In every major city and several minor ones, there is some sort of government-funded Mass Transit. Nowhere else will you find the scents of established wealth comingle with the reek of unwashed homelessness quite like on a subway car or public bus. Darwin smiles as his fittest enjoy the best seats, while those that are weak (either in body or in heart) are trodden upon.
Last week we looked at identifying your competition. These people exist solely to invade your personal space and interfere with the enjoyment of your very life. Fortunately, there are a few simple strategies that can prevent your co-riders from coming too close. Since they lack your superior level of intelligence, you cannot simply assume others will know that a bench seat with three cushions was really engineered to accommodate one passenger. Additionally, they likely do not realize that mass transit is really only intended for use in SimCity. Given the stupidity of the masses, it would be foolish to not implement some (or all) of the strategies below.
Be fat: It seems so simple. Remember the parable of the fat, snobby, dickhead Hollywood Writer/Director who was kicked off of a Southwest Airlines flight because he was too fat to sit in one seat? He would have had plenty of space on a subway car, because he takes up 2 1/2 seats. That leaves a quarter of a seat (minimum) on either side of him. Bear in mind that this is a conservative estimate, since most people want nothing to do at all with fat people, and will treat your obesity as if it were some sort of rare communicable cancer. They would likely prefer to eat their own eyes rather than be seen sitting next to your fat ass.
Sleep on the subway: This seems easy too, right? Just pay two bucks and ride the rails all day and all night. Physically, no one can sit next to you because you take up an entire bank of seats. Wrap yourself in one of December's Sports sections and dream dreams of Big Rock Candy Mountain. No one is coming close.
Smell like ass: Simple enough. Just don't bathe. Wear dirty clothing. Don't comb your hair or groom in any other way. You could develop a wiping problem. You could stop applying deodorant or perfume or cologne or, if your 16 and from New Jersey, Axe Body Spray. If no one can bear the stench in your train car, no one will be able to sit near you without a Brotherhood of Steel self-contained suit of power armor.
Be scary looking: Again, so simple. And don't think that looking all emo and wearing eye-shadow and listening to your iPod is going to cut it. No one is interested in your stupid antics anyway, so just get a haircut and go get a job. I mean that you need to be truly scary - you need to be operating outside of mainstream society. Dark and foreboding, unkempt and religious, be reserving a seat for your imaginary friend, have a needle full of some sort of liquid, wear a shirt that says "Welcome to Rape City, Population: You" on the front of it. Feel free to get creative, since the choices are limitless.
Eat an entire meal while chewing with your mouth open: There should be nothing to it, since most of you fucking disgraceful excuses for human flotsam do this already. While it loses impact if you’re eating something less humiliating like a wrap or a salad, it can still be effective. When you show the world that you are an ill-mannered slob, it makes people wonder what else you do. You probably piss in the shower and are of questionable parentage. While they have no evidence of this, it will make the enemy less likely to get into an emotional place where it’s okay for them to sit next to you.
Read a book with a dragon on the cover: This is an advanced technique that is only recommended for veteran travelers. If, by some miracle, you could incorporate elves or undead on the cover as well, that would just be gravy. Paperback is best, since people seeing you with a hardcover book will assume you have at least a couple dollars to your name. This will cause them to be less threatened by your taste in "literature" and more willing to gamble on a seat next to you.
Now, it’s important to remember that these are only half a dozen of what I find are the most successful ways to ensure that you will earn that all-important elbow room when using mass transit. These rules are not set in stone, and in fact are designed to encourage creativity. Perhaps you could be fat, smell badly and fall asleep. Or you could take it a totally different direction that has not been outlined here. The goal is to be left alone, and how you go about securing that space and privacy is entirely up to you.
Remember that it's a warzone out there, and that people want nothing more than to step on your face. Come back next week when I look at ways to board and exit trains and buses in the most advantageous ways. It's almost time to pay all those other fuckers back.
The Only Place Trains Should Be Allowed
Fat Hollywood Dickhead
Big Rock Candy Mountain
Book With A Dragon On The Cover
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
04132010 - Angry Mike's Guide to Mass Transit Vol. 1 - Identifying Other Riders
I can't speak to how things are in your area, but here in Boston we have the glorious Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority. This name was apparently selected in favor of the more descriptive alternative: Nepotistic Urine-soaked Casualty Factory. Being the sexier, more urbane equivalent of Bear Grylls that I am, I've come up with some survival techniques that will help you during your time using mass transit.
Being able to identify your fellow riders is important. The good news though, is that 99% of all commuters will fall into at least one of the following five classes. Today, we'll look at how fun and easy it is to identify your co-riders. Knowing your enemy is the first part of urban survival.
Ostentatious Dick-in-a-Suit: This overpaid afterbirth is easily identified by his graying hair, his Wall Street Journal, and the staggering aura of arrogance that he exudes. He is likely insulted by the fact that he has to rub shoulders with you, which is indicated by the faint smell of douche that surrounds him. It is important to note that there are two versions of this guy - the low grade version is a twentysomething who thinks he's the love child of Vin Diesel and Gordon fucking Gekko. Since they are pissed they have to rely on mass transit, they will sit near you only as a last resort.
Thugs: Also easily identified. You will probably hear them before you see them, since whatever urban musical putrescence they're pumping into their ears is so loud that it will spill out and infest the rest of your train car. If they don't have music, they will be carrying on an unintelligible conversation so loudly (either on a cell phone or with their friends) that you'll think there's a Pentecostal Church in your train car. If that's not it, then you will surely smell them. They will likely be wearing enough cologne or body spray to make you consider calling a fucking HAZMAT crew. If you suffer from both anosmia and goddamn deafness, you can identify them from their ill-fitting clothing and readily apparent drug habit. It is unlikely they will try to sit near you, since they want to put their feet up like the sign specifically tells them not to.
Socially Inept Nerds: Cities generally have more than their fair share of colleges, biotech firms, engineering companies, and museums. That means that when they're not driving their 1987 Biodiesel Volkswagen Rabbit to some Enlightened Academic Hippiefest, they're taking up space on your train. They're easy to spot. They almost universally wear glasses and store things in the breast pocket of their dangerously tight Oxford shirt. Things that don't fit in their breast pocket are put into a 90s-style backpack - quite possibly the same monogrammed LL Bean backpack they used in 8th grade. They also look like they could give a two-hour lecture on Moore's Law or some other nonsense with no preparation whatsoever. They are a serious personal space threat - they lack the social skills to know that a two seat bench is really only meant for one person.
White Women: Either the career type (Burberry accessories, Blackberry, with a terrified look on their face) or the college type (sweatpants that say "Pink" across the ass, Ugg boots, terrified look on their face) or both may be on your train. The career types are generally dressed quite nicely, and they clutch their snazzy travel mugs as if it contained their deepest, darkest secret. They have that look in their eye that tells the world that they are terrified of being 30 and unmarried, along with resentment towards the magazines that lied to them about how they would feel okay if they put their careers first. Since you are obviously a potential rapist - because to them, everyone is a potential rapist - they will not sit next to you unless forced to.
Foreigners: I fucking hate foreigners. They fucking stink. They smell the way my nuts would smell after a long jog, if I were to ever take a long jog. Their clothing is at least 20 years behind the curve and their language can only be truly communicated in a full-throated shout. To someone not from Outer Slobovia, the 40 minute conversation will sound like some strange combination of The Tower of Babel and a turtles having sex. I hope you weren't planning on concentrating on ANYTHING while you were on your trip, because Glopdos and Buloogi have to talk about what an awesome time their Cousin Balki had in Chicago. They are the most severe threat to your personal space, because Europe is basically one big communal bathhouse.
That's all for now, but be sure to come back next week when I discuss ways to protect your personal space on the subway. It's a war zone out there, and people will step on your face if it means they'll get to work 2 milliseconds before you do.
Don't let them.
Bear Grylls
Gordon Gekko
Anosmia
Moore's Law
Cousin Balki
Being able to identify your fellow riders is important. The good news though, is that 99% of all commuters will fall into at least one of the following five classes. Today, we'll look at how fun and easy it is to identify your co-riders. Knowing your enemy is the first part of urban survival.
Ostentatious Dick-in-a-Suit: This overpaid afterbirth is easily identified by his graying hair, his Wall Street Journal, and the staggering aura of arrogance that he exudes. He is likely insulted by the fact that he has to rub shoulders with you, which is indicated by the faint smell of douche that surrounds him. It is important to note that there are two versions of this guy - the low grade version is a twentysomething who thinks he's the love child of Vin Diesel and Gordon fucking Gekko. Since they are pissed they have to rely on mass transit, they will sit near you only as a last resort.
Thugs: Also easily identified. You will probably hear them before you see them, since whatever urban musical putrescence they're pumping into their ears is so loud that it will spill out and infest the rest of your train car. If they don't have music, they will be carrying on an unintelligible conversation so loudly (either on a cell phone or with their friends) that you'll think there's a Pentecostal Church in your train car. If that's not it, then you will surely smell them. They will likely be wearing enough cologne or body spray to make you consider calling a fucking HAZMAT crew. If you suffer from both anosmia and goddamn deafness, you can identify them from their ill-fitting clothing and readily apparent drug habit. It is unlikely they will try to sit near you, since they want to put their feet up like the sign specifically tells them not to.
Socially Inept Nerds: Cities generally have more than their fair share of colleges, biotech firms, engineering companies, and museums. That means that when they're not driving their 1987 Biodiesel Volkswagen Rabbit to some Enlightened Academic Hippiefest, they're taking up space on your train. They're easy to spot. They almost universally wear glasses and store things in the breast pocket of their dangerously tight Oxford shirt. Things that don't fit in their breast pocket are put into a 90s-style backpack - quite possibly the same monogrammed LL Bean backpack they used in 8th grade. They also look like they could give a two-hour lecture on Moore's Law or some other nonsense with no preparation whatsoever. They are a serious personal space threat - they lack the social skills to know that a two seat bench is really only meant for one person.
White Women: Either the career type (Burberry accessories, Blackberry, with a terrified look on their face) or the college type (sweatpants that say "Pink" across the ass, Ugg boots, terrified look on their face) or both may be on your train. The career types are generally dressed quite nicely, and they clutch their snazzy travel mugs as if it contained their deepest, darkest secret. They have that look in their eye that tells the world that they are terrified of being 30 and unmarried, along with resentment towards the magazines that lied to them about how they would feel okay if they put their careers first. Since you are obviously a potential rapist - because to them, everyone is a potential rapist - they will not sit next to you unless forced to.
Foreigners: I fucking hate foreigners. They fucking stink. They smell the way my nuts would smell after a long jog, if I were to ever take a long jog. Their clothing is at least 20 years behind the curve and their language can only be truly communicated in a full-throated shout. To someone not from Outer Slobovia, the 40 minute conversation will sound like some strange combination of The Tower of Babel and a turtles having sex. I hope you weren't planning on concentrating on ANYTHING while you were on your trip, because Glopdos and Buloogi have to talk about what an awesome time their Cousin Balki had in Chicago. They are the most severe threat to your personal space, because Europe is basically one big communal bathhouse.
That's all for now, but be sure to come back next week when I discuss ways to protect your personal space on the subway. It's a war zone out there, and people will step on your face if it means they'll get to work 2 milliseconds before you do.
Don't let them.
Bear Grylls
Gordon Gekko
Anosmia
Moore's Law
Cousin Balki
| Reactions: |
Monday, March 29, 2010
03302010 - The More Things Change...
It's not even a word. “Xfinity.” Grassfuckers.
I want to know who the fuck you think you're kidding. Do you really think that that I'm going to fall for that? Do you think that after you combine some of the most douche-baggy practices that a company can possibly pull off that I will forgive everything if you change your name? Naturally, since I forgot all about the molestations when our homeboy changed his name from Cardinal Ratzinger to Pope Benedict, right? Apparently it's a valid rebranding gambit. Seriously. You must really think I'm sofa-king-we-todd-ed.
Now, the day you sign a contract with any telecommunications company - whether it's cellular, cable, satellite, whatever - they inscribe the one year anniversary of your signature on the side of a huge black dildo. When the date on the side of the dong matches the date on your Far Side Page-A-Day calendar, they fuck you with it. It’s plain and simple. They make you their prison bitch, and the only way that you can mitigate the pain is to point your toes inward and hope they're gentle.
The first thing you'll notice is that your bill is triple what it used to be. This forces you to decide just how much you like watching Jonathan Rhys Meyers having sex with every female in sight. Also, you're required to evaluate just how much you like playing Modern Warfare 2, unless you're okay with having your face violated every time you sign in due to latencies in the thousands. You probably want cable or better connectivity.
You also need to determine if you're hip enough to have your cell phone be your only phone. Think long and hard...do you get good signal everywhere in your house? Because if you don't, and you need to call 911 because your neighbor's baby has a 106-degree fever and he spent his money on tattoos and nipple piercings instead of medical care for his 4 month old daughter, and he bangs on your door and tells you to call 911 for him, you will carry the shitty image of an Insane Clown Posse fan holding a seizing infant like it’s a loaf of bread with you for the rest of your life, no matter how much it's his fault and not yours.
Now when you call to get things sorted out, it's important you follow the rules of calling customer service. Feel free to refer to my guide Clarity for tips. I hope you put some of your skill points in to Perform (Monkey Dance), because you're about to get transferred at least 5 times. Finally, Jugdesh and his buddy Baboo will restructure your plan so now you get HBO, Showtime, and ESPN Ocho, and your bill is only 180 bucks a month. Wow. What a deal. That's way better than the hundred I was paying two weeks ago.
Soon after, the outages will start. You see, Baboo's buddy Singh has a degree from the Calcutta Institute of Tech Support, and he saw something out of the ordinary with your router and decided to "fix" it. Now thanks to Singh your phone doesn't get dial tone, your Internet cuts out every time you microwave some leftovers and your DVR doesn't tape Lost, and now you have to kill everyone.
The outages aren't just limited to your cable service. Since Comcast is going steady with the power company, the two of them will have some sort of Hackers-inspired face-off where they alternate spotty service and power outages.
11 phone calls and 2 home visits later, things will seem back to normal, but let's not forget the bill that's $180. I'll say it again for the cheap seats: ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY (ONE EIGHT ZERO DOT ZERO ZERO) FUCKING DOLLARS to get buttfucked by Baboo from half a world away. Sure they call you with a survey to ask you how they're doing, but they do so in the middle of your motherfucking dinner. Or worse - they call while you're hunched over your computer screen watching a choppy-as-fuck streaming version of last Tuesday's Lost over their “high speed” Internet service. Baboo's cruelty knows no bounds.
You'll be given a 20 dollar statement credit for your troubles, as if that's supposed to take away your searing urge to flense the skin from everyone in their organization. In actuality, however, your bill is still 60% more than it used to be, but the company thinks you're so fucking stupid that you'll look at it like gaining 20 bucks instead of losing 60. I guess they can probably tell this sort of thing from your bill, since you ordered Hellboy 2, and that is proof that you at least enjoy a good intellectual slumming.
Eventually though, you will reach the tipping point. Things have gotten really bad, and you're just about to switch to Cox, because at least Cox is a more honest name for a cable provider, Comcast pulls the ol' switcheroo on you and pops out of a telephone booth renamed Xfinity.
I feel like I'm Marla fucking Singer and I just walked in on Edward Norton with a bullet hole in the side of his face.
I don't understand how we allow companies to do this sort of thing to us. God damn you, Kabletown.
Xfinity
Pope Benedict, Molester-in-Chief
Sofa-king-we-todd-ed
Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Sex Machine
Marla Singer
I want to know who the fuck you think you're kidding. Do you really think that that I'm going to fall for that? Do you think that after you combine some of the most douche-baggy practices that a company can possibly pull off that I will forgive everything if you change your name? Naturally, since I forgot all about the molestations when our homeboy changed his name from Cardinal Ratzinger to Pope Benedict, right? Apparently it's a valid rebranding gambit. Seriously. You must really think I'm sofa-king-we-todd-ed.
Now, the day you sign a contract with any telecommunications company - whether it's cellular, cable, satellite, whatever - they inscribe the one year anniversary of your signature on the side of a huge black dildo. When the date on the side of the dong matches the date on your Far Side Page-A-Day calendar, they fuck you with it. It’s plain and simple. They make you their prison bitch, and the only way that you can mitigate the pain is to point your toes inward and hope they're gentle.
The first thing you'll notice is that your bill is triple what it used to be. This forces you to decide just how much you like watching Jonathan Rhys Meyers having sex with every female in sight. Also, you're required to evaluate just how much you like playing Modern Warfare 2, unless you're okay with having your face violated every time you sign in due to latencies in the thousands. You probably want cable or better connectivity.
You also need to determine if you're hip enough to have your cell phone be your only phone. Think long and hard...do you get good signal everywhere in your house? Because if you don't, and you need to call 911 because your neighbor's baby has a 106-degree fever and he spent his money on tattoos and nipple piercings instead of medical care for his 4 month old daughter, and he bangs on your door and tells you to call 911 for him, you will carry the shitty image of an Insane Clown Posse fan holding a seizing infant like it’s a loaf of bread with you for the rest of your life, no matter how much it's his fault and not yours.
Now when you call to get things sorted out, it's important you follow the rules of calling customer service. Feel free to refer to my guide Clarity for tips. I hope you put some of your skill points in to Perform (Monkey Dance), because you're about to get transferred at least 5 times. Finally, Jugdesh and his buddy Baboo will restructure your plan so now you get HBO, Showtime, and ESPN Ocho, and your bill is only 180 bucks a month. Wow. What a deal. That's way better than the hundred I was paying two weeks ago.
Soon after, the outages will start. You see, Baboo's buddy Singh has a degree from the Calcutta Institute of Tech Support, and he saw something out of the ordinary with your router and decided to "fix" it. Now thanks to Singh your phone doesn't get dial tone, your Internet cuts out every time you microwave some leftovers and your DVR doesn't tape Lost, and now you have to kill everyone.
The outages aren't just limited to your cable service. Since Comcast is going steady with the power company, the two of them will have some sort of Hackers-inspired face-off where they alternate spotty service and power outages.
11 phone calls and 2 home visits later, things will seem back to normal, but let's not forget the bill that's $180. I'll say it again for the cheap seats: ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY (ONE EIGHT ZERO DOT ZERO ZERO) FUCKING DOLLARS to get buttfucked by Baboo from half a world away. Sure they call you with a survey to ask you how they're doing, but they do so in the middle of your motherfucking dinner. Or worse - they call while you're hunched over your computer screen watching a choppy-as-fuck streaming version of last Tuesday's Lost over their “high speed” Internet service. Baboo's cruelty knows no bounds.
You'll be given a 20 dollar statement credit for your troubles, as if that's supposed to take away your searing urge to flense the skin from everyone in their organization. In actuality, however, your bill is still 60% more than it used to be, but the company thinks you're so fucking stupid that you'll look at it like gaining 20 bucks instead of losing 60. I guess they can probably tell this sort of thing from your bill, since you ordered Hellboy 2, and that is proof that you at least enjoy a good intellectual slumming.
Eventually though, you will reach the tipping point. Things have gotten really bad, and you're just about to switch to Cox, because at least Cox is a more honest name for a cable provider, Comcast pulls the ol' switcheroo on you and pops out of a telephone booth renamed Xfinity.
I feel like I'm Marla fucking Singer and I just walked in on Edward Norton with a bullet hole in the side of his face.
I don't understand how we allow companies to do this sort of thing to us. God damn you, Kabletown.
Xfinity
Pope Benedict, Molester-in-Chief
Sofa-king-we-todd-ed
Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Sex Machine
Marla Singer
| Reactions: |
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
03232010 - Angry Mike Goes to the Movies 5: Now Angry in 3D!
This week, instead of complaining about this movie or that, I'm going to turn the focus of the Angry Pulpit on the latest and greatest craze that's sweeping the galaxy. No, not Slurms MacKenzie. Movies in 3D.
Hollywood needs 3D like someone in renal failure needs dialysis. It's simply not an option for them. The reason is simple - no one in California has had an original idea in over 30 years. Being an unoriginal bunch of asshammers, Hollywood needs you to embrace 3D as if it were your own child. Ideally, you would be that little monkey who would rather starve next to something cuddly than be fed by something uncomfortable.
Don't let them win.
Most importantly, 3D is a gimmick. Hollywood is basically selling you a car with their right hand while the fuck your wife in the back seat of the car you're buying with their left. They want you to look at all the pretty, pretty pictures and smell the music and be distracted like you're Timothy Leary enjoying his latest batch of blotter paper. Meanwhilst you will not notice the fact that you're being shown the exact same shit that you can see on FX in a few months.
Take a similar technology - IMAX. It’s neat stuff. Oh my god that's a big fucking penguin. That’s amazing. Holy shit, we're in space. Jupiter is fucking enormous. It's a once in a while experience that's neat every couple of years, but to have it forced upon me well...that's about as appealing as having Walt Disney rise from the grave and rape my throat.
And after he's done with your throat he will move on to your wallet. Don't forget that most theaters are going to make you pay extra for those stupid glasses that have all the aesthetics of train wreck. Near me, the theater extorts an extra $1.50 for a pair of glasses that were probably made in a sweatshop outside of Kowloon for less than half a cent. They're probably injection molded out of hardened leftover toy car paint that China couldn't export, thanks to a recall attributed to the paint causing finger cancer.
That paint is probably the reason why whenever I watch a movie through those glasses, I leave the theater feeling like I have tumors growing on my optic nerves. The headache they give you is unlike any other. So you get to pay extra money to see (listen closely because this part's very important) THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING, and then leave in excruciating pain. It makes about as much sense as paying a dentist extra to deliberately fuck you up while he fills your cavity.
Oh and I almost forgot. When you're done they have a recycling box outside the theater so you can throw your glasses out. Try "so we can repackage them like fucking bowling shoes."
PT Barnum is probably in Hell, and he's probably laughing his ass off.
I also enjoy the way they advertise movies like the "new" (read as: "remake") of Clash of the Titans. In huge letters that are only marginally smaller than Liam Neeson's massive Paris-crushing cock, they tout the 3D release. Then, in letters smaller than a cigarette warning label, they tell you that it is also available in 2D for people with tiny penises who enjoy anonymous gay sex while watching Family Matters. Funny thing is that even if you want to see it in 2D, it's only showing is at 8:50am in Fairbanks, Alaska at the Fairbanks Meth-o-plex.
I could go on and on, but the bottom line is that there is no reason to continue to endorse this fad. In the words of Admiral Ackbar - "It's a trap!" It's a trick. It's more like like Smell-o-vision than Technicolor. People that tell you it's the new Technicolor are, quite simply, fucking liars. When last I looked, no one ran out of Avatar screaming, like they did when shit turned to color in the Wizard of Oz.
Well…people may have run out screaming, but not because it was in 3D.
Slurms MacKenzie
Cuddly Monkey Experiments
Timothy Leary
Admiral Fucking Ackbar
Smell-O-Vision
Hollywood needs 3D like someone in renal failure needs dialysis. It's simply not an option for them. The reason is simple - no one in California has had an original idea in over 30 years. Being an unoriginal bunch of asshammers, Hollywood needs you to embrace 3D as if it were your own child. Ideally, you would be that little monkey who would rather starve next to something cuddly than be fed by something uncomfortable.
Don't let them win.
Most importantly, 3D is a gimmick. Hollywood is basically selling you a car with their right hand while the fuck your wife in the back seat of the car you're buying with their left. They want you to look at all the pretty, pretty pictures and smell the music and be distracted like you're Timothy Leary enjoying his latest batch of blotter paper. Meanwhilst you will not notice the fact that you're being shown the exact same shit that you can see on FX in a few months.
Take a similar technology - IMAX. It’s neat stuff. Oh my god that's a big fucking penguin. That’s amazing. Holy shit, we're in space. Jupiter is fucking enormous. It's a once in a while experience that's neat every couple of years, but to have it forced upon me well...that's about as appealing as having Walt Disney rise from the grave and rape my throat.
And after he's done with your throat he will move on to your wallet. Don't forget that most theaters are going to make you pay extra for those stupid glasses that have all the aesthetics of train wreck. Near me, the theater extorts an extra $1.50 for a pair of glasses that were probably made in a sweatshop outside of Kowloon for less than half a cent. They're probably injection molded out of hardened leftover toy car paint that China couldn't export, thanks to a recall attributed to the paint causing finger cancer.
That paint is probably the reason why whenever I watch a movie through those glasses, I leave the theater feeling like I have tumors growing on my optic nerves. The headache they give you is unlike any other. So you get to pay extra money to see (listen closely because this part's very important) THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING, and then leave in excruciating pain. It makes about as much sense as paying a dentist extra to deliberately fuck you up while he fills your cavity.
Oh and I almost forgot. When you're done they have a recycling box outside the theater so you can throw your glasses out. Try "so we can repackage them like fucking bowling shoes."
PT Barnum is probably in Hell, and he's probably laughing his ass off.
I also enjoy the way they advertise movies like the "new" (read as: "remake") of Clash of the Titans. In huge letters that are only marginally smaller than Liam Neeson's massive Paris-crushing cock, they tout the 3D release. Then, in letters smaller than a cigarette warning label, they tell you that it is also available in 2D for people with tiny penises who enjoy anonymous gay sex while watching Family Matters. Funny thing is that even if you want to see it in 2D, it's only showing is at 8:50am in Fairbanks, Alaska at the Fairbanks Meth-o-plex.
I could go on and on, but the bottom line is that there is no reason to continue to endorse this fad. In the words of Admiral Ackbar - "It's a trap!" It's a trick. It's more like like Smell-o-vision than Technicolor. People that tell you it's the new Technicolor are, quite simply, fucking liars. When last I looked, no one ran out of Avatar screaming, like they did when shit turned to color in the Wizard of Oz.
Well…people may have run out screaming, but not because it was in 3D.
Slurms MacKenzie
Cuddly Monkey Experiments
Timothy Leary
Admiral Fucking Ackbar
Smell-O-Vision
| Reactions: |
Thursday, March 18, 2010
03182010 - Angry Mike Goes to the Movies 4: A Clockwork Angry
So the time has come again to write another review, and while most everyone else goes out and uses a 5th Century Saint's Feast Day as an excuse to wear green and binge drink, I'm home writing this. Instead of wasting my money on some shitpile like Brooklyn’s Finest or whatever permutation of Jason Bourne that Matt Damon has signed on to play this week, I'm going all the way back to 1971. I’m watching Stanley Kubrick's adaptation of Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange. Until recently I had never seen it, and I figured it was time to give this “classic” a shot.
I thought I’d write this because everyone is always dryhumping their anime body pillows over how awesome Stanley Kubrick is and I wanted to see something besides Full Metal Jacket, which is a movie I enjoyed for about 30 minutes. He made The Shining. He made 2001. People talk about him like he's some legendary super-director who has put every skill point he's ever gotten into Craft Wondrous Item (Cinema), and now he's basically the Elminster of filmmaking. Apparently he is for film what Jesus is for Christians.
Imagine my surprise when I turn on A Clockwork Orange. Let me just start by saying this movie is so incredibly fucked up, it made the person who did the music for so confused they got a sex change. That's right. It is so horrible and twisted that Walter Carlos is now Wendy Carlos. Look it up.
We’re dropped into the not-too-distant future, and London is about as safe as letting Michael J. Fox give your crotch a straight razor shave. The movie opens with a pre-Star Trek: Generations Malcolm McDowell and his droogs sitting in a bar enjoying some fine Miloko, laced perhaps with some tasty Velocet, to get them ready for some of the old ultraviolence. Oh yeah. The entire movie is scripted in the same storytelling style as the book. This means that just like you did with Precious (assuming you’re one of the 9 people that saw it), you're going to need to dedicate a percentage of your brain's processing power to trying to infer what in the shit the characters are saying.
The movie's messages of social decay seem to get lost in all the ultraviolence you'll have to vidi. Maybe that's the point, but within the first 15 minutes of we're shown the surprisingly unfunny beating of a homeless man, an attempted gang rape that’s broken up by a gang fight, a car theft, a break-in, another beating, and of course another rape (successful this time). To add an exponential level of creepiness, the second rape takes place while the main character sings "Singin' in the Rain” to the victim’s husband.
Based on this, I can only imagine what kind of websites Kubrick would frequent if he were alive today. Jesus.
Did I mention there were penises EVERYWHERE in this movie? They are typically displayed next to busts of Ludwig Van Beethoven. What. The. Fuck.
Eventually our brother Alex is arrested (big fucking surprise) for doing his best impression of a gay Niko Bellic by beating a crazy cat lady to death with a huge ceramic dick. Seriously. This movie makes Superbad seem somehow anti-dick. In prison he volunteers for an experimental treatment whereby he will be conditioned to feel ill when exposed to the prospect of sex, violence, or Beethoven's 9th Symphony.
Everyone agrees that Alex is cured of his love for deaf composers, and he's released out into the world. He gets jumped by his old buddies, and shortly thereafter pulls a “Brooks was here” and tries to kill himself by jumping face first out a window. What a fucking ingrate. All those tax dollars down the shitter. The powers that be realize they can't take the heat for this kid trying to off himself, so they reverse his conditioning. It turns out there's no cure for violence and sexual deviousness and society is fucked after all. Huzzah! Crippling depression for all! No happy ending for you here, no matter how much you tip.
The book apparently has a fourth act that's not included in the movie. This chapter is allegedly about Alex's redemption or some shit. I wouldn't know, because even though this book was assigned to me in Mr. Martin's 12th Grade English class, I never read the motherfucker, so it might as well be about pork and pumpkin pie.
At the end of all things, I would have selected a less esoteric title. I would have stayed away from obscure Cockney sayings, and instead just gone with something more descriptive:
Rape ‘n’ Beethoven.
Japanese Body Pillow
Elminster
Walter Carlos
Niko Bellic
Brooks Was Here
I thought I’d write this because everyone is always dryhumping their anime body pillows over how awesome Stanley Kubrick is and I wanted to see something besides Full Metal Jacket, which is a movie I enjoyed for about 30 minutes. He made The Shining. He made 2001. People talk about him like he's some legendary super-director who has put every skill point he's ever gotten into Craft Wondrous Item (Cinema), and now he's basically the Elminster of filmmaking. Apparently he is for film what Jesus is for Christians.
Imagine my surprise when I turn on A Clockwork Orange. Let me just start by saying this movie is so incredibly fucked up, it made the person who did the music for so confused they got a sex change. That's right. It is so horrible and twisted that Walter Carlos is now Wendy Carlos. Look it up.
We’re dropped into the not-too-distant future, and London is about as safe as letting Michael J. Fox give your crotch a straight razor shave. The movie opens with a pre-Star Trek: Generations Malcolm McDowell and his droogs sitting in a bar enjoying some fine Miloko, laced perhaps with some tasty Velocet, to get them ready for some of the old ultraviolence. Oh yeah. The entire movie is scripted in the same storytelling style as the book. This means that just like you did with Precious (assuming you’re one of the 9 people that saw it), you're going to need to dedicate a percentage of your brain's processing power to trying to infer what in the shit the characters are saying.
The movie's messages of social decay seem to get lost in all the ultraviolence you'll have to vidi. Maybe that's the point, but within the first 15 minutes of we're shown the surprisingly unfunny beating of a homeless man, an attempted gang rape that’s broken up by a gang fight, a car theft, a break-in, another beating, and of course another rape (successful this time). To add an exponential level of creepiness, the second rape takes place while the main character sings "Singin' in the Rain” to the victim’s husband.
Based on this, I can only imagine what kind of websites Kubrick would frequent if he were alive today. Jesus.
Did I mention there were penises EVERYWHERE in this movie? They are typically displayed next to busts of Ludwig Van Beethoven. What. The. Fuck.
Eventually our brother Alex is arrested (big fucking surprise) for doing his best impression of a gay Niko Bellic by beating a crazy cat lady to death with a huge ceramic dick. Seriously. This movie makes Superbad seem somehow anti-dick. In prison he volunteers for an experimental treatment whereby he will be conditioned to feel ill when exposed to the prospect of sex, violence, or Beethoven's 9th Symphony.
Everyone agrees that Alex is cured of his love for deaf composers, and he's released out into the world. He gets jumped by his old buddies, and shortly thereafter pulls a “Brooks was here” and tries to kill himself by jumping face first out a window. What a fucking ingrate. All those tax dollars down the shitter. The powers that be realize they can't take the heat for this kid trying to off himself, so they reverse his conditioning. It turns out there's no cure for violence and sexual deviousness and society is fucked after all. Huzzah! Crippling depression for all! No happy ending for you here, no matter how much you tip.
The book apparently has a fourth act that's not included in the movie. This chapter is allegedly about Alex's redemption or some shit. I wouldn't know, because even though this book was assigned to me in Mr. Martin's 12th Grade English class, I never read the motherfucker, so it might as well be about pork and pumpkin pie.
At the end of all things, I would have selected a less esoteric title. I would have stayed away from obscure Cockney sayings, and instead just gone with something more descriptive:
Rape ‘n’ Beethoven.
Japanese Body Pillow
Elminster
Walter Carlos
Niko Bellic
Brooks Was Here
| Reactions: |
Friday, March 12, 2010
03122010 - Angry Mike Goes To The Movies 3: Angry In Wonderland
It’s true that there aren't many guarantees in life, but one of them is that if you marry a girl named Alice, you can pretty much count on becoming intimately familiar with Lewis Carroll, his stories, and every interpretation of his work in every possible medium. Over the last year alone this includes: a borderline pornographic comic book from Zenescape Comics, a SyFy adaptation involving Tim Curry and Big Love's Roman Grant, and now Tim Burton's batshit crazy interpretation of Alice In Wonderland.
Tim Burton, the "genius" behind such gems as Batman Returns and some other crap from the 90s, employs his usual suspects in Alice in Wonderland. His wife Helena Bonham Carter, and of course his bottom, Johnny Depp, are both present. Burton's butlers Christopher Lee and Alan Rickman provide voice talent. It's like they said "I saw the fuckin' costume you have Depp in, and you can fuckin' forget it." The Cult of Burton also welcomes two novitiates - Mia Wasikowska as Alice and Anne Hathaway as the White Queen.
We start out presumably in London, and a grade-school Alice is unable to sleep, complaining about how her character is being crushed under a steaming pile of foreshadowing. Fast-forward like 10 years and Alice is now about to be engaged to some Victorian era d-bag. After a few hallucinations of rabbits, our heroine finally says to an entire party of rich British jerkoffs that she is out like Harvey Milk at a Liberace concert.
From here on in, the world is basically entirely CG. And not just any CG - the movie is filmed entirely in Burton's trademarked InsanoVision, right down to Johnny Depp’s ridiculous googly eyes. This means that every single thing is going to be highly stylised. While it's not necessarily a bad thing, it is absolutely fucking terrifying. Since Tim Burton is apparently an original member of Dethklok, moats are filled with the severed heads of the Queen's victims and the Knave of Hearts has a heart-shaped eyepatch like he's some kind of gay emo Nick Fury. The March Hare is completely and utterly beyond redemption insane, while Tweedledee and Tweedledum look like twin retarded Jonah Hill fetuses. The magical part of all this is that because Burton's pervasive vision is equally nutzors throughout, it all seems to go together.
So after a couple hours of an improbable string of wardrobe malfunctions due to Alice's binging on magical foodstuffs (she ends up going through outfits like a heroin-addicted diabetic goes through needles), all the pieces are in place and it's time for the final rumble. Blondie gets one last bit of guidance from the caterpillar version of Severus Snape before he does the caterpillar version of falling out a window of Nakatomi Plaza. After that she's off to fight the Red Queen’s Jaberwocky, just like the Marauder's Map-inspired prophecy says to. This seems like a perfectly logical reason to fight the fantasy equivalent of a fucking Super Star Destroyer, right?
The Jaberwocky, voiced by Dracula-turned-evil-sorcery-guy Christopher Lee, greets his foe with dialogue that is virtually plagarised from Attack of the Clones (this is not a compliment). As an audience member, you're basically like "Fuckin' great. Now she has to fight Count Dooku," and you know how this is gonna go, since Alice is essentially a live action version of Chi Chi from Dragonballz, and promptly makes with the shitwreckin'.
This is a Disney movie, so I’m not really spoiling the ending by telling you what you know has to happen. Let’s just say though that Christopher Lee is the cinematic combat equivalent of the Chicago Cubs. Here, he is Miss Rhode Island and Alice is Mike Tyson. You get the idea yet? Lee is basically any female, while Alice is Ben Roethlisberger, and Wonderland is a woman’s bathroom in a bar in Georgia. How about now?
Your enjoyment of this movie will almost certainly hinge upon your preconceived notions of Tim Burton. The bottom line is that if you're the type that dresses up every Halloween as Jack Skellington, you will likely spend most of this movie pinching your nipples while humming tunes from Sweeney Todd in a display of temporary Asperger's. If you were never a fan of Burton to begin with, you will enjoy this movie about as much as you would enjoy gay sex with a lawn dart.
For my part, I fear that Disney has lost it's muchness.
Harvey Milk
Dethklok
Nick Fury
Marauder's Map
Nakatomi Plaza
Chi Chi
Miss Rhode Island and Mike Tyson
Tim Burton, the "genius" behind such gems as Batman Returns and some other crap from the 90s, employs his usual suspects in Alice in Wonderland. His wife Helena Bonham Carter, and of course his bottom, Johnny Depp, are both present. Burton's butlers Christopher Lee and Alan Rickman provide voice talent. It's like they said "I saw the fuckin' costume you have Depp in, and you can fuckin' forget it." The Cult of Burton also welcomes two novitiates - Mia Wasikowska as Alice and Anne Hathaway as the White Queen.
We start out presumably in London, and a grade-school Alice is unable to sleep, complaining about how her character is being crushed under a steaming pile of foreshadowing. Fast-forward like 10 years and Alice is now about to be engaged to some Victorian era d-bag. After a few hallucinations of rabbits, our heroine finally says to an entire party of rich British jerkoffs that she is out like Harvey Milk at a Liberace concert.
From here on in, the world is basically entirely CG. And not just any CG - the movie is filmed entirely in Burton's trademarked InsanoVision, right down to Johnny Depp’s ridiculous googly eyes. This means that every single thing is going to be highly stylised. While it's not necessarily a bad thing, it is absolutely fucking terrifying. Since Tim Burton is apparently an original member of Dethklok, moats are filled with the severed heads of the Queen's victims and the Knave of Hearts has a heart-shaped eyepatch like he's some kind of gay emo Nick Fury. The March Hare is completely and utterly beyond redemption insane, while Tweedledee and Tweedledum look like twin retarded Jonah Hill fetuses. The magical part of all this is that because Burton's pervasive vision is equally nutzors throughout, it all seems to go together.
So after a couple hours of an improbable string of wardrobe malfunctions due to Alice's binging on magical foodstuffs (she ends up going through outfits like a heroin-addicted diabetic goes through needles), all the pieces are in place and it's time for the final rumble. Blondie gets one last bit of guidance from the caterpillar version of Severus Snape before he does the caterpillar version of falling out a window of Nakatomi Plaza. After that she's off to fight the Red Queen’s Jaberwocky, just like the Marauder's Map-inspired prophecy says to. This seems like a perfectly logical reason to fight the fantasy equivalent of a fucking Super Star Destroyer, right?
The Jaberwocky, voiced by Dracula-turned-evil-sorcery-guy Christopher Lee, greets his foe with dialogue that is virtually plagarised from Attack of the Clones (this is not a compliment). As an audience member, you're basically like "Fuckin' great. Now she has to fight Count Dooku," and you know how this is gonna go, since Alice is essentially a live action version of Chi Chi from Dragonballz, and promptly makes with the shitwreckin'.
This is a Disney movie, so I’m not really spoiling the ending by telling you what you know has to happen. Let’s just say though that Christopher Lee is the cinematic combat equivalent of the Chicago Cubs. Here, he is Miss Rhode Island and Alice is Mike Tyson. You get the idea yet? Lee is basically any female, while Alice is Ben Roethlisberger, and Wonderland is a woman’s bathroom in a bar in Georgia. How about now?
Your enjoyment of this movie will almost certainly hinge upon your preconceived notions of Tim Burton. The bottom line is that if you're the type that dresses up every Halloween as Jack Skellington, you will likely spend most of this movie pinching your nipples while humming tunes from Sweeney Todd in a display of temporary Asperger's. If you were never a fan of Burton to begin with, you will enjoy this movie about as much as you would enjoy gay sex with a lawn dart.
For my part, I fear that Disney has lost it's muchness.
Harvey Milk
Dethklok
Nick Fury
Marauder's Map
Nakatomi Plaza
Chi Chi
Miss Rhode Island and Mike Tyson
| Reactions: |
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
03022010 - Angry Mike Goes to the Movies 2: Mike Stays In
So this week, instead of wasting my money on Kevin Smith's steaming pile of fish ejaculate entitled Cop Out, I have instead turned my attention to something that I was able to DVR. SyFy was kind enough to air The ENTIRE FUCKING Stand in an effort to compete with the Closing Ceremonies of the Vancouver Olympics. So if terrifying inflatable Mounties and Greek National Anthems are not your thing, you had options. The TV version runs for 8 hours, but with the DVD copy you can clock in at a marginally more merciful 366 minutes.
To be fair, I watched this monstrosity in two sittings. To put things into some sort of frame of reference, consider what else you could turn your attention to with that time. You could: fly to Chicago, eat at Gino's East, and fly the fuck home; beat the single player mode of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 twice; go to Church eight times; perform a fucking heart transplant. Entire baseball seasons will come and go while you watch The Stand. However, if instead of all these things you still crave the quintessential buffet of early 90s television, you've come to the right place. This shit makes Twin Peaks it’s bitch.
Gary Sinese, cast at the pinnacle of his inexplicable popularity, takes a break from space-related movies to play Stu Barnes, who is basically St. Joseph from East Texas. So convincing is he in this role people are required to refer to him as "East Texas" so they can remind you that the dropout from Apollo 13 is from East Texas. Other blasts from the past involve Molly fucking Ringwald, epically miscast as some sort of weepy Mary figure, Rob Lowe as a deaf and mute analog of an occasionally shirtless Jesus, quintessential backup player Jamey Sheridan as Randall Flagg, and an assortment of other faceless role-player types from the 90s. If you take the time to watch The Stand, I promise you that you will spend most of your time saying "I know that guy from somewhere!" Problem is that "somewhere" is probably Nickelodeon's Hey Dude, or something equally obscure.
I'm not fucking kidding. The dad from Hey Dude is one of Randall Flagg's henchmen.
It's pretty obvious from the beginning of the story that this is basically "Stephen King Rewrites The Revelation to John". An Ace of Base version of H1N1 kills just about everybody, and only a handful of people are immune. The survivors have dreams that lure them either to fucking Oklahoma (uh...what?) or Las Vegas (win). Eventually, the "good" migrate to Boulder, CO (possibly for a glimpse of some sweet tricks performed by Shawn White) while the "evil" people are still chillin' in Vegas (probably because they rule). Eventually, the elderly black lady that has lured folks to Colorado with dreams and candy appoints a group of leaders comprised exclusively of the main characters. If that's not providence, I don't know what is.
There's some additional adversity, like when the kid in the GOTCHA! shirt, who hates the good guys with the realness (because mega-pimp Gary Sinese cockblocked his chances at having sex with an already-pregnant Molly Ringwald), blows up President Bartlett's Deputy Communications Director with a shoebox. The uglier of the two ugly chicks from Just Shoot Me has epic chin sex with the devil, while The Retard is turned into a one man sleeper cell and sent off to spy on the people in Vegas. Thankfully, the old bitch dies. She's dehydrated or beaten to death or something. I really don’t know because I was in the kitchen making some Ramen, and couldn't be bothered to rewind my DVR since I hated this character and her down-homey wisdom from the second I saw her guitar-playin' ass. Anyway, since the old lady critically fails her Fortitude save to avoid death, she’s off to meet Billy Mays, but not until after she tells the dude from CSI: New York to confront the guy from Law and Order: Criminal Intent out in Vegas.
So, of course, because they were told to by a dead (probably) hooker (probably) they used to have dreams about, they obey. You'll find that this sort of thing happens a lot in The Stand. Thanks to their faith, Gary Sinese eats shit wicked hard and breaks his leg trying to climb a hill and his boys are like "Fuck this noise - this isn't The Hangover" and keep going to Vegas without him. The preachy old dude in the fedora sacks up and actually mouths off to The Denim Devil who, in turn, has his boy smote the old dude with a .38 Special, whilst the remaining two good guys (the one who looks like he's straight out of Empire Records and the other who is straight out of...well…nothing else because he sucks and is fat) manage to get strung up on the rack. Just when they're about to be executed, one of the Randall Flagg's own people drives into town with a nuclear warhead, which is promptly detonated by a Level 9 Cleric Spell “90s Special Effect Hand of God”.
A nuclear bomb. Are you fucking kidding me? Eight fucking hours and you decide to kill Satan with a nuclear weapon? I wish Stephen King would just break into my house and cum on my face while I'm sleeping.
I was sitting there, like the illiterate retard, saying "I wish I wasn't so retarded."
But it’s not over. This happened at the 7 hour 35 minute mark of the telecast. Stephen King’s walking interpretation of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men (Gary and The Retard) make their way back to Boulder, only to discover that Pretty In Pink has finally given birth to her bastard child. The audience knows that everything is going to be okay because some kid has a vision of the old black lady from before. Or, to be more specific, HER DISEMBODIED FACE IN THE NURSERY HOVERING OVER MOLLY RINGWALD'S BABY! Oh. My. Fucking. God. The creepy-ass old lady face-hoverage is far and away the most terrifying part of the entire series, and with that, the credits roll.
M-O-O-N…that spells shitty ending. Laws yes.
Gino's East
Hey Dude
Gotcha!
Deputy Communications Director
To be fair, I watched this monstrosity in two sittings. To put things into some sort of frame of reference, consider what else you could turn your attention to with that time. You could: fly to Chicago, eat at Gino's East, and fly the fuck home; beat the single player mode of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 twice; go to Church eight times; perform a fucking heart transplant. Entire baseball seasons will come and go while you watch The Stand. However, if instead of all these things you still crave the quintessential buffet of early 90s television, you've come to the right place. This shit makes Twin Peaks it’s bitch.
Gary Sinese, cast at the pinnacle of his inexplicable popularity, takes a break from space-related movies to play Stu Barnes, who is basically St. Joseph from East Texas. So convincing is he in this role people are required to refer to him as "East Texas" so they can remind you that the dropout from Apollo 13 is from East Texas. Other blasts from the past involve Molly fucking Ringwald, epically miscast as some sort of weepy Mary figure, Rob Lowe as a deaf and mute analog of an occasionally shirtless Jesus, quintessential backup player Jamey Sheridan as Randall Flagg, and an assortment of other faceless role-player types from the 90s. If you take the time to watch The Stand, I promise you that you will spend most of your time saying "I know that guy from somewhere!" Problem is that "somewhere" is probably Nickelodeon's Hey Dude, or something equally obscure.
I'm not fucking kidding. The dad from Hey Dude is one of Randall Flagg's henchmen.
It's pretty obvious from the beginning of the story that this is basically "Stephen King Rewrites The Revelation to John". An Ace of Base version of H1N1 kills just about everybody, and only a handful of people are immune. The survivors have dreams that lure them either to fucking Oklahoma (uh...what?) or Las Vegas (win). Eventually, the "good" migrate to Boulder, CO (possibly for a glimpse of some sweet tricks performed by Shawn White) while the "evil" people are still chillin' in Vegas (probably because they rule). Eventually, the elderly black lady that has lured folks to Colorado with dreams and candy appoints a group of leaders comprised exclusively of the main characters. If that's not providence, I don't know what is.
There's some additional adversity, like when the kid in the GOTCHA! shirt, who hates the good guys with the realness (because mega-pimp Gary Sinese cockblocked his chances at having sex with an already-pregnant Molly Ringwald), blows up President Bartlett's Deputy Communications Director with a shoebox. The uglier of the two ugly chicks from Just Shoot Me has epic chin sex with the devil, while The Retard is turned into a one man sleeper cell and sent off to spy on the people in Vegas. Thankfully, the old bitch dies. She's dehydrated or beaten to death or something. I really don’t know because I was in the kitchen making some Ramen, and couldn't be bothered to rewind my DVR since I hated this character and her down-homey wisdom from the second I saw her guitar-playin' ass. Anyway, since the old lady critically fails her Fortitude save to avoid death, she’s off to meet Billy Mays, but not until after she tells the dude from CSI: New York to confront the guy from Law and Order: Criminal Intent out in Vegas.
So, of course, because they were told to by a dead (probably) hooker (probably) they used to have dreams about, they obey. You'll find that this sort of thing happens a lot in The Stand. Thanks to their faith, Gary Sinese eats shit wicked hard and breaks his leg trying to climb a hill and his boys are like "Fuck this noise - this isn't The Hangover" and keep going to Vegas without him. The preachy old dude in the fedora sacks up and actually mouths off to The Denim Devil who, in turn, has his boy smote the old dude with a .38 Special, whilst the remaining two good guys (the one who looks like he's straight out of Empire Records and the other who is straight out of...well…nothing else because he sucks and is fat) manage to get strung up on the rack. Just when they're about to be executed, one of the Randall Flagg's own people drives into town with a nuclear warhead, which is promptly detonated by a Level 9 Cleric Spell “90s Special Effect Hand of God”.
A nuclear bomb. Are you fucking kidding me? Eight fucking hours and you decide to kill Satan with a nuclear weapon? I wish Stephen King would just break into my house and cum on my face while I'm sleeping.
I was sitting there, like the illiterate retard, saying "I wish I wasn't so retarded."
But it’s not over. This happened at the 7 hour 35 minute mark of the telecast. Stephen King’s walking interpretation of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men (Gary and The Retard) make their way back to Boulder, only to discover that Pretty In Pink has finally given birth to her bastard child. The audience knows that everything is going to be okay because some kid has a vision of the old black lady from before. Or, to be more specific, HER DISEMBODIED FACE IN THE NURSERY HOVERING OVER MOLLY RINGWALD'S BABY! Oh. My. Fucking. God. The creepy-ass old lady face-hoverage is far and away the most terrifying part of the entire series, and with that, the credits roll.
M-O-O-N…that spells shitty ending. Laws yes.
Gino's East
Hey Dude
Gotcha!
Deputy Communications Director
| Reactions: |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
