Monday, November 03, 2008
Me llamo es Sarah Palin
Just in time for the election, I've got what you were all undoubtedly waiting with bated breath all weekend to see: my Sarah Palin costume. As promised, I did dress up as Sarah Palin in a flag bikini. The bikini arrived at work just in time on Friday morning, and I eagerly tore open the package to shout "USA! U! S! A!" at my coworkers while modeling it over my clothes. Unfortunately, I realized that it wasn't quite the same stars-and-stripes design I expected. In fact, upon closer inspection, I realized with horror that the online flag bikini store fucked up my order and sent me a Puerto Rican flag bikini by mistake. Luckily, that turned out even better, because as numerous people at the party I attended pointed out, Sarah Palin probably thinks she can see Puerto Rico from Alaska. The bikini goes great with the giant Obama sign in the background.
Also as promised, I dressed my morbidly obese Pug Chingy! up as Sarah Palin's infant son Trig. Several people commented that it was one of the most offensive things anyone had ever seen, but nonetheless everyone laughed at it. Chingy! quickly proved his disdain for the extra large (yet still too small) Pull-Ups I put on him and in his typical fashion, proved to be far more ill-behaved and uncooperative than I've ever seen Trig Palin.
Another very un-Palin-esque behavior of Chingy!'s involved him going rogue and showing his undying love for pork barrel spending. Pork Barrel Spending is one of Chingy!'s very favorite Pugsitters, and she promptly removed the barrel and spent the evening cuddling with him and whispering sweet CHONGAYs into his stank, tarry little ears.
I'd show more pictures, but unfortunately our party host GayMan got very drunk (when I left the party at like 3 a.m., he had exhausted all the beer in the fridge and was resorting to Mike's Hard Lemonade). Despite the fact that he is a professional photographer, at this point all of his photos got awfully blurry. Additionally, you can tell that despite his name, GayMan is as hetero as they come. For evidence, take this photograph of me talking to my friend Moss, who dressed as what Governor Palin would classify as an Inuit.
Nice titty picture, GayMan. I should know; I am a connoisseur.
Anyway, CHONGAY CHONG, Sarah and Trig Palin costume! Oh, and if anyone needs a gently used Puerto Rican flag bikini, holler at your Alaskan governor.
Labels: alcoholism, CHONGAY CHONG, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, politics, spooktiness
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
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Rohr
I accompanied KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami to the historic Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn so that KatieScarlett could film a very scary movie there in preparation for Halloween. KatieScarlett is an excellent director, as you can tell from the scary, scary camera work, the terrifying effects, and the way she inspired Bienvenido-a-Miami and myself to run all over the place. She was so inspiring that I didn't even mind the bruise on my shin I got from purposefully tripping over the rail by Boss Tweed's family plot. So without further ado, check out our spookty movie, Rohr:
My favorite part of the whole thing is the Rorschach test-meets-kaleidoscope effect KatieScarlett employs in the middle of the film. Well, that and the lightning, obviously. The one failing was that the camera angle botched my attempt at providing the film with a solid titty shot, so I mooned the camera instead. It's not a horror movie without nudity, after all. That's called acting, people.
My favorite part of the whole thing is the Rorschach test-meets-kaleidoscope effect KatieScarlett employs in the middle of the film. Well, that and the lightning, obviously. The one failing was that the camera angle botched my attempt at providing the film with a solid titty shot, so I mooned the camera instead. It's not a horror movie without nudity, after all. That's called acting, people.
Labels: artfaggotry, BK, creative projects, epic geekery, KatieScarlett, Razzification, spooktiness
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