It's finally happening. You are finally getting to see Cloverfield in the theater. Whoop-doo! Does it really matter? Did it ever? What about 27 Dresses and Mad Money? How will they fare? Do you care? Should you care? What if you have to go on a date this Friday night? And she's hot? And she doesn't want to see the Cloverfield monster. I bet you care now. Huh? You are doing your research, "Which one should I see?" I'd go with Mad Money. Um, wait. No I wouldn't. I'd try to cut her off at the pass. Ply her with alcohol. Get her drunk. Do it, and then check out early and go see Cloverfield in the morning. That is the clear answer to your dilemma.
The Cloverfield Monster? Boo! How's it going ol' testicle cheeks? This thing looks more like Wally Cox than it does a street destroying fuck-'em-up. Godzilla could crush this thing in a heartbeat. It looks like something that crawled out of Godzuki's fish dunkle. I am seriously disappointed in the design of J.J. Abrams' fetish whore. The thing is basically a mutant armadillo with man titties. And those wild eyeballs? The guy reminds me of Francis the Talking Mule on a coke bender. I can't believe they had me so psyched to see..."That". That Fucking Thing. With his greasy uncooked frog legs. And his pedestrian smile. The movie is pretty fucking bad, too. I wish I could give it the finger. It is a headache sold through in light. My left eye is still pulsating from the shaky cam. I don't get all of these people that are saying it's a great cinematic achievement. It is shit sold on the end of a Tai stick. It is like all of the boring parts of a Godzilla movie rolled into one. Without the monster. Brilliant? I say donkey dunkle! I'd like to kick this sick bitch back up Abrams' butt hole where it came from. That's where it belongs. The pubic lice in the subway tunnel? Too little, too late my friend. So don't try using that as an excuse for telling me its any good. I clocked the screen. Less than four minutes of the monster? WTF? Heck, the entire movie only lasts 71 minutes. I'm supposed to pay twelve dollars for that? I don't think so, chief.
R2D2 Shirt? Whoop-doo!
The R2D2 Costume Shirt from Junk Food? Whoop-Doo! This is possibly the coolest t-shirt I have seen in the last two weeks. And I have seen some pretty cool ones. But this sucker takes the cake. It basically has R2's chest plate on the front of it. And his back plate is there, too, on the reverse side. Now, All I need to do is track down one of those R2 knit beanies that look like his dome head. That would be the coolest outfit ever. I might just never take it off. Also of note is the fact that they've made A Darth Vader one, and a Chewbacca one, too. They even have a Stormtrooper shirt. But the R2D2 one is definitely the best. It makes me want to rob a bank and roll around in the money afterwards, just like Diane Lane and Katie Holmes do in Mad Money. Yeah, I want to roll around in some thick bills and scream "Latifah!" Sounds like a gay old time. R2! T-shirt! You can buy it here: 80s Tees!
US Weekly Cover? Boo!
Brittany on the cover of yesterday's US Weekly? Boo! This image is scary. The pop princess once known as Brittany Spears is in a straight jacket with her ankles bound. The word "INSANE!" is scrawled across her ghastly visage. At the top is a log line about her underage sister engaging in a strict sperm-only diet. The young woman's kids are plastered in there, too. And it makes me sick at my stomach. Why? Because this magazine cover reminds me of something I would see in a fantasy film where a young girl blacks out on a Christmas tequila bender and the Ghost of Fucked-Up Futures comes to her and explains the reality that lies ahead. This is the magazine she picks up in that dream. It is the shocking shit-smack that wakes her out of bad behavior. She creeps into the light and suddenly starts taking care of her self. The future we see on this surely mocked-up magazine cover never comes to fruition. Yes, that means we are living in an alternate reality that could be destroyed as soon as the much younger Brittany awakens from this sugar induced nightmare. The fabric of my surroundings feel cramped. I am living in someone's bad fantasy dream sequence. Help! I may not exist tomorrow! This magazine cover has me realizing that I am just an extra in some Pop Starlet's Christmas Carol third act. I can taste the pain in my vagina. And I want to live! Damn it! (Actually, the Cloverfield monster makes me want to die just a little bit.)
Avary? Boo!
Roger Avary Gets a DUI? Boo! This sucks. I don't understand what is happening at this moment in time. Why are so many industry types getting nailed for drinking and driving? These are rich people. If I can afford a cab on my meager wages, surely they can too. I don't want to shotgun blast Avary in the face with cruel words. I don't know the facts of the case. For all I know, he could have had one glass of wine, and was then later attacked by a bubble cat on his way home. I'm just weary of this rapacious cycle we seem to be in. It's like the Britney magazine cover. It's like we are seriously living in some bizarre anti-verse. A day doesn't go by without some semi-known celebrity of shit status getting a DUI, into a car wreck, or killing someone. Why does this keep happening again and again? Shouldn't folks be weary at this point? Something is wrong. Only we can fix it. If you are famous, please find an alternate means of transportation. The paper shouldn't make me sad every time I flip through it. I feel for Avary. Killing a friend isn't ho-ho fun and will pretty much ruin your subconscious weekend. Not to mention the taste of beer. Is there some undercover celebrity task force at work here? Busting the beautiful and well paid? Something peculiar is afoot. It smells like sulfur in the ocean air. "DUI'm not that drunk!" Is a call you should stop making to your mother. Really. It is.
Golden Globes? Whoop-doo!
The Globes canceled? Whoop-Doo! This is the first year in a long time that I didn't have to sit through this shit fest of a bore-athon. Who cares about the Globes anyway? If a Brit or other such foreigner is nominated in a category, you know they're going to win. It's the only sure bet on the ballot. The NBC press conference was a blistering embarrassment to the industry. It's only saving grace was that it was easy to miss. You didn't have to go far out of your way to keep from running into it. A Globe is just bragging rights for the DVD sleeve of whatever horrible movie they are trying to sell that week. These awards are for gay movies. And I'm glad this shit got canceled. Viva the Strike! Say it loud! Say it proud! Now let's do away with the Oscars, too. Heck, they aren't going to nominate Superbad. They aren't going to nominate Death Sentence. And they most certainly are not going to nominate Hot Fuzz or Grindhouse. So, seriously...Who needs them? Oh, the economy. That's right. I forgot. Still. I say fuck that little gold man and his baldy head. Ask any nominated loser. That guy is a born again asshole. Just like Sam Rockwell in "Snow Angeles" (which is a great little film by the way; and its not getting nominated for any awards).
The Road? Whoop-doo!
The Road gets a big screen adaptation? Whoop-doo! This is a great book. And the casting so far is great. I just wanted to give a mini-shout-out! Can't wait for this one. Let's hope they get Cormac McCarthy's better novel on the screen as well as they got No Country for Old Men up there. This will be a kicker. A true classic. Thank you Viggo Mortensen for accepting the lead role. I have trust that you will dominate the atomic wasteland of your surroundings. And Charlize Theron, it's not so shabby seeing you participate either. Gotta see it! Gotta see it! Come on, The Road!
3? Boo!
High School Musical 3: Senior Year gets a theatrical release? Boo! Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is some joyous nugget I've yet to discover. But at the fear of being considered a playground rapist, I am going to leave it undiscovered. I don't need this thing hogging up my precious screen space at the Cineplex. Ever since I heard about Zac Efron's fake eyelash obsession, I've been afraid of him. My worst nightmare is finding one of his lashes in my cold bowl of frosted flakes. Just his visage urges tiny bits of dunkle spit back through that intestine and up into my esophagus. Yes, I taste shit at the back of my mouth every time I walk into K-Mart and am eye-raped by the mile high shelf full of High School Musical paraphernalia. The pink pillows with Zac on them. The dolls. The various versions of the same DVD. The puzzles. The posters. Help, I feel like I am drowning in a pool of Disney jizz. I want this franchise to die and stay dead already. Sadly, I have been informed of a College School Musical that is currently in the works. Ouch. That hurts my fissure. Quick, someone get me an inflatable doughnut pillow. My ass has just been raped by The Disney Channel, and they are using my hemorrhoid as condom ribbing for their pleasure.
I am bleeding.
That is all. This last Boo! just completely killed me off (until next week).
The WGA Strike Score Card!
Some movies are so well written that you wish the writer got all of the respect in the world. And some are so bad, you wish the writer would just burn in hell. Who's his imagination to steal twelve bucks from me anyway? Huh? And then bitch that she's not getting paid enough. Here is a tally of the theatrical Boos! and Whoop-doos! So far this year:
Let's End this Strike and Get These Guys (and Gals) back to Work!
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