If you really wanted to threaten her, you could have made her watch every one of your movies since 1990. Then she would have begged to have her throat slit.
Seriously–take a look at this dogpile.
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First off, for those stumbling upon this site, my DVD reviews don’t talk about how great the commentary was, or how off the anamorphic picture was, or that the Dolby 5.1 was a little scratchy. Why? I’ll tell you why you young pricks–I fucking grew up watching movies on VHS and BetaMax. And before that? NOTHING.
You can stream movies on Hulu now, you little bastards. I had to wait two years to watch Star Trek II on fucking ABC.
ABC.
So if you think you have it rough because they haven’t digitally remastered The Matrix for the 47th time on a Super Special Olympic Director’s Cut Version of the Decade Anniversary Edition, FUCK YOU.
Wow. I’m a little uptight about those DVD review sites, ain’t I?
This is strictly to talk about how good or bad a movie was and Terminator: Salvation falls more into the category of the latter.
I imagine this conversation going on when McG was talking about making this movie to some young slaps that didn’t have the balls to stand up to his…ahem…greatness:
McG: All right. I want to take everything that made the first three Terminator movies work and toss them out the window.
SLAP 1: Time travel?
McG: Please. Name me one movie with time travel that worked beyond the Terminator movies.
SLAP 2: Star Trek IV?
SLAP 1: Star Trek First Contact?
SLAP 2: The new JJ Abrams Star Trek?
SLAP 1: Frequency?
SLAP 2: Back to the Future 1-3?
McG: Yeah, yeah, yeah. The obvious ones, sure. But really, which movies beyond that have been successful?
SLAP 1: Right on, McG.
SLAP 2: You the man, McG.
McG: That’s better. Now. What else can we toss out? The bad ass robots. We’ve seen better and better Terminators throughout each of the first three movies. I want to show the prototypes. The clunky, easy to spot, easier to kill Terminators.
SLAP 2: Right on, McG…ummm…can you explain to me why?
McG: Don’t you slaps know anything? People love an origin story. Origin stories are always the most interesting of a film franchise. Everyone loves to tell an origin story. We’re telling the origin story of the Arnold Terminator.
SLAP 2: You mean the T-800?
McG: The what now?
SLAP 2: The T-800. The Arnold Terminator.
McG: What the fuck are you talking about?
SLAP 2: Never mind.
SLAP 1: But the heart of the Terminator franchise is John Connor. Technically the first Terminator was the origin story of how he came to be in order to save the future.
McG: Did I tell you to take my left nut out of your mouth? Keep suckling.
SLAP 1: Mmmffff McG.
McG: That’s better. Yet, you do have a point. We’ll put John Connor in the movie. Only, instead of making him a badass leader, we’ll make him a brooding introvert who isn’t in 75% of the movie.
SLAP 2: Ummm…isn’t he supposed to be the hero of the movie? Of the franchise? Shouldn’t he be in the movie like…you know…more?
McG: No no no. Putting him in less makes him mysterious! More interesting! Like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit III!
SLAP 1: PTOOOI! Burt Reynolds only had a cameo in that movie.
McG: Exactly! No one saw that coming! Yet everyone remembers that one the best!
SLAP 1: I’m going to put your nut back in my mouth now.
McG: As well you should. Now, for the coup de grace–we’ll introduce a new Terminator. One so advanced that not only does it think it’s a human, it really has the mind of a human.
SLAP 2: But…this is supposed to take place before the T-800 comes into existence.
McG: Look, if you’re going to keep talking gibberish I’m going to sodomize you again.
SLAP 2: Sorry. The Arnold Terminator. That was supposed to be the most advanced Terminator. Until the T-1000. And then the Terminator with boobies. How can a Terminator so advanced it actually thinks it’s a human be created before those?
McG: That’s the twist! No one will see it coming!
SLAP 2: But it doesn’t make sense.
McG: You obviously know nothing about movie making. Take your pants off and bend over. When I think long enough about my greatness to make my cock hard, your cornhole is getting terminated. Hah. Get it? Terminated? I rock so much.
SLAP 1: But sir, you say no one will see it coming, yet the Humanator walks through a desert with no food or water for possibly days on end. It never eats or sleeps. It gets hit in the face and gives the bad guy the standard pissed off glance. It tosses guys around like rag dolls. I think it’s real obvious that it’s a Terminator.
McG: I think it’s real obvious you’re going to be licking my asshole while I sodomize Slap 2. Are there any more criticisms of my brilliance?
SLAP 1: No sir.
SLAP 2: No sir.
McG: Excellent. Now hand me that lube and get Sly Stallone on the phone.
SLAP 1: Sly Stallone?
McG: That’s right. After this, I have some ideas for Rambo. How about Rambo…IN SPACE?
Yes. I actually did see that conversation take place in my head. Sodomy and all.
It’s not a terrible movie. It’s just a movie that didn’t need to be made. No one really cared about the future where the Terminators and Kyle Reese came from; they cared about preventing it from happening to begin with. By the end of this movie, you’ll wish they had to prevent this movie from ever being made.
Courtesy of 41 South near Oshkosh where they’re redoing it over the bridge. I can’t remember the exact wording (and I sped by it doing 80) but it read something like this:
EMERGENCY PARKING ONLY
MAX 2 HOURS
So in the case of an emergency–which is primarily defined as “A serious situation or occurrence that happens unexpectedly and demands immediate action”–feel free to park on the space we’ve allotted for you.
Just DO NOT let your emergency go over two hours, you insensitive asshole. How dare you use our precious highway space for longer than two hours in case of an emergency. I mean, it’s not like your tax dollars are paying for this!
Beyond that, one would hope that if you park in that space due to an emergency, that before the allotted two hours are up A) someone with a cell phone would call you in (if you didn’t have one of your own, which is rare nowadays) or B) I don’t know…maybe a cop would drive by? Serve and protect and all that jazz?
Yeah, I get that the intent is so people just don’t pull over to the side of the road and fire up a blunt. Or change a kid’s diaper. Yet, if a car is sitting there more than two hours, I wholeheartedly expect a cop to have investigated it by then.
And why two hours then? If an emergency is defined as a situation that needs immediate attention, then why not make it fifteen minutes? If it’s not a true emergency then you shouldn’t be parked there longer than that. Unless your car has broken down, which would fall under the aforementioned situations of being handled.
That’s right. It’s been sticking in my craw since Friday. And believe you and me, my craw is not something you want to be stuck in.
WARNING: Be done eating before you read this.
Sometime during my mid-twenties (don’t ask me what year because remembering the exact years things happen isn’t my strong suit) I had put my Christmas shopping off until the last minute, as was the style at the time.
Again, I don’t remember what year it was, but Christmas was looming fast and this was the last Sunday before Christmas. And, being in my mid-twenties, that meant I had gone out and got shit-faced the night before.
My first stop was Best Buy and as I was aimlessly wandering around looking for presents, the urge to have a movement hits me.
Hurriedly walking to the Best Buy bathroom, I throw open the door to find that both stalls are occupied. Beyond that, the general cleanliness of the bathroom leads me to believe this is not a place that I would want to put my bare ass on something to begin with.
Thankfully, the urge passes, I finish up my shopping, get in my car, and eventually make it out onto Wisconsin Avenue. For those of you who don’t live around these here parts, moving from Wisconsin Avenue to Highway 41 by the mall during Christmas is a process slightly shorter than that of a lump of coal turning into a diamond.
About ten minutes into this exercise, still at least two stoplight cycles from getting on the actual highway, the urge to have a movement hits me again.
Hard.
I’ve never thought about literally actually shitting my pants before, but let me tell you something boys and girls–that day, I came awfully close. A man has never clenched his sphincter tighter than I ever did that day. In fact, the aforementioned lump of coal would have become a diamond in about five minutes had it present in that cavity.
Finally, I make it onto the highway and–wouldn’t you know it–the urge passes again, so I assume I’m safe to continue on with my Christmas shopping. My next stop was Northland Mall, about three miles away as the crow flies.
Of course, crows can fly right over Christmas shopping traffic.
About a mile away from that mall, the urge to have a movement hits yet again. And this time, I realize there will be no reprieve. If I don’t get to a bathroom right quick, I am going to blow a two foot wide hole out of my jeans.
ShopKo is my quickest point of entry to a bathroom, so I decide to park over there. Except, of course, everyone and their fucking uncle is out shopping and I literally park in the row furthest from the mall. In fact, it would have been quicker just to abandon my car on OO and walk to Shopko.
Walking as fast as I can without making it look like I’m trying not shit my pants and failing miserably, I vault into the ShopKo bathroom.
There’s two stalls in there.
The first one is plugged. And I don’t mean just plugged, I mean damn near close to overflowing. Not only is it plugged, it looks like someone took a shit, plugged it, someone else came in, and said fuck it, I’m going to shit on top of that guy’s shit.
Yet, I’m not dismayed by this turn of events. There is, after all, another stall, albeit a handicap stall. At this point, I really wouldn’t have cared if Christopher Reeve, Stephen Hawking, and Ironsides wheeled in there and needed to take a shit. They were going to wait.
I fling open that door…and find that there’s shit all over the seat.
That’s not an exaggeration. I mean there is literally shit all over the seat. I don’t understand how anyone could miss shitting in the gaping hole that makes up a toilet that profoundly, but somebody did.
By now, I’m looking over at the urinal. I know it’s wrong to shit in a urinal. I vaguely remember learning that from Sesame Street or Civics or something. Yet, perhaps the urinal is getting a bad rap. It’s made of porcelain. There’s a drain. Same concept.
My desperation, however, is not yet to that point. I have one last chance.
The bathroom at the other end of the mall.
The walk through the mall is a blur. I may have pushed small children and elderly women aside. I may have killed a mall security guard. I really don’t remember. All I remember thinking is that if anyone was in the stall in that bathroom, I was either going to yank them out of it or shit on their lap.
Thankfully there was not just one stall in there but two–and even then, there was someone else in the other stall.
I don’t know who that poor soul was. I can’t imagine what he thought when the bathroom door banged open and he heard someone frantically running into the stall next to him, ripping their pants off, and releasing such a noxious concoction of bodily waste (thank you, Southern Comfort) in an explosion of overdue relief, but he was out of that bathroom in about ten seconds.
After about twenty minutes of silent whimpering, I was able to resume my Christmas shopping and everyone got the present they deserved.
Except the poor soul who had to clean that bathroom.
Now, in my maturity, I tend to do my Christmas shopping a little earlier in the year.
Or the day after a bender.
Now see, I could have told you all a nice warm and fuzzy Christmas story with puppies and sugarplums, but that just wouldn’t be me, now would it?
Everyone have a very Merry Christmas.
Global warming, eh Al?
You’re still going to pimp that as I’m expected to have to snowblow 8-14 inches of snow tomorrow? Which adds to the probably 60 inches I’ve snowblowed the past 2 winters?
I’m not going to go into the whole Climategate e-mails that the mainstream press is ignoring because there are bloggers who have dissected it far better than I ever could.
I will, however, say this.
Man, as a species, is fairly arrogant. We think in our so called enlightened age that we have the answers to everything and in fact I do believe we have the answers to very little.
One thing I feel that proves this is toilet paper.
Yes. Toilet paper.
Would a truly advanced and knowledgeable society really still use a thin piece of paper to wipe the shit out of their ass with?
I’m always reminded of that movie Demolition Man with Wesley Snipes and Sylvester Stallone, where everyone in the future makes fun of Stallone for wanting to wipe his ass with toilet paper. They all use something called the three seashells and even though they never tell you what it is, I’m guessing it didn’t involve sticking your hand between your asscheeks with a thin piece of paper and rubbing the shit out of there.
If we were truly advanced, wouldn’t we have something like the three seashells? Sure, there’s the bidet but that’s a longer, more drawn out process. Wouldn’t a truly advanced society just have a spray you could use that would turn the shit on your ass into baby powder or something?
I have other examples as to why I think we’re not as advanced a society as we think we are, but since you’re either rolling on the floor in laughter or throwing up in disgust, I’ll leave it alone for today.
Not only do I hope that man made global warming is finally utterly debunked as the Climategate e-mails continue to show, at this point I almost wish another ice age (or mini ice age) would set in. Just to expose Al Gore as the utter fraud he is.
Then we can cut his fat ass wide open and crawl inside him to keep warm. If he gets any larger his weight might start affecting the tides and then we really might be in trouble.
The Pedestal 