Hostility: Just a Few More Things Pissing Me Off

Sheryl “One Square of TP Per Potty” Crow
I hate Sheryl Crow. I believe I’ve made that clear at least once or twice in the past. Her music sucks like a black hole, she gave Lance Armstrong nad cancer twice, and she has the mental capacity of an old potato with a pencil jammed into it. Every time I see her stupid “I’m so deep and interesting” face, I kill a small animal with an obsidian knife hoping some ancient, tentacled god of disease will receive my sacrifice and strike her down with leprosy.

Now she’s hoping to convince people to cut down on their toilet paper use to, you know, like, help the environment; one square per excretion should be plenty. Yes, because all the attempts we’ve made to separate ourselves from shit-anywhere animals and mephitic cavemen weren’t progress, but another way to kick ol’ Mother Earth right in her Marianas Trench (so to speak). And, as all well-informed people will tell you, walking around smelling like the laundry bin at a home for the criminally incontinent is a great way to save the planet.

Before I start taking eco orders from some rich celebrity retard, I think it only appropriate she start following her own advice. In order to help her conserve TP (instead of cutting down on all the environmentally unfriendly shit she requests and uses on a regular basis), I’m willing to visit her home and ninja kick her colon right out of her ass—free of charge.

Sheryl Crow has also railed against the use of paper napkins at meal time. Thankfully, she’s not suggesting our faces go un-wiped like our nether regions. That would be utterly barbaric. Her solution: wipe your face on your sleeves. Not just your every-day regular sleeves, though. Her new line of shirts happens to have detachable sleeves so you can wipe the tofurkey grease off your mug, remove the soiled sleeve, wash it, and reattach it. That’s so goddamn stupid I feel like hanging myself.

I think the earth would benefit more if someone skin-welded Sheryl Crow’s mouth shut. After all, stupidity is one of the leading causes of global warming, and all that hot hair escaping from her head is enough to melt three glaciers and ten medium-sized igloo villages. Speaking of which, if any Eskimos with newly melted homes wish to seek revenge, I’m sure it would only take a few harpoons to put her down … her head may be enormous, but she’s still human.

Whispering in Metal Songs
While this irritant isn’t very common in the metal I usually listen to, every now and then some band thinks it's being really cute and sneaks that shit in. A good example of this is Machine Head’s new song “Aesthetics of Hate.” Although it’s probably one of the heaviest songs Machine Head’s ever done—much heavier than that rap-rock shit they pulled on The Burning Red, anyway—near they end, Rob Flynn repeatedly whispers some silly shit while looking at the camera with the intensity of a cross-eyed sun flare. I think he’s saying “May the band of Todd rock them out,” but he could just as easily be saying something threatening. I don’t know, because as soon as he started with that whispering shit, I stopped watching the video.

Whispering menacingly, ominously, threateningly, knowingly, tellingly, creepily, etc. is always stupid in metal (and probably most other genres, but I don’t listen to them so they don’t count). You just spent five minutes yelling, slappy; if I haven’t gotten the idea by now, some dopey whispering ain’t going to help. And if I wasn’t alarmed when that glue-huffing alley dweller told me he was god and whispered “I will remove your soul with my incisors of the malevolent god light,” I’m sure as hell not going to be impressed when you whisper stupid shit in a song as an attempt to add some impact to your message.

Morons Who Don’t Know Where the Line at Blockbuster Starts
I’ve come across these drooling retards for years. I can only assume they’re the product of some kind of human cloning experiment and didn’t pass the chromosome test—i.e., they either ended up with too many or too few.

I shudder to think flawed science isn’t responsible, because if these are the kind of geniuses our public schools are churning out, this country is in even more trouble than I thought. Sure, these shallow potholes in the evolutionary highway can reproduce like a box full of speed-freak rabbits on Viagra and avoid getting killed while crossing a busy street, but point them toward a big-ass “LINE STARTS HERE” sign and suddenly they’re as lost as a quadruple amputee trying to do a cartwheel.

I was in line the other day, right next to the aforementioned big-ass “LINE STARTS HERE” sign, when I see these two asshats practically giving themselves brain tumors trying to figure out where they should line up. Seconds before the steaming blood shot out of their ears, their survival instincts kicked in and they bypassed the confusion of the line altogether and just walked up to the cashier.

Were I in charge, such thoughtless, rude behavior would result in a severe public beating and, depending on prior offenses, forced sterilization. Unfortunately, Blockbuster is yet another domain of which I am not overlord, and the cashier allowed their heinous transgression to go unpunished. In fact, she was quite nice to them, helping them find whatever stupid surfing video they were unable to find themselves. Apparently, they didn’t know their ABCs, so the whole alphabetical order thing really threw them.

“Duuuuhhhh … da moovee is called Endless Summer, so dat woooood be undurr … Aaaarrrrggghhhh! I ownlee up to letter D! D says ‘duh’ as in dump truck! Aaarrrggghhh!”

The Blockbuster employee couldn’t be faulted, really. She has to be nice to the customers. I, on the other hand, don’t have to be nice to anyone. So, upon leaving the store, I threw a large, metal trashcan through their sticker-covered truck’s back window. “I’d rather be surfing,” huh? I fuckin’ bet.

April 20th (4/20)
This is one of my least favorite “holidays.” It’s right up there with “Self-Administered Coat Hanger Prostate Exam Day.” This 4/20 shit all started decades ago, somewhere in California (fuckin’ California), when a couple of dope-heads started meeting by some statue at 4:20 pm to, obviously, smoke weed. 420 became their special little code for it, and soon every glazed-over stoner wanted in on the action.

Since then, 420 (4/20) has become a sort of international pothead holy day. And no stoner holy day would be complete without mountains of crappy merchandise emblazoned with all manner of insipid slogans and weed-related witticisms.

“Huh-huh! ‘I heart 420.’ I get it, dude. Sweet! Haw-haw! ‘Highway 420,’ hilarious!”

It’s so fucking clever my mind is blown. The stoners that get really excited about celebrating 4/20 really have no reason to.

“Dude, tomorrow’s 4/20. We, like, totally get to smoke out!”
“Oh yeah, man! You mean, like, how we do every other day?”
“Hells yeah, bro! 420, whooooooooooo!”
“Cool, man. Now, pass that J over here. If I have to go five more seconds without smoking weed, I might be motivated to read something unrelated to pot and have to kill myself!”

Since harshing the buzz of stoners is one of the few things in life I actually enjoy, I, Captain Buzzkill, have created a new piece of merchandise to dampen the spirits of 4/20 revelers everywhere. The only flaw in my brilliant plan is that some stoners are so stupid they don’t know who Hitler is. Oh well. Happy 4/20, you cannabis-huffing dipshits.

DVD Reviews: It’s Not Like the Internet is Rife With Them Or Anything

Warning: This Shit Contains Spoilers

As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I hate going to movie theaters. It costs too much, it’s usually too crowded, teenagers and their goddamned laser pointers piss me off (Oh, wow, Hannibal Lector suddenly has a fuckin’ bindi. You’re one hilarious little shit.), sticky floors make me uncomfortable, and if I wanted to spend twelve bucks to listen to a bunch of morons talk on their cell phones in the dark, I’d go to a restaurant.

While I hate going to movie theaters, I happen to enjoy watching movies. I’ve spent a large percentage of my time on earth watching DVDs while swilling whiskey like a fed-up husband gathering the courage to push his mouthy wife down the stairs. Most of the movies I’ve seen I’ve rented from various video rental stores. And while the process of visiting these rental stores—video libraries, if you will—is slightly less annoying than licking splintered wood, I do it at least once a week.

Sometimes I rent a movie that is so good I end up buying it, and other times, most times, I rent movies so bad they’re more likely to cause cancer than entertain. The major problem with renting videos is their deceptive package design and misleading, professionally written descriptions. It happens to the best of us: the movie promises to be a terrifying, gore-filled descent into hell, and ends up being a love story between to boyhood friends who diddled each other at summer camp. By the way, if any video boasts of winning awards at the Cannes Film Festival, it probably involves gay minorities overcoming adversity.

The most deceptive and misleading movie I’ve had the misfortune of renting recently is The Groomsmen. The movie description promised zany antics and non-stop laughs when a bachelor party gets out of hand, but what the movie delivered was a tear-soaked wad of pointless angst glued together with a sticky mess of whiny, clichéd psychoses. Renting this movie was like going to see a hilarious stand up comedian only to arrive at the venue to find out it’s actually Fat Lesbian Beatnik Poetry Night.

From “I’m a drunk because my penis doesn’t work right” to “I’m a homo and my caustic childhood friend hurt my feelings because he was insensitive, oh yeah, and my dad doesn’t like me because I like to poke guys,” all the epicene complexes were there. It was about as hilarious as a Jeffrey Dahmer therapy session. I’ve seen more testosterone on Martha Stewart's TV show.

Jay Mohr was funny occasionally, but that hardly makes this movie a comedy. The movie was so dramatic and unnecessarily emotional, about halfway through I felt like I needed a tampon. Or perhaps a soothing cup of tea and a kitty cat to pet. You can save yourself the time it takes to watch this movie and just have a friend punch you in the testicles; it’s painful but it’s over quicker and there’s less crying.

I would have called the movie Grow Your Own Vagina Kit and covered the box with pictures of the stars of the film crying all over each others’ shoulders.

Sometimes a movie will pose as an interesting, psychological thriller/horror movie, while actually being nothing more than an outlet for a writer and director’s various sociopolitical views.

Sublime is a series of political messages, all expressed and represented with the subtlety of a ten-clown gang rape. If anyone fails to catch the finespun symbolism, the makers of the film discuss it in length as one of the DVD’s special features. Here’s a rundown—infomercial style—of what to expect from this movie:

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, when you watch this movie you get more than just a few clichéd horror movie devices for your money. You get metaphors, allegories, similes, and political messages so guilt-soaked you’ll have to wring out your brain to keep from donating large sums of money to NAACP! Do you even know what an allegory is? Does it even matter? People these days don’t care about fancy words. They want everything in soundbytes and bulletpoints. When you buy this movie, you get the following political/sociopolitical issues and awesome features:

Fear

Chills & spills

Guilt

White guilt

White male guilt

Upper-middle class white guilt

Hidden, or buried, racism

Islamophobia

Xenophobia

America: Europe’s retarded little brother?

Those poor, poor minorities

The Terry Schiavo equation

George Bush is a bad, bad president

Stereotypes, stereotypes, stereotypes

Your wife might leave you, and your daughter’s a little lesbian slut

Multiculturalism and understanding

And, just so you don’t forget it’s a horror movie,

That record-scratching sound used in every horror movie since the mid 1990s

Buy now! Because even if you miss all this and more, it’s still kind of a spooky movie, and dumb girls will probably think you’re kind of deep for owning it!"

I just saw Black Christmas, yet another horror movie remake. Honestly, the film wasn’t that great. But it turned out pretty well considering the script was only one page long. Here is the original script in its entirety:

Girl 1: "Oh my gawd, I hate Christmas."

Girl 2: "That's very interesting. I hate my real sister, but I love all my sorority sisters. Well, not that plain-looking girl. I forgot her name, but she smells like cat pee."

Girl 3: "I hate my whole family. In fact, the only thing I don't hate is being annoying and drinking a lot to look tough. I'm going to brood and drink until I throw up."

Girl 4: "It seems as though my sorority sisters have complained about everything already, which means I have nothing to say. Drat! Oh, I know. Hey, girl with seemingly religious beliefs and an implied redneck father, you are lame."

Girl 5: "I am not. I am going home because you are mean."

Girl 6: "Here is a newspaper-wrapped Christmas present for you. It is a glass unicorn head. Nothing says Christmas like a glass unicorn head. I must go now, I'm only in this movie for ten seconds, but I do smell remotely like cat pee and may be related to the killer in some way. Homely sorority girls usually are. Bye!"

Girl 7: “Christmas reminds me of … wait a minute. How many of us are there?”

Girl 7.78: “It’s impossible to say, really. We, as characters, are about as deep as flea spit. At least none of us are clichés in any way.”

Girl 8: "I never had a real sister. I wonder why. Oh well. I'm just glad to have all you, my sorority sisters. My boyfriend sure is nice. And honest. He would never do anything to hurt me. And he would never hide anything from me."

Girl 7.78: “Oh dear. I recant my previous statement about clichés.”

Killer(s): “You are all my family now. This reminds me: which of you will act as my mother. She had sex with me, so I’ll meet one of you in the attic in five minutes. Please remember to call me son and pinch my yellow butt. The rest of you would do well to remove contact lenses if you wear them. I can’t handle the indigestion.”

Killer(s)2: “I truly am an abomination. What hath my brother/father and mother wrought? Arrggg! The confusion! The turmoil! So many societal mores trampled upon! If not inbreeding and a horrific mug, surely my downfall is lack of depth perception!"

The end ... or is it?

Lately I’ve been renting a lot of Asian horror movies. I think they’re generally more interesting than the American movies being released (especially the American remakes of Asian horror films), and they’re easier to watch knowing the actors aren’t getting paid millions of dollars to play make believe.

One of the more interesting of these films I’ve seen in the past few weeks is Marebito. If nothing else, the movie is downright strange; however, many people think the movie is rather confusing. I, on the other hand, think the movie is quite clear. Briefly:

The old fellow in the subway killed himself because he had an eyelash stuck in his eye that, try as he might, he couldn’t get out. He wasn’t terrified, rather super annoyed. This is why he killed himself—much like someone with a gnarly case of long-lasting hiccups might.

The protagonist of the movie went crazy due to some seriously expired Pocky combined with an M. Night Shyamalan movie marathon. He made it through The Village okay, but after Lady in the Water he completely lost it.

F, as the protagonist called her, was actually a rare type of humanoid-looking amphibious lamprey that can be found off the coast of Indonesia. Only the most skilled Asian fishermen/wizards are able to capture them. Very few people know the ritual required to summon and trap this strange and deceptively naked-chick-looking creature, but some scholars believe it involves chanting the lyrics to the song “Afternoon Delight” backwards, ritual Mayan penis blood rope, and an ant farm full of mosquito larvae.

That really was the protagonist’s ex-wife he killed. And although he was nuts by that time, this action could be considered his “moment of clarity.” Initially he was just going to kill her and use her blood for lamprey-lady food, but then he remembered what a nagging harpy she was and how she got the house in the divorce (and his comic book collection, which she only took because she knew he loved it). This snapped him out of his insanity long enough to enjoy killing her.

The protagonist was all scared at the end because he realized he left backup batteries for his video camera at his apartment. His look of sheer terror was more of a dawning realization that he would have to walk back up all those stairs to get the batteries. It’s really rather anticlimactic, but therein lies the horror and mental anguish.

Another Asian movie that confuses many people is Pistol Opera. I may not have enjoyed this movie, but I certainly understood it (even though it’s abstract enough to give Wassily Kandinsky a headache). A brief explanation:
You see, purple monkey pringles can. Who let the shampoo out, dogs? Hamhock flonaise; Mary had a little lamp post. Flim-flam and shim sham. Flibberty jibbetts. Bee-dee bee-dee bee-dee. Hotdog, freetos, chilimac. Slap the watermelon. Paella.

Kick-Ass Friday Video: "The Chondrin Enigma" by Aborted

Much like a Planned Parenthood employee, I like everything aborted. Aborted’s new CD, Slaughter and Apparatus: A Methodical Overture, is a heaping pile of puke- and puss-covered viscera. Since Aborted is a gore-grind/death metal band, I have to assume that's what they were going for. I’ve been listening to this CD nonstop since it came out (actually, this CD with brief interludes of War of Attrition by Dying Fetus). This CD is as brutal as a rabid ape cannibalizing himself while sexually assaulting his mother. That’s pretty brutal, yet not the absolute peak of brutality. Higher levels of brutality usually include a T-Rex slamming a mad-cow crazed bull’s nuts in a metal slaughterhouse door as Thor annihilates Loki’s colon with Mjolnir.

This CD is pretty awesome. So awesome, in fact, I have come to the conclusion that if you’re not rocking out to it, you probably have several vaginas (or some kind of strange multiple buttgina). If this band is too manly for you, you can work up to being cool enough to enjoy it by kicking orphans in the teeth and dissecting neighborhood pets.

If you’d rather keep up on your current events, Max Bojo has a new article here.