Monday, February 21, 2011

Tricky Zwick

Ok, because I'm a douchebag with way too much time on my hands, I actually follow the careers of film directors, even the crappy ones. One thing I've always been butthurt about is the fact that the best action directors, who arguably have the greatest command over the craft of filmmaking due to the complexity of their work, are the most consistently ignored. Ever heard of John McTiernan or Martin Campbell? Two of the finest directors of the 80s and 90s, and yet few except for the most depraved cinephiles have ever even heard of them. Yeah, I'm butthurt about this, but what I really want to talk about today is an exceptionally talented action director who has received some recognition (at least on the circuit of bullshit movie awards) but who I also honestly believe is a racist idiot and an enemy of mankind. That man is Edward Zwick.

He produced three films during the 2000s: The Last Samurai, Blood Diamond, and Defiance. All three of these films espouse a deep respect for a culture that has been recently oppressed by white people. Unfortunately, all three were directed by a white supremacist. Ok, ok, maybe Zwick doesn't actually realize how racist his films are, but does that really make it any better?

The Last Samurai is probably the most obvious. We've got Tom Cruise, the uber-caucasian golden child (at least until L. Ron Hubbard turned him into a raving psychopath) coming to Japan post-Meiji Restoration and instantly becoming the most awesome Samurai in the history of awesome. Seriously, he hacks their combat style in about thirty seconds, killing one of their best warriors with a broken flagpole! Paralyzed by fear and awe, they accept this white uber-slayer into their ranks and he quickly becomes their greatest warrior. In the final battle, he alone survives, despite being shot with the same bullets that kill every other samurai on the field. I guess those puny Japanese bullets weren't enough to take down a white guy, they certainly did the job on all his Asian compatriots though. In the final and most insulting scene, he returns home to his hot Japanese girlfriend (the widow of the aforementioned idiot he killed with the flagpole, like four days ago!) and she smiles as she sees him crest the ridge alone. Yes, that's right, she's happy to see him. Alone. Every other fucking person she has ever known is dead, but that hot white guy who's been sticking it to her with his big American penis is still breathing, so everything's hunky fucking dory! I mean seriously, how awesome could the Samurai be, if as this movie shows, any drunken Union officer can come in and become the best Samurai who ever lived in a matter of days! Ken Watanabe's awesome performance aside, this movie proclaims its love for Japanese culture shortly before taking a huge steaming dump on it.

That's right, bitch.
Next up is Blood Diamond, set in Sierra Leone, a place where "it's not bling-bling, it's bling-BANG!" Yes, Leonardo DiCaprio got a fucking Oscar nomination for a role that included that line. What. The fuck. Basically he's a totally awesome mercenary who kills anyone who gets in his way. When a couple African soldiers approach him midway through the film, he disarms and kills them with comical ease. Zwick is an amazing director of action, but he just can't help himself when it comes to making his white, pretty boy leads into hyper-efficient killing machines.

Why is this black guy standing so close to me?
Possibly the most egregious is Defiance, a WWII film Zwick made to dispute the idea that European Jews were submissive and compliant victims during the Holocaust. It uses the true story of the Bielski rebels (albeit with massive, fuckwin action sequence-type modifications) to promote this concept -- badly. First off, he cast this dude as the face of his grassroots Jewish resistance:

I mean, seriously, Daniel Craig? Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, coldly brutal and single-minded Daniel fucking Craig??? I think I saw this guy gassing Jews last Tuesday! Oh, and if that weren't bad enough, he surrounds his ubermensch protagonist with what looks like the supporting cast from Fiddler on the Roof, only even more pathetic. Seriously, these guys spend so much time kvetching and crying and grovelling that they can barely scrape a meal together. If not for our badass Aryan posterboy, they wouldn't have lasted thirty seconds against the Germans. So, basically, Zwick is saying that if the Jews weren't so...Jewish, then none of them would've died in the Holocaust. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume this was the opposite of what he intended with the film, but still, I think we've established a running theme here. This guy just can't help himself.

Most recently, Zwick took a break from his racist epics to make Love And Other Drugs starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Anne Hathaway. I haven't seen it yet, but since I'm a huge fan of Ms. Hathaway's boobs, it's definitely on my to do list. Here are a couple stills from the film:

On second thought, disregard everything I just said. Edward Zwick is clearly a genius and a great humanitarian.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Becoming a grave-robbing coot - Pt. 1

So what the fuck is up with LEGOs these days? By these days, I mean, "for the past decade or so," which I understand makes me sound like one of those demented old bastards waddling around in adult diapers and complaining about those crazy kids and their rap music. But seriously, LEGO, you guys have been sucking dick like it's your job. Recently, I came into possession of a totally fucking awesome 1996 model Exploriens Scorpion Detector.

U jelly?
It was just ten dollars at the local thrift store (it retailed for thirty-five new!) and instantly brought me back to the golden age of LEGOs. This was back when we were all slamming POGs, using Crossfire to banish our friends into a hell dimension, and drinking Capri Sun in the hopes that it might turn us into the T-1000. You know, the good old days.

Anyway, some old fuck had just died and his family found the LEGO set in his attic. They sent it to the local thrift store -- still in the original wrapping with all the mini-figs, I nearly came! -- and I snapped it up not a day later. I'm so glad you died, bro, because your LEGO set is totally baller, and now it's all mine! Still high off the glory of my latest purchase, I cracked open the vintage LEGO catalogue that came with my dead man's LEGOs...and that was when a dark and lasting depression came over me. As I poured over the images of the then-new '96 models -- The Wild West, The Royal Knights Castles, the MOTHERFUCKING AQUANAUTS -- I realized that the glory days of LEGOs were naught but a distant memory, succeeded by a tidal wave of runny shit.

And you thought your Hogwarts set was cool. Clearly, you were retarded as a child.
You may have been raised to believe differently, but Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Indiana Jones have no place in the realm of LEGOs. This company was once a bastion of originality, offering brand new worlds to create and explore. I suppose the great LEGO sell-out was inevitable, but as soon as these sets became movie tie-ins, they lost almost all of their original charm and magic. They became about replicating a world that was already preconceived in your mind and on a movie screen. They became simplified adaptations, childish representations of franchises long past their expiration dates.

LEGO's controversial foray into Holocaust narrative.
In recent years, LEGO has put out a few big sets based on the older themes to placate us die-hard fans, but their focus has never truly returned to original sets. I dunno, maybe I'll give a few of those a try, but it will never fully remedy the butthurt of my greatest childhood disappointment, that I never received the crown jewel of LEGO-dom, the one set that everyone lusted over:

The one that got away...

Clearly, my parents didn't love me enough. Now, I'm forced to poach vintage sets from the newly dead, like some perverted grave robber, hoping against hope that I might one day be reunited with my first love, that goddamn pirate ship.

Anyone else getting some full-on, misty-eyed nostalgia going? If so, leave a comment about your own favorite LEGO sets, or the big one that your parents never got you. Share the pain, spread it around...

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

I Hope Jane Fonda Gave You Herpes

IWith all the candy-ass, imitation anime crap that passes for Saturday morning cartoons these days -- not that they even air on Saturday mornings anymore -- I was especially butthurt today to learn the fate of one of my favorite cartoons growing up. That would be SWAT Kats: The Radical Squadron, and if that name doesn't ring any bells, I pity your poor, deprived childhood.

I can still hear the awesomely bend-y guitar notes.
SWAT Kats was the most badass, take no prisoners, non-stop gratification cartoon in the history of action figure product placement. All these Kool Kats did was find excuses to go blow shit up. They flew around in a sick, gun-covered jet that made the Batplane look like a Daewoo Lanos. Their hood, MegaKat City, was a place so hard, it made South Central look like a fucking daycare center. Not a day went by without some extraterrestrial monster the size of a city block dropping in and tearing shit up. The Vor y Zakone wouldn't last thirty seconds in this place. This show was so hardcore, it made me want to kick my parents in the face. Between its non-stop sensory assault and the near-toxic levels of sugar I was slamming into my  bloodstream, I wouldn't calm down until eight or nine o'clock at night. And it wasn't like those other cartoons from the early 90's that would break from the action for public service announcements or quasi-Christian life lessons -- the rainforests could burn down to ashes as far as the SWAT Kats were concerned, and the only golden rule was don't turn your back on the street.

You fuckin with the wrong crew.
For some bizarre reason though, SWAT Kats never seemed to catch on. It disappeared abruptly and unceremoniously, and to this day, I've only met a few people who have ever even heard of it. I wondered if the show was actually just a big pile of crap, and I had been too young and stupid to know it. But then, thanks to the glory of wikipedia, I was finally able to go back and learn the truth. When SWAT Kats debuted in 1994 (yeah, I'm old, go fuck yourself) it was the highest rated cartoon in America. So what the fuck? Why did it go off the air? Did the creators get tired of making money?

Enter Ted Turner. As we all know, this evil bastard has enough money to mortgage the souls of all the children in Africa. He doesn't give a fuck about the profits of some stupid cartoon that brought kids like me unhealthy amounts of joy. No, he thought SWAT Kats was too violent, too amoral to be shown on his network, and he decided he was going to make an example out of it. He canceled the show, overruling its creators, and never made a public statement about it or anything. SWAT Kats was allowed to evaporate into the ether like a fever-dream, and there it stayed, lodged in my subconscious until wikipedia revealed the truth.

This is his "I Just Killed Your Childhood" face
The euthanization of SWAT Kats seems especially unjust and ironic because these days, when I sit down in front of the tube with a big bowl of Lucky Charms on Saturday morning, all I find on Turner Network Television (or any other channel for that matter) are marathons of hideously gruesome forensic detective shows. Are you really telling me, Ted Turner, that it's less damaging for kids to watch Emily Deschanel dig around in some poor bastard's decomposing eye sockets than it is to watch a Kouple Kartoon Kats blow up some alien monsters? Really?


Monday, February 14, 2011

A Quick One Before I Go Get Shitty

Ahhh, St. Valentine's least favorite day of the year. My butthurt over this day isn't even the comical kind -- it's the real 180-proof, God-mode butthurt. The kind of butthurt your anus just isn't prepared for. So for today, I'm leaving all my fellow butthurt homies a very special valentine, courtesy of Mr. Alphonse Capone:

Even these guys are having a better Valentine's Day then me.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

The Return of Representation

Today's post is going to be a little more serious, so feel free to stop reading right here.

I just saw Banksy's film Exit Through the Gift Shop and it crystallized a few ideas I've had about art in the context of our generation. For those of you who haven't seen it, the film is a (possibly staged) indictment of the art world's assignation of  monetary value to works based on the notoriety of their creator. This has been the dominant trend of exhibited paintings and sculptures throughout the twentieth century -- due to the rise of abstract expressionism, wherein the quality of materials and the technical skill required to execute a work are no longer great factors upon its monetary worth.

Once Frank Stella and his fellow minimalists had abstracted art down to virtual nothingness, merely "flatness and the delimination (real word?) of flatness," it seemed the final nail had been struck into the coffin of two-dimensional painted media. Representation was long dead, and abstraction had culminated, necessarily, in an anticlimactic void. As with all modern and post-modern expression, the problem lay in its reductive nature -- it offered no new answers, no new forms or questions to explore, merely a guide to ultimate destruction. This epoch had spiraled down into a dead end, the gyre never to widen again.

So, photography and sculpture took its place, and some contented themselves with telling the same joke Picasso and DeKooning had worn out decades ago, but it all felt hollow. I strongly believe painting is one of the mediums closest to the human spirit, something that will never become obselete, even in this era of split-millisecond photography and the seemingly limitless powers of cgi. Enter the street artists, perhaps the first new school of painting in half a century. They made the medium exciting and dangerous again, operating just outside of the realm of legality. Toying with concepts of vandalism and copyright infringement is fundamental to their medium, and as Shepard Fairey himself often said/sprayed: "The Medium is the Message."


It's an incredibly seductive art form, in no small part due to the fact that it seems so easy -- requiring only basic photoshop skills and a bit of daring to get started -- and Banksy works hard in his documentary to dissuade would-be apprentices. Banksy's work is clearly more energetic and inspired than the likes of "Mr. Brainwash" (whether or not his body of work is just an elaborate hoax on the part of Banksy to prove that the medium has a diverse strata of quality) and he also seems to have figured out that in our age, true fame is anonymity. That may sound contradictory, but in a time when anyone can read about the details of their favorite celebrity's latest bowel movement via a live twitter feed, the only way that the famous might regain some of the mystique, the potent sense of "otherness" of past celebrities is by making themselves as mysterious as possible.

So in short, these street artists have created a reliable formula for artistic prominence in the hyperreactive, cannibalistic culture of the internet generation. You can't download the side of a building -- you can only experience their work in its proper context by venturing out into the world and discovering it with your own eyeballs. Even if their masterpieces are torn down within hours, each has still existed in a true and uncorrupted format for longer than anything put out by the music industry in over a decade. Yes, their work takes on some of the more loathsome qualities of our generation: a tendency toward sentimentality and obvious irony, an absurd reverence for pop culture underlying puerile and inarticulate sarcasm, but it's still more relevant and forceful than anything put on a canvas in at least twenty-five years.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Can I get a little salt with these wounds?

CINNAMON TOAST CUNTS! What the fuck is up with all these hot-ass Hollywood bitches and their hatred for screenwriters? I'm referring to Jessica Alba and Catherine Heigl in particular, although I am sure they are not alone. They recently told the press that screenwriters have been holding them back, ruining their careers with crappy material, and were at best tangentially involved with their success as actors. Alba even said that any actor who's worth his salt will make up his own lines, never sticking to the script.

As I happen to consider myself a writer (and no, this blog doesn't count), I take a  buttload of umbrage at the ignorance of these statements. Screenwriters, having been afflicted with an incurable case of Not-famous, are unable to defend themselves in any meaningful way. We are without exception ugly, depressed, basement-dwelling weirdos who couldn't get laid even if someone stuck a gun in one of our ears and a wet pussy in the other. Every night, while you hot, famous bitches are tooling around in your Bugatti Veyrons and snorting blow off Ashton Kutcher's butt cheeks, we're at home alone, drinking to keep Sammy Suicide locked in his Josef Fritzl-style oubliette. We can only dream of what it must be like to be insanely attractive, wealthy, and socially vibrant people, and we do our best to conjure up these scenarios on paper so that they might be brought to vivid life on and off screen by ungrateful sluts like you.

And while I understand that you are busy people -- there are so many opportunities out there for you to receive free drugs and hot, worshipful sex -- next time a script comes across your desk, don't just hand it off to one of your indentured servants, crack the fucking thing open and take a look at all the hard work that was put into it. The script doesn't start and end with your lines, sweetheart. An entire narrative world had to be crafted so that you and your luscious titties could flounce onto the screen and give us your best rendition of 'pained regret' or 'carefree laughter.' Think about that next the time you're marshaling all of your talents to try and convince us that you find Ryan Reynolds' witty and self-effacing jet fighter pilot attractive.

That's better.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

100 Followers -- 100 Reasons to Hate

In recognition of my first hundred followers, I'm listing the top 100 things I'm butthurt about. Ready? Here we go:

100. The Pittsburgh Steelers
99. Smoothies
98. Excessively long lists
97. Every Weezer album since Pinkerton
95. The Black Eyed Peas
94. U.S. Soccer
93. Dave Matthews got sober
92. Amy Winehouse got drunk(er)
91. No Star Wars on Blu-ray
90. Han shooting second
89. The prequel trilogy
88. The Pirates sequels
87. The Matrix sequels
86. Spider-Man 3
85. X-Men 3
84. Iron Man 2
83. The ending of Lost
82. The ending of Seinfeld
81. The ending of The Sopranos
80. The ending of The Dark Tower Series
79. Call of Duty: Lag Ops
78. The GM EV-1
77. The New York Yankees
76. The DMV
75. Restless leg syndrome
74. Gonorrhea...thanks, Rachel
73. Admitting I have Gonorrhea
72. Anal bleeding
71. Male pattern baldness
70. Female pattern baldness
69. Brazilian waxing
68. Psoriasis
67. Cirrhosis of the liver
66. Auditory hallucinations
65. Electro-convulsive therapy
64. McDonald's!
63. Thomas Edison
62. The Magnificent Ambersons
61. Uwe Boll
60. Katy Perry
59. Taylor Swift
58. Greyhound buses
57. This idea
56. Pablo Picasso
55. l33t sp34k
54. Texting
53. Sexting
52. Premature Ejexting
51. Gene Hackman quit movies
50. Welcome To Mooseport
49. Wal-Mart
48. Chinese Democracy
47. Brian Wilson
46. The Monkees
45. Kings got canceled
44. Deadwood got canceled
43. Pushing Daisies got canceled
42. Arrested Development got canceled
41. The Office jumped the shark
40. Cowboy Bebop ended
39. No good anime for 5+ years
38. Hating on Megan Fox
37. American Idol
36. Duke Nukem Forever
35. Pokemon 4ever
34. Pokemon period.
33. Brand Spankin' New Doug
32. Cats
31. Roaches
30. Pigeons
29. Fleas
28. Wasps
27. WASPs
26. James Patterson
25. Dan Brown
24. Dan Simmons can't write endings
23. Richard Dawkins
22. Pat Robertson
21. Glenn Beck
20. Pooping
19. Muse fans
18. People who hate Muse because of the fans
17. Radio Country
16. Facebook
15. Andy Whitfield got cancer
14. Optimus Prime died
13. Duke woke up from his coma
12. Excessively negative people
11. Glittery vampires
10. NASA faked the moon landing
9. Fossil fuels
8. Hybrid cars
7.Jeff Magnum quit music
6.Bill Watterson quit comics
5. No smoking in bars
4. Kurt Vonnegut died
3. Natalie Portman got pregnant and engaged
2. 3-D movies
1. I only have 100 followers

If you think I just shot my wad for this whole blog, don't worry, I'll have a hundred more by this time tomorrow. No shortage of rage here.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Thunder in Paradise

With a brand new game out for the Wii, I thought this would be a perfect oppurtunity to talk about two of the most selfish, sadistic, and downright evil protagonists to ever grace a video game: The Kong Brothers, Donkey and Diddy.

He may look friendly, but behind those eyes lurks the mind of a killer
Anyone who was paying attention during the original game (c'mon guys, it only came out seventeen years ago), should immediately understand what I'm talking about. For you poor bastards who had to play a ::cringe:: Genesis growing up, allow me to explicate. The story of Donkey Kong Country revolves around the aforementioned Kong brothers, two lazy celebrities resting on their laurels in a beautiful tropical paradise. All is quite peaceful until their hidden stash of bananas is stolen by an allegedly villainous reptilian race, the Kremlings. In response, these two psychotic douchebags venture out into the world and commit genocide on the people they think are responsible. That's right, somebody stole their fucking bananas, and now, they're not just going to kill him, they're going to kill his whole fucking family and anyone who even vaguely resembles him. They wipe out an entire race and along the way, they're also content to kill any indigenous animal that strays into their path, leaving the jungles barren and empty in a holocaust of rage.

All this over goddamn bananas? There were more bananas stored away in that cave than anyone could possibly eat! They would've spoiled within a few days! Meanwhile, who knows how many animals were starving out there because of their insanely covetous ways. They're kind of like the French Monarchy during the time of the 1789 Revolution, only in this case, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette disembark from Versailles and personally behead everyone in the fucking country.

And the Kremlings, ok, they look kind of sinister, but they're crocodiles, snakes and lizards, they can't really help that. Most of them are just walking around innocently or toiling away in the mines at the behest of their dictator when the Kongs swoop in and murder them. These poor, mutated bastards don't stand a chance.
Whyyyyy does that reptile have nipples?
This is the lesson we teach to young children? If somebody messes with your stuff, go kill anyone who has the same skin color as fast as you can? Nice message Nintendo, and we thought you were the family friendly video game company.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

My Ads 2.0

Ok, I'm kind of biting the hand that feeds me here, but what the fuck is up with my advertisements? This morning, I got up to check the blog and found it plastered with ads for Justin Bieber! Since this discovery was combined with a wicked case of morning wood, that goddamn Google AdSense had me questioning my sexuality! Alright, I admit it, the Biebs does kind of have it going on,! NOOOOO! Damn you AdSense, you are not going to turn me into a pole-smoker! I am not going to start playing the skin flute just to get a few extra bucks out of a fucking blog!

Damn you and your adorable little bowl-cut!
So yeah, I'm a little pissed off at Justin Bieber right now. I mean, I don't think he's the fucking anti-Christ like most people, but his fans do creep me out. Check out one of his concert videos, when they cut to the audience, it looks like footage from the movie Jesus Camp. Seriously, the mindless devotion in these girls' tear-filled eyes is pretty disturbing. I'm sure if Justin Bieber told them to start stuffing Jews into ovens, they would obey without a second's hesitation.

 Ah, the childhood memories...

Oh yeah, and did you know Justin Bieber was nominated for a BET award? What the fuck was that for, his shoes?

Sweet Tims, yo.

SO YEAH, I'm gonna go watch about four hours of lesbian porn and forget this ever happened.


Friday, February 4, 2011

Q. Whaaaaazzzzzupp?? A. Kill Yourself.

Today's butthurt is sadly brought to you by my absolute favorite thing on this earth: beer. I love beer, and beer has always loved me back, unlike Meredith, but she's sleeping in four places under my rose garden. Yes, beer has never been a lying, two-timing bitch to me, and her myriad styles and variations have kept me endlessly surprised and elated while I waited for the alcohol to complete its transmission to the brain. In many ways, beer has more variety and subtlety to it than wine, and without the insane, eye-gouging prices of vineyards. I don't consider myself a beer snob either, rather I'm a beer slut, equally happy to be holding the finest Belgian quadrupel or the lowliest, lukewarm can of PBR.

I'm sure you were all waiting for the other shoe to drop, and yes, don't worry, I am positively incontinent with hate, all directed at the absolute enemy of beer, the soulless tyrant known as:

Yes, this quintessentially American product, right up there with Coca-Cola and slaves, is actually owned by a Belgian company called InBev. This paragon of American industry now sends its profits overseas, to be divided up among gnomes and leprechauns and other greedy, sub-human European cave dwellers.

Also, Budweiser has long identified itself as the King of Beers. A more accurate subtitle would be the Dictator of Malt Liquors, or maybe just the Prince of Lies. That's right, it's not even a fucking beer. While most beers are barley malt, water and hops, Budweiser is brewed primarily with rice, because -- you guessed it -- it's cheaper. And yet they still have the balls to call it the King of Beers, and perhaps even worse 'The Great American-style lager.' It's a slander against our great country, akin to naming your state dog the sewer rat. Americans are quite capable of making great beers, anything by Sierra Nevada, Southern Tier, Great Divide, or Dogfish head --just to name a few-- is ample proof of that, but when our chief export remains a watered down shitstain of a product that can't even be classified as beer, can you really blame the rest of the beer-drinking world for looking down on us?

So all that is pretty fucking heinous, but it pales it comparison to Budweiser's greatest sin of all: they don't even attempt to make a decent beer on the side and give themselves a shred of credibility. For anyone who loves beer, this is a slap in the face. And not just any slap in the face, it's a cock-slap from a homeless man who hasn't showered since the Reagan administration.

Seriously, with all their fucking money and their multiple theme parks and even their stewardship by those dastardly Belgians -- who know a thing or two about making some quality fucking beer -- you're telling me they can't make one product, one single beer, that doesn't taste like a week-old urine sample? That's just plain cold.


Thursday, February 3, 2011

21st Century Butthurt Man

So, you guys have seen the grammy nominations, right? I think just about everyone who's interested in music has been butthurt about the grammys at one point or another. However, most of us stopped caring long ago, because the grammys are so obviously a soulless, idiotic pageant of pusillanimous pop music that we don't even have the butthurt to spare. You might say, The Grammys, dude?? Baby's first butthurt.

But then they did something that I just cannot ignore. That's right grammys, you have my attention for the first time in years, and had I the resources and a curative for my crippling agoraphobia, I would march out to the Staples Center, burn that mother to the ground and douse the flames with a mighty blast of piss.

What might you ask, has got me as butthurt as a pack of web-saavy Egyptians?

Let's take a look at the album of the year nominations:

The Suburbs - Arcade Fire
Recovery - Eminem
Need You Now - Lady Antebellum
The Fame Monster - Lady Gaga
Teenage Dream - Katy Perry

So, these are the grammys for 2010, right? You're telling me you had a spot for Lady Gaga's The Fame Monster, which came out in 2009, and yet you didn't have a fucking nomination to spare for the best-reviewed album of the year? Yes, I'm talking about Kanye West's My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, a mainstream hip-hop/pop album, exactly the kind of music these grammy voters usually gobble up like day-old jizz -- which is to say with vigorous enthusiasm -- but an album that was also hailed unilaterally by anyone with a fucking brain stem as the best thing to come out in a long, long time. Hell, I don't mind saying it, I think it's the best album to come out since Funeral. Yeah, I went there. This was the number one album according to Spin, Rolling Stone, Vibe, and Pitchfork (who gave it a perfect ten, btw), but fuck all that, because it was the number one album according to me! Anyone who can make a King fucking Crimson sample seem perfectly timed and vitally relevant to their music deserves some kind of medal in my book, and that's just one of hundreds of brilliant moments on a sprawling, blood sweat and tears masterpiece.

I'mma let you finish guys, but Mubarak was one of the best presidents of all time!
 And you gave a nomination to Katy Perry? Katy fucking Perry???? That troll can't even fucking sing! She's only famous because she said she likes kissing girls! I mean, I'm all about some girls kissing, but she's basically the cultural equivalent of that skanky chick who stands up on the bar and makes out with her wasted friend because she can't get any guys to pay attention to her! Whhaaaaatt the fuuuuuuuuuccckk???

Next time I'm about to look at the grammy nominations, someone do me a favor and shoot me in the head.


Wednesday, February 2, 2011

2011: The Year Hollywood Went Full Retard

2010 was a shitty fucking year for movies, I think we can all agree. Probably the worse in a decade. Think I'm butthurt about that? Well you'd be dead fucking wrong, because I've got bigger fish to fry. 2011 is about to make it look like a combination of 1999 and 1939. What the fuck does that mean, you ask? It means going to the movies in 2011 is going to be about as much fun as stapling your testicles.

We've got the inevitable slate of superhero movies, only this summer's crop is more like the TURBO RETARD EDITION. In years past, a very select few of these "crowd-pleasing" adventure, romance, sci-fi, one size fits all, edgy for a PG-13 rating, cgi coated abortions have actually surprised me. They managed to rise above the utterly cynical process that created them and become decent movies with the unfortunate handicap of portraying superheroes. But 2011 isn't offering any Dark Knights. Hell, they'll be lucky to pull off a Ghost Rider. I'm serious, it's that bad. There's The Green Lantern, with Ryan Reynolds unashamedly wanking all over himself in a cartoon suit, and a supporting cast of aliens that look like the Mass Effect crew with fetal alcohol syndrome. Peter Sarsgaard is also in it, the poor bastard. This cat has been turning in great performances for the better part of a decade, and it doesn't seem like anyone could give less of a fuck about him. Seriously, I've never seen Hollywood put more effort into ignoring an actor. So yeah, he's playing a bad guy with a huge latex application stuck on his head. Might as well give him a bottle of whiskey and a revolver and take bets on how quickly he'll blow his fucking brains out.

Hasn't he been through enough?
Also, there's Thor, which I'm particularly butthurt about, because here you've got a great Silver Age character who recently experienced a creative renaissance, but one who certainly needs to be handled with an intelligent, measured approach. Enter Kenneth fucking Branaugh. Subtle is not in his vocabulary. He doesn't think you'll understand something as simple and iconic as Frankenstein unless he includes explosions, k-y wrestling matches, abortions, and a Mortal Kombat-style heart removal. Combine his 'reckless child' approach to directing with 3-D glasses and way too much money and well, just watch the fucking trailer. I plan on going to this movie blind drunk and mocking it for the duration.

Seriously, what could go wrong?
Then there's Captain America, which was reported to be so heinously uncool that even world-class toolshed Chris Evans wanted nothing to do with it. Apparently, they finally offered him way too much money, because he's starring in the fucking thing.Yeah, that's right, Chris Evans is going to be the leader of The Avengers. Just looking at the production stills made me vomit with rage.

In not-quite-related matters, there's the desperate mash-up Cowboys Vs. Aliens, in which amnesiac cowhand Daniel Craig shoots down UFOs with a plastic bracelet. The sad fact remains that this is the most promising summer blockbuster of the year, but I will probably commit seppuku before it hits theaters.

We're also getting more Pirates of the Carribean, more Hangover, more X-Men, more Sherlock Holmes, more Transformers, more Final Destination, more Muppets, more Mission Impossible, more Scream, more Kung-Fu fucking Panda. Seriously, do Hollywood execs break out in hives when they get near new ideas? Pixar's even doing a sequel to their worst fucking movie, Cars. The one studio we could count on to at least make something heartfelt and intelligent decided to go round two with Larry the Cable Guy. Fuck. My. Life.

So yeah, I don't even know what to say, Hollywood, except that you've outdone yourselves.