaining this to death, I'll try to illustrate the tale of Chingy! via Star Wars analogy with pictures.
EPISODE VI: REVENGE OF THE SHIT (EATER)
[Blah blah blah...background shit about the Empire building a new and terrifying Death Star, and something about Ewoks.]
Meanwhile, on Tattooine...
This is the palace of the vile intergalactic space gangster, Chingy! the Hutt. He terrorizes planets with his rePUGnant odors, arrogant attitude, and powerful aura of generalized affrontery.
Chingy! is inside, sedentary as usual, smoking his hookah and entertaining himself by chewing on dirty socks and feeding tentacle-headed strippers to the monster that lives underneath his equally revolting ass. In strolls a Jedi who looks nothing like my creepy former doorman to make an ill-advised attempt at detante.
Chingy!, in keeping with Hutt tradition of being an obstinate, destructive asshole, responds with scornful laughter.
The Jedi, unfazed, tries a new tactic.
Chingy! sees through this clever ruse. He sneezes disdainfully at his attendants for being so easily hoodwinked by the smooth-talking Jedi.
I have to interject that things would have been a lot better off if Chingy! had managed to successfully rebuff those campaigning to free Captain Solo from his carbonite prison. Then he couldn't have gotten old, fucked Ally McBeal's skeletal ass, and prepared to ruin Indiana Jones by making a fourth movie. How is he supposed to teach archaeology to Smith girls, retrieve priceless religious artifacts, and fight the Nazis for said valuable antiquities when he's older than Sean Connery was in Last Crusade? Is he going to beat them up with his walker, or what? Anyway, digression aside, this ploy on the Jedi's behalf did not work. Chingy! would not have his palace despoiled by the Jedi's cheap parlor tricks.
This is where I come into the story. I was just trying to mind my own business and walk Caesar as usual when this group of Star Wars nerds was blocking the road. I told them to get out of my way.
What?! Obviously THAT came out wrong.
This argument got me nowhere. Before I knew it, the stupid Jedi had tricked me into taking responsibility for the nefarious and despicable Chingy!, thus ending the days of brutalizing alien sex slaves, listening to really shitty music, and otherwise dominating the criminal underworld. A time of peace and prosperity returned to the parts of the galaxy now vacated by Chingy!, but the time of strife for me in Harlem was just beginning.
After months of civil war characterized by the wanton destruction of my personal belongings, I got used to the little asshole and we came to an uneasy truce. Once I changed out of that ridiculous gold bikini, it was a lot easier to command him on the leash. Also, I discovered that so long as he is supplied with ample Beneful and is permitted to sleep in my bed and/or suitcase, he's calm and peaceable to the point of being almost comatose twenty-three hours out of the day. And so the beast was quelled, and I find myself in the situation I'm in today.
And that's how much I paid for Chingy...not a damn cent, but the emotional and material toll has been immeasurable. CHONGAY CHONG!
P.S. Yeah, I know this is pretty dorky, but I had some time to kill this afternoon and my other alternative activity was housework. Sha right! Star Wars and dog Photoshop geekery wins every time.
Now, when I tell the story of acquiring this little monster, I prefer to do so inventively. Not everyone gets it from the dialogue, though, because apparently not everyone's dad took them to see Return of the Jedi in the theaters when they were four, and had the combination of the Pit of Sarlacc and the noise that accompanied the outer space dogfighting between the Empire and the Rebel Fighters scare them to tears, ensuring that every part of that movie was committed almost verbatim to memory. Anyway, since I'm sick of explaining this to death, I'll try to illustrate the tale of Chingy! via Star Wars analogy with pictures.
EPISODE VI: REVENGE OF THE SHIT (EATER)
[Blah blah blah...background shit about the Empire building a new and terrifying Death Star, and something about Ewoks.]
Meanwhile, on Tattooine...
I have to interject that things would have been a lot better off if Chingy! had managed to successfully rebuff those campaigning to free Captain Solo from his carbonite prison. Then he couldn't have gotten old, fucked Ally McBeal's skeletal ass, and prepared to ruin Indiana Jones by making a fourth movie. How is he supposed to teach archaeology to Smith girls, retrieve priceless religious artifacts, and fight the Nazis for said valuable antiquities when he's older than Sean Connery was in Last Crusade? Is he going to beat them up with his walker, or what? Anyway, digression aside, this ploy on the Jedi's behalf did not work. Chingy! would not have his palace despoiled by the Jedi's cheap parlor tricks.
This is where I come into the story. I was just trying to mind my own business and walk Caesar as usual when this group of Star Wars nerds was blocking the road. I told them to get out of my way.
And that's how much I paid for Chingy...not a damn cent, but the emotional and material toll has been immeasurable. CHONGAY CHONG!
P.S. Yeah, I know this is pretty dorky, but I had some time to kill this afternoon and my other alternative activity was housework. Sha right! Star Wars and dog Photoshop geekery wins every time.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, creative projects, doggity style, epic geekery, fat fucks, gross, movies, oh the horror, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The Queen of incestuous group sex
Anyone who saw last night's Golden Globes knows that Helen Mirren totally cleaned up, getting a shiny orb for portraying not one but two Queen Elizabeths. Her co-stars and colleagues said very nice things about her. Jeremy Irons, when getting his award for his supporting actor role in Elizabeth I, said "If you can't support Helen Mirren, you can't do anything." Some other dude--I think it was the guy who wrote The Queen--called her "everybody's queen."
Dame Helen Mirren might be all high-falutin' and respected now for her skills as a thespian, and she might be set to win an Oscar and all that, but I remember where she came from. This is not the first time she has played royalty, although her most memorable past role was not royalty of the stiff upper-lipped British type. If you've ever seen Bob Guccione's Penthouse production of Caligula (which you should, because it's not only porn, there's this awesome decapitating lawnmower in it that Caligula uses to dispatch enemies whose wives he wants to bone), you may remember the then pre-damehood Helen Mirren playing "the most promiscuous woman in Rome" and the Emperor Gaius Germanicus "Little Boots" Caesar's wife Caesonia.
And if you were really paying attention when you watched that movie (which you should have been...it's been called "the Ben-Hur of porn" and "Deep Throat meets David Lynch's Dune by way of Fellini having an off day), you might remember that Dame Helen Mirren honed her craft by having a threesome with the guy from A Clockwork Orange who played Caligula and HIS SISTER. That's her with the long red hair:
I'm all for giving bitches awards for this type of artistic work. It's just too bad Dame Helen didn't take home the Globe for what she called "an exhibition of art and genitals" instead of for her roles as the uptight, sexually-repressed cunts from the House of Windsor. I mean, come on, that's some quality acting right there! If she doesn't get some type of lifetime achievement award for it at an awards show in the next few years, she will have been robbed.
Dame Helen Mirren might be all high-falutin' and respected now for her skills as a thespian, and she might be set to win an Oscar and all that, but I remember where she came from. This is not the first time she has played royalty, although her most memorable past role was not royalty of the stiff upper-lipped British type. If you've ever seen Bob Guccione's Penthouse production of Caligula (which you should, because it's not only porn, there's this awesome decapitating lawnmower in it that Caligula uses to dispatch enemies whose wives he wants to bone), you may remember the then pre-damehood Helen Mirren playing "the most promiscuous woman in Rome" and the Emperor Gaius Germanicus "Little Boots" Caesar's wife Caesonia.
And if you were really paying attention when you watched that movie (which you should have been...it's been called "the Ben-Hur of porn" and "Deep Throat meets David Lynch's Dune by way of Fellini having an off day), you might remember that Dame Helen Mirren honed her craft by having a threesome with the guy from A Clockwork Orange who played Caligula and HIS SISTER. That's her with the long red hair:
I'm all for giving bitches awards for this type of artistic work. It's just too bad Dame Helen didn't take home the Globe for what she called "an exhibition of art and genitals" instead of for her roles as the uptight, sexually-repressed cunts from the House of Windsor. I mean, come on, that's some quality acting right there! If she doesn't get some type of lifetime achievement award for it at an awards show in the next few years, she will have been robbed.
Labels: celebrities, movies, perversion, porn, sex, sluts
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
More than meets the eye
I always envied my brother's toys when I was little. Boy toys are way better than girl toys, because they lend themselves to much more interesting adventures than dolls and fake fucking kitchen sets that they give little girls to play with. As far as I was concerned, nothing involving domestic chores could be considered a fun toy (anyone who has seen my skills as a housekeeper can attest that I maintain this view to this day). I never played with my girl toys right anyway.
My Barbies were all ambitious career women, earning their keeps as librarians, scientists, mortgage brokers, high-level diplomats, fighter pilots, etc. They were all also lesbians because there weren't enough Ken dolls to go around. My two pathetic Ken dolls wound up forgotten, cuckolded pussies on unemployment sitting around while their female counterparts ruled the world and drove each other to and from work in the pink Corvette they all shared. I never saw the point of my My Little Ponies, except as the occasional transportation to the office for my Barbies when the Vette was in the shop. My Little Ponies didn't have opposable thumbs and could thus accomplish no useful job besides that of a pack animal, and their greatest attributes were glittery mane and tail hair and scratch-and-sniff brands on their asses. Even the "Pegasus" My Little Ponies, which would be useful because they can supposedly fly, had these stupid vestigial wings that wouldn't have been remotely functional in any real world flying situation, and particularly wouldn't have produced enough lift to hoist a fat horse's ass off the ground. Meanwhile, my Cabbage Patch Kids, rather than stirring my innate maternal instincts and getting me to look forward to when I can be a mommy to a REAL baby, were doing duty as the foundation of the discarded crap pile in my room.
I thought my brother, Lil Tevie, had far superior toys. G.I. Joes, He Man and the Masters of the Universe, Transformers, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all much more interesting to me. They were toys with a premise of action, and had a purpose, whether it be battling covert terror organizations or harnessing the Power of Grayskull. I thought those callings were far more interesting than toys that exist mainly to be orphan babies harvested from a vegetable patch or pastel-colored ponies that were piss-poor even as beasts of burden.
That is why, when I saw this trailer, I got really excited. Ever since Dolph Lundgren ruined the cinematic legacy of He Man, I've been skeptical about the conversion of rad boy toys into movies. But if anyone can do it, Michael "More Explosions!" Bay can, and so far, it appears he's going to rock my fucking face off:
How cool is that? If I were a dude, I'd have like the world's biggest erection after seeing that trailer. Yes, that is the mind-blowing awesomeness of applying a huge budget to tell the tale of the benevolent Martian robots that transform into long-haul 18-wheelers pitted against evil Martian robots that transform into military aircraft, with humanity hanging in the balance. In other words, it's the Autobots v. the Decepticons! Robots in disguise! FUCKING RAD!
My Barbies were all ambitious career women, earning their keeps as librarians, scientists, mortgage brokers, high-level diplomats, fighter pilots, etc. They were all also lesbians because there weren't enough Ken dolls to go around. My two pathetic Ken dolls wound up forgotten, cuckolded pussies on unemployment sitting around while their female counterparts ruled the world and drove each other to and from work in the pink Corvette they all shared. I never saw the point of my My Little Ponies, except as the occasional transportation to the office for my Barbies when the Vette was in the shop. My Little Ponies didn't have opposable thumbs and could thus accomplish no useful job besides that of a pack animal, and their greatest attributes were glittery mane and tail hair and scratch-and-sniff brands on their asses. Even the "Pegasus" My Little Ponies, which would be useful because they can supposedly fly, had these stupid vestigial wings that wouldn't have been remotely functional in any real world flying situation, and particularly wouldn't have produced enough lift to hoist a fat horse's ass off the ground. Meanwhile, my Cabbage Patch Kids, rather than stirring my innate maternal instincts and getting me to look forward to when I can be a mommy to a REAL baby, were doing duty as the foundation of the discarded crap pile in my room.
I thought my brother, Lil Tevie, had far superior toys. G.I. Joes, He Man and the Masters of the Universe, Transformers, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all much more interesting to me. They were toys with a premise of action, and had a purpose, whether it be battling covert terror organizations or harnessing the Power of Grayskull. I thought those callings were far more interesting than toys that exist mainly to be orphan babies harvested from a vegetable patch or pastel-colored ponies that were piss-poor even as beasts of burden.
That is why, when I saw this trailer, I got really excited. Ever since Dolph Lundgren ruined the cinematic legacy of He Man, I've been skeptical about the conversion of rad boy toys into movies. But if anyone can do it, Michael "More Explosions!" Bay can, and so far, it appears he's going to rock my fucking face off:
How cool is that? If I were a dude, I'd have like the world's biggest erection after seeing that trailer. Yes, that is the mind-blowing awesomeness of applying a huge budget to tell the tale of the benevolent Martian robots that transform into long-haul 18-wheelers pitted against evil Martian robots that transform into military aircraft, with humanity hanging in the balance. In other words, it's the Autobots v. the Decepticons! Robots in disguise! FUCKING RAD!
Labels: I LOVE IT, movies, Razzification
Saturday, December 30, 2006
2006: The Year of the Slut
It's that time again: the year in review. Here are the top hits that I knew about for the year - lovingly dubbed "The Year of the Slut" by my buddy Garbo. NEW YEAR'S EVE: We rang it in with more than good cheer. It's Rack's birthday, assholes, so the New Year is the least important of the relevant events. There were spankings from a Bettie Page look-alike, potfulls of thrice-spiked cider, a Harppon-employee (ergo free beer for three solid days), make-out sessions on linoleum floors, probably table-dances (can't remember), and more drastic instances of misbehavior. Well worth the drive and looking forward to the sequel tonight.
THE FIFA WORLD CUP: If you forget about the TOTAL shock of its outcome, the raucous good times of floating boozily through Irish bars in Manhattan, and the really remarkable number of hookups that invariably accompany this sort of endless social event, the title goes to Zinedine-I'm'a-fuck-your-face-up-Zidane. I was so drunk for a month that I couldn't feel my face when he cracked skull on the field, but I sure felt my jaw drop. Right into my next beer.
THE O.J. BOOK: Don't matter if Murdock prints it or not, which is great because he won't. But what FUCKING SHIT WAS THAT. Just when we thought that this pivotal post-Rodney King, pre-Dialo racial moment couldn't get any weirder, we are reminded why models and football players are not allowed to speak.
SADDAM HUSSEIN: [...]
AMERICA VOTES: The Democrats swept the nation in the 2006 elections. The outcomes hangs in the balance to see what can get done in this political gridlock, as our Commandante in Chief struggles with English and leadership, and the threat of any level of disaster to a Democratic Senator can upset the balance, but hell - the victory parties have been unrivaled.
TEJ OFFENSIVE: An evil plot to silence Razzy is foiled. Still ugly. But foiled. NOICE!
PLUTO DEMOTED: After millienia of devoted service, Pluto is kicked back down the cosmic ladder to middle management. No gold-plated watch. Just the outer ranks of outerspace. Qouth my father, "It throughs astrology into a tailspin." All I wanna know is, who's fucking head can I cut off for this? MY SALARY: In contrast to Pluto's diminished status, my shit hit a seismic spike. make no bones about it: it pays to be experiential. Fingers crossed for my bonus, when I can finally silence those rat bastard credit cards.
NORTH KOREA'S NUKES: Bless.
MY MOM IS DONE WITH MENOPAUSE: Score!
NASA: Three cheers for these poor sons of bitches for getting their shit together. They saved their funding, they pulled off three launches and they're thinking big on four for next year, they got shit on Mars, and they actually studied their data to apply it to the Orion - shit is rosy for America in SPACE Space space. Here's to you, JFK. TEACHER'S HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: My buddies Teach and Tubby hit their South Kakalaka high school reunion where the Most Popular Guy in their class, piss drunk and hard up for cash, tried to sell Tubby a dime bag. Almost simultaneously, M.P.G.'s remarkably drunker girlfriend made a confession to Teach that she and M.P.G. had met on MySpace, and requested discretion. Both bits of news hit the floor about eight minutes later. Luckily, M.P.G. was involved in a fist fight at the punch table for other reasons, and was forcibly ejected by security.
PLASTIC SURGERY: That is, my grandmother, at 80, has decided to close the door on face lifts.
MICROSOFT VISTA: At long fucking last, Gates takes a cue from Apple. If it ever comes out, we'll maybe have computers we can use. After all, the only criticism comes from Forbes.com is that it's not "people-ready". Quote they, "The new system is bloated and overly complex. Why wait?"
JACK BAUER: First of all, Keifer Southerland's career is officially saved. After Flatliners, we weren't sure, but things are on the up and up for the son of the Donald.
STEP DOWN: Lance Armstrong abdicates. David Beckham steps aside. Rumsfeld is out. But Jigger's back, bitches, and that's all that matters.
NATURAL DISASTER: 2004 gave us the Thai tsunami. 2005 was back with a vengeance with hurricanes so extraordinary, Katrina included, that we ran out of letters and had to start with the Greek alphabet. Fingers crossed that we make it through the next seven hours.
SNAKES ON A PLANE: Best line ever, forgive me if I paraphrase, the Samuel L. wrach delievred: "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!" I mean, after holiday travel, who isn't?
SMOKING GUN: Paris announces it will shortly ban smoking. I can't hear you.
TOM CRUISE: L. Ron strikes again. But on Oprah this time.
JACK PALANCE & GERALD FORD: Rest your souls, gents.
WATCH OUT, WILT CHAMBERLAIN: Cuz Kobe Bryant is the close saludatorian on all your titles, bro. But in this instance, I'm only talking about the game against the Raptors.
PAUL McCARTNEY: He gets that one-legged hooker to stand down, and also Rack and I stood within eight feet of him at JFK. He fucking smiled at her. Eat that, Beatle lovers. And also, no more Beatles died this year. With any luck, Death will focus on the Bay City Rollers for a while.
K-FED-ED: I need not say more. Free at last, Miss Britney, to reclaim your battered rock stardom.
LOYD IS GONE: With his charges mostly resolved, the renovations mostly done, and his rent mostly paid, Loyd is no longer employed as the Schnieder of the Blythewood Fallon household. No more advances on the paycheck, no more half-assed networking attempts of the dental laboratory technology, and no more visits for fucking nothing at 7 am. My parents fired his moochin ass, Pax Fallonia regained. Fuck that last unhung door.
BLYTHEWOOD, S.C.: Maybe y'all 'on'y know 'bout Doko, but Blythewood is on the climbin track this year. There are now five - count them, five - stoplights in my one-stoplight town. Four gas stations, three hotels, two grocery stores, partridge and shit, and a high school. And not just any high shcool. in its first year out of the gate, the highly anticipated Blythewood Bengals spank fat AAA-ass to take the state title in their first season. First of all, this just don't happen. And second of all - this just don't happen. Let's hear it for country ass in motion. 
JACK SPARROW: He lives, and so does Keith Richards, steadily enough to pop up in the next Pirates of the Caribbean. This is a monumentous occasion, and let us give thanks for both.
THE DA VINCI CODE: The American public still spends money on Tom Hanks. Cuz after all, life is a box of chocolates. And that's what Ron Howard gives his boyfriend.
BORAT: Ali G's years of underground genius finally make him some fucking money. High five. PINK TUTU: That is, my mom suggested that I wear one while I do dishes. This may sound insane to some of you, but the reality is that, had you placed a bet ten years ago as to which one I do first, you'd'a a fifty-chance of winning. Now that I support myself, I do, on occasion, wash dishes, so she was just testing the limits. Rest assured, though, that if your bet was on dishes, you won.
THE REAL WORLD: My sister is a college ga-gaduala, got a real job, and has a really good relationship in the works. And she has the CUTEST DOG. Gold medal for my bitch.
PLAYING THE FIELD: The Duke Lacrosse team is back. Into what, you ask? Remains to be seen.
PARIS HILTON: Still fucking famous, someone help me understand.
MICHAEL RICHARDS: Fuck bird flu. This erstwhile semi-celebrity gets foot-in-mouth disease by bringing back that old Ku Klux favorite joke, LYNCHING BLACK PEOPLE. Lest we think En Vogue's "Colorblind" made headway, beware ye hostile stand-ups and Seinfield hasbeens.
MEL GIBSON LEARNS TO DRIVE SLOWER: The miracle is, Russell Crowe's been off the grid for too long for comfort - watch out, 2K7.
REHAB: Robin Williams and Keith Urban. Their tell-all novel will def sell out.
MARGARET SANGER: The morning after pill cracks the glass ceiling. OU812 and RU486 step aside for drugs and concepts with names.
LOCAL DOG DISCOVERS ASPIRIN: As New York canines make confessions to their therapists, South Carolina native pooch Toby renews his own lease on life with aspirin for his arthritis, and gets back to his bee-biting, possum-cornering, car barking, ear scratching, and Alpo at seven[-ish].
TORINO: The Flying Tomato takes all.
MARDI GRAS: It happened, motherfuckers. And so did the Jazz Festival. Big fuck you, Mother Nature. Our boozing ceases not.
MR. T.: Sheds chains and still has TV career. I pity the naysayin' fool.
GET YOUR GAME ON: X-box 360 or Nintendo Wii, that is - either way, these gadgets had folks in line like it was a Star Wars premier - and fortunately, with better execution.
RESPITE OF THE SITH: Thanks be to the benevolence of Baby Jesus, George Lucas remained silent on the scriptwriting front, and our minds were able to rest from bungled romantic space operas. The capacity of Americans to show affection and have feelings dramatically rises. HD-DVD VERSUS BLU-RAY: Either begins or continues "taking digital perfection to a higher level."
NEW MEXICO: Chosen for Branson's Virgin Galactic SPACE Space space flight landing dock. Just a $20K deposit and you too can be on the waiting list to look at a lot of stars and then a whole lot of fucking sand. So spake my hero Han Solo, "This ain't like dustin' crops, boy. "
MADONNA REINSTATES SLAVE TRADE: But the kid will invariably get an awesome track suit from H&M in exchange for his daddy.
THE BIG RED HOOTER: Mal discovers the cocktail of the year, from across the great waters. Two shots tequila, one shot amaretto, fill the shit with pineapple juice and splash in some grenadine. Drunk dial me after three. I FOLD: After a decade of arbitrary resistance, I finally agree to watch Buffy: The Vampire Slayer with my family. My sister doesn't home and fucks up the plan, but the concession stands.
NATIVITY: The Greatest Story Ever Told. Told again. And again. And again. You guys ever heard of this guy, Jesus? Wicked plot. CANCER: Not cured. Again. Raz, you're still up.
BRANGELINA: Still being seen. Again. Good news is, whatever Brad's doing has put an end to her making out with her brother on-screen.
ON HUMAN BOND-AGE: Daniel Craig returns for a James Bond renewal in Casino Royale. He can't drive stick, he's afraid of water, and hates guns just like what'sit in Layer Cake, but goddamnit he's hot, and Sean Connery didn't protest, so it's all good. At least Bond lives on.
JONBENET RAMSEY: Still dead. But we got a revisitation with the possibility that her killer had finally been located. Since it turned out to be shoite, we have great hopes for more thrilling updates in 2007. And by the way, she's buried in the same graveyard as my old Georgia family.Labels: alcoholism, assholes, Britney Spears, crime and punishment, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, Johnny Depp, Kevin Federline, movies, Mr. T, Razzy Haters, smoking, tragedy
Friday, August 18, 2006
Ssssssssssshut the fuck up!
I went to see Snakes on a Plane last night. This is the first time since Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets that I showed up to see a highly anticipated movie on the night it opened. Well, this was actually the day before the movie officially opened, as it was billed as a "special advance screening" showing on like 6 screens between 10 and midnight. Although I don't think Snakes on a Plane boasts the same sized legion of eager fans as Harry Potter, there were nonetheless numerous groups of people equally devoted to doing stupid shit at the movie theater.
You know the people I'm talking about. These are the people that camp outside movie theaters for 5 months ahead of time in Imperial Storm Trooper outfits everytime George Lucas drops a new Star Wars turd. They are the people who put Starfleet Academy bumper stickers on their cars, who can tell you what their wand is made of (ie: "9 inches, elm, dragon heartstring core") and which Hogwarts house they were sorted into (ie:"I'm a Hufflepuff"...of course you are), or who can recite the entire sorrowful tale of Luthien Tinuviel in high elvish and/or read dwarven runes. To a certain degree, I am one of these people, or at least one of their apathetic distant family members. I am a staunch devotee of both HP and LOTR, and also greatly enjoy Star Wars Episodes IV-VI, and I'll grudgingly confess that I've voluntarily watched enough episodes of "Battlestar Galactica" that I am too embarrassed to even enumerate them here. However, as much as I like my guilty nerd pleasures, I draw the line at enthusiastically devoting any significant amount of time to projects involving them save on Halloween. By "projects" I mean anything involving dressing in costumes, assuming the identity of fictional characters, creating customized clothing (ie: t-shirts, hats), purchasing/crafting props, joining internet-based clubs for online discussion and/or role playing, and generally committing an unhealthy amount of energy to a book/movie/TV show/etc. Unfortunately, there were a lot of people who don't follow my line of thinking, and showed up raring to go for Snakes on a fucking Plane.
We showed up an hour before the movie started, because it was sold out and we wanted to get tolerable seats. We had to wait in line outside the theater for a while, which sucked because the theater was in Times Square. I hate Times Square. It's not the junkies, prostitutes, and peep shows that 1980s-era accounts of New York City promise. Times Square P.G. (post-Giuliani) is fucking Disneyland: excessively bright, crowded, overpriced, and infested with tourists wandering like a herd of lost sheep, blocking pedestrian traffic and gaping up at all the big buildings and flashing lights. Tourists take pictures of everything ("I've never seen such a huge Olive Garden, take a picture of it!", "Look, it's the ESPN Zone, take a picture of it!", "Whoa, that's the biggest Kodak ad I've ever seen in my life, take a picture of it!") and more often than not, they try to capture their ugly kids in the photo as well, requiring them to back up ten feet in order to get both the fucking Panasonic ad on top of a building and their pudgy, "I heart NY" shirt-clad brood in the shot, further contributing to sidewalk congestion. On top of that, there's aggressive pamphleteers every five feet trying to get you to get on a sightseeing bus or attend a comedy show to further annoy me, and street meat from the kabob/hot dog carts costs twice as much as anywhere else in the city. Neo and I struggled through crowds of this and took Chinese cuts in front of J-Sexy, El Polaco, and the rest of the crew while waiting to get in. People all around us were buzzing about how great Snakes on a Plane was going to be and how excited they were about it. J-Sexy and I exchanged looks like, "Are you that fucking excited about this? Me neither."
Once we finally were herded into the theater, we took our seats and quickly bored of the ads pathetically disguised as an intellectual challenge ("Coca Cola Verizon movie puzzle: Unscramble this actor's name? ENB FFLECKA. Coca Cola Verizon movie trivia answer: BEN AFFLECK Drink Coke! Can you hear me now?"). We had nothing to do for the next 45 minutes, but were quickly distracted by the crew of dumbasses sitting in front of us.
These people, led by this loud bitch who looked like Veronica Mars's homely older sister, were EXTREMELY excited about seeing Snakes on a Plane. They drew our ire when they agreed to an interview with some frighteningly perky reporter for some streaming video website, and the camera crew began shining lights in our faces and blocking our view of the movie trivia we weren't paying attention to. They had Snakes on a Plane t-shirts, which their queen nerd explained they designed themselves. They also had a bag of plastic snakes that they were swinging around and fake-striking at each other. Then, when the camera crew left, they started taking pictures of each other because this was such a monumental fucking occasion. Fortunately, El Polaco's boyfriend had his camera with him, and began recording video of me hugging J-Sexy violently and saying, "Take a picture, dude, take a picture! This is a moment we're going to remember for the rest of our lives...it's the first time we're going to see SNAKES ON A PLANE, for God's sake! We're going to be talking about this at our weddings! We're going to tell our grandchildren about this day!" (unfortunately the video didn't turn out, since we didn't have the internet crew's spotlight). The queen nerd turned around and glared viciously, and I shrugged and smirked at her, as if to say, "Well, I'm an asshole and you're a fucking loser with too much time on your hands...this is nature's way, what do you expect?!" I know nerds, and I especially know nerdy girls, so I was confident that a plain female geek distributing the contents of a duffel bag full of custom Snakes on a Plane fan paraphernalia among a group of 110-lb. 30-year-old men was likely too frightened of public confrontation to make any trouble with our group, all cackling rudely like a pack of hyenas ripping apart a decomposing zebra carcass, and I was right.
Making fun of those people, as well as rotating a flask around for discreet nips of Jack Daniels, helped pass the time until the previews started. They passed without event for the most part (except the crowd went crazy when Samuel L. Jackson appeared in the trailer for Black Snake Moan), until the stupid little film cartoon came on to remind the audience to turn off their cell phones and quiet down. Instead of heeding the cartoon's advice, most of the people in the audience, particularly the people in front of us, started applauding wildly. Worse, they all started waving their snakes around, taking pictures, and HISSING at the top of their lungs.
I leaned over to J-Sexy and made an irritated quip about how I hate people who cheer in movie theaters. A movie isn't like a play or a concert, where the performers can hear the audience's reaction, so what's the fucking point. Even when something in a movie excites me somehow, I have never lost control and felt the need to yell, or clap, or whistle. I hoped that the audience would get the desire to produce unnecessary audible responses to Snakes on a Plane (such as applause) out of their system before the credits were over. Wishful thinking.
Every time there was a lull in the dialogue in the movie (and there were a LOT of those, particularly when Samuel L. Jackson wasn't onscreen saying this and motherfuckin' that), the audience would starting hissing loudly at the screen. After ten minutes of near nonstop hissing, I was getting cranky. After the movie was half over, I was hissing obscenities every time the audience started up: "Sssssshut the fuck up! Ssssssssstop fucking hissing!" Since the people in front of us already hated us, this made them hiss louder and salute the screen so fucking often that it looked like they were Heil-ing Hitler with snakes in their hands.
When Samuel L. Jackson finally delivered the "motherfuckin' snakes on a motherfuckin' plane" line that created all the pre-release buzz for this movie in the first place, the crowd erupted in cheers and hissing, and the people in front of us literally LEAPED OUT OF THEIR CHAIRS, throwing up their arms and snakes in triumph. The queen nerd of the group was so excited I thought she was going to rip off her Snakes on a Plane shirt like Brandi Chastain at the World Cup. I was mystified, and leaned over to J-Sexy and whispered, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME<
You know the people I'm talking about. These are the people that camp outside movie theaters for 5 months ahead of time in Imperial Storm Trooper outfits everytime George Lucas drops a new Star Wars turd. They are the people who put Starfleet Academy bumper stickers on their cars, who can tell you what their wand is made of (ie: "9 inches, elm, dragon heartstring core") and which Hogwarts house they were sorted into (ie:"I'm a Hufflepuff"...of course you are), or who can recite the entire sorrowful tale of Luthien Tinuviel in high elvish and/or read dwarven runes. To a certain degree, I am one of these people, or at least one of their apathetic distant family members. I am a staunch devotee of both HP and LOTR, and also greatly enjoy Star Wars Episodes IV-VI, and I'll grudgingly confess that I've voluntarily watched enough episodes of "Battlestar Galactica" that I am too embarrassed to even enumerate them here. However, as much as I like my guilty nerd pleasures, I draw the line at enthusiastically devoting any significant amount of time to projects involving them save on Halloween. By "projects" I mean anything involving dressing in costumes, assuming the identity of fictional characters, creating customized clothing (ie: t-shirts, hats), purchasing/crafting props, joining internet-based clubs for online discussion and/or role playing, and generally committing an unhealthy amount of energy to a book/movie/TV show/etc. Unfortunately, there were a lot of people who don't follow my line of thinking, and showed up raring to go for Snakes on a fucking Plane.
We showed up an hour before the movie started, because it was sold out and we wanted to get tolerable seats. We had to wait in line outside the theater for a while, which sucked because the theater was in Times Square. I hate Times Square. It's not the junkies, prostitutes, and peep shows that 1980s-era accounts of New York City promise. Times Square P.G. (post-Giuliani) is fucking Disneyland: excessively bright, crowded, overpriced, and infested with tourists wandering like a herd of lost sheep, blocking pedestrian traffic and gaping up at all the big buildings and flashing lights. Tourists take pictures of everything ("I've never seen such a huge Olive Garden, take a picture of it!", "Look, it's the ESPN Zone, take a picture of it!", "Whoa, that's the biggest Kodak ad I've ever seen in my life, take a picture of it!") and more often than not, they try to capture their ugly kids in the photo as well, requiring them to back up ten feet in order to get both the fucking Panasonic ad on top of a building and their pudgy, "I heart NY" shirt-clad brood in the shot, further contributing to sidewalk congestion. On top of that, there's aggressive pamphleteers every five feet trying to get you to get on a sightseeing bus or attend a comedy show to further annoy me, and street meat from the kabob/hot dog carts costs twice as much as anywhere else in the city. Neo and I struggled through crowds of this and took Chinese cuts in front of J-Sexy, El Polaco, and the rest of the crew while waiting to get in. People all around us were buzzing about how great Snakes on a Plane was going to be and how excited they were about it. J-Sexy and I exchanged looks like, "Are you that fucking excited about this? Me neither."
Once we finally were herded into the theater, we took our seats and quickly bored of the ads pathetically disguised as an intellectual challenge ("Coca Cola Verizon movie puzzle: Unscramble this actor's name? ENB FFLECKA. Coca Cola Verizon movie trivia answer: BEN AFFLECK Drink Coke! Can you hear me now?"). We had nothing to do for the next 45 minutes, but were quickly distracted by the crew of dumbasses sitting in front of us.
These people, led by this loud bitch who looked like Veronica Mars's homely older sister, were EXTREMELY excited about seeing Snakes on a Plane. They drew our ire when they agreed to an interview with some frighteningly perky reporter for some streaming video website, and the camera crew began shining lights in our faces and blocking our view of the movie trivia we weren't paying attention to. They had Snakes on a Plane t-shirts, which their queen nerd explained they designed themselves. They also had a bag of plastic snakes that they were swinging around and fake-striking at each other. Then, when the camera crew left, they started taking pictures of each other because this was such a monumental fucking occasion. Fortunately, El Polaco's boyfriend had his camera with him, and began recording video of me hugging J-Sexy violently and saying, "Take a picture, dude, take a picture! This is a moment we're going to remember for the rest of our lives...it's the first time we're going to see SNAKES ON A PLANE, for God's sake! We're going to be talking about this at our weddings! We're going to tell our grandchildren about this day!" (unfortunately the video didn't turn out, since we didn't have the internet crew's spotlight). The queen nerd turned around and glared viciously, and I shrugged and smirked at her, as if to say, "Well, I'm an asshole and you're a fucking loser with too much time on your hands...this is nature's way, what do you expect?!" I know nerds, and I especially know nerdy girls, so I was confident that a plain female geek distributing the contents of a duffel bag full of custom Snakes on a Plane fan paraphernalia among a group of 110-lb. 30-year-old men was likely too frightened of public confrontation to make any trouble with our group, all cackling rudely like a pack of hyenas ripping apart a decomposing zebra carcass, and I was right.
Making fun of those people, as well as rotating a flask around for discreet nips of Jack Daniels, helped pass the time until the previews started. They passed without event for the most part (except the crowd went crazy when Samuel L. Jackson appeared in the trailer for Black Snake Moan), until the stupid little film cartoon came on to remind the audience to turn off their cell phones and quiet down. Instead of heeding the cartoon's advice, most of the people in the audience, particularly the people in front of us, started applauding wildly. Worse, they all started waving their snakes around, taking pictures, and HISSING at the top of their lungs.
I leaned over to J-Sexy and made an irritated quip about how I hate people who cheer in movie theaters. A movie isn't like a play or a concert, where the performers can hear the audience's reaction, so what's the fucking point. Even when something in a movie excites me somehow, I have never lost control and felt the need to yell, or clap, or whistle. I hoped that the audience would get the desire to produce unnecessary audible responses to Snakes on a Plane (such as applause) out of their system before the credits were over. Wishful thinking.
Every time there was a lull in the dialogue in the movie (and there were a LOT of those, particularly when Samuel L. Jackson wasn't onscreen saying this and motherfuckin' that), the audience would starting hissing loudly at the screen. After ten minutes of near nonstop hissing, I was getting cranky. After the movie was half over, I was hissing obscenities every time the audience started up: "Sssssshut the fuck up! Ssssssssstop fucking hissing!" Since the people in front of us already hated us, this made them hiss louder and salute the screen so fucking often that it looked like they were Heil-ing Hitler with snakes in their hands.
When Samuel L. Jackson finally delivered the "motherfuckin' snakes on a motherfuckin' plane" line that created all the pre-release buzz for this movie in the first place, the crowd erupted in cheers and hissing, and the people in front of us literally LEAPED OUT OF THEIR CHAIRS, throwing up their arms and snakes in triumph. The queen nerd of the group was so excited I thought she was going to rip off her Snakes on a Plane shirt like Brandi Chastain at the World Cup. I was mystified, and leaned over to J-Sexy and whispered, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME<