Thursday, December 22, 2011

Merry Crapmas!

The following tale is as true as my memory allows. It occurred four years ago in the City of Indians, where we often drink too much and do stupid things. I’m sure that life is nothing like that where you live. While not directly related to the birth of little baby Jesus, the story is ultimately His fault, because He failed to come to my aid in a timely fashion.  Up your nose with a rubber hose, little baby Jesus. 




It all began at the company Christmas party, a place famous for the bad decisions it inspires.  I chalk it up to a year's worth of proletarian frustration exploding into a burst of revolutionary stupidity.  This party, however, did not seem likely to descend into proper bacchanalia. I sat in a downtown bar surrounded by boring, witless people who spoke constantly of nothing.  As nature abhors a vacuum, so I abhor the vacuous.  I escaped the inanity by drinking and drinking and drinking. And, when the party was over, I remained in the bar with two of my least offensive fellow workers (one of whom had given me a ride to the party), and I drank and drank some more. Since it looked as if no one else was going to do anything stupid, I had decided to handle it myself.  The bartender who was serving us concocted the strongest drinks this side of Dr. Cream.  "I pour them like I drink them," he said.

(It is at this point that I should mention that I had taken a little pill earlier in the day.  Being the Mikey of drug abuse, I typically take whatever anyone gives me. The little pill had been given to me by someone who suffered from severe depression. It’s called Klonopin. It should be called Pullthepin, because it doesn't interact well with alcohol, and I'm composed of little else.)



Some people say that you should never discuss politics or religion, but the people who say that are probably sober, and they certainly aren’t riding the wave of a mind-bending drug designed for serious loons.  Your drunken narrator let loose with a tendentious tirade regarding capitalism and other nightmares.  It was the sort of declamation that can only conclude with a grand exit, preferably involving a swirling cape and a puff of smoke.  I left the bar on foot, miles away from home, and I walked and walked and walked. I was determined to make my way home without assistance of any kind.  By the time my journey crashed to its conclusion, I had walked for four hours, and I had seen and done things:
 I spoke to a man in front of a liquor store who had an unfamiliar accent.  Whenever he said "life" it sounded like "laugh".  So when I told him about my troubles, he said, "Don't throw your laugh away."  

A light snow had begun to fall, and I felt the chill of night nipping at my wrists, so I sought solace on the pavement in an underpass. The yellow street lights smeared the tunnel walls with sepia. I laid down upon the sidewalk and closed my eyes. In my head a voice said something like, “Wow, you’re really going to go to sleep outside in the freezing cold, aren’t you?  I’ve always wondered how people are dumb enough to die this way. Thanks for the demonstration, Señor Chucklenuts.”  With that, I reluctantly opened my eyes and groaned to my feet.

It wasn’t long before I found myself urinating in the street. Literally. Urinating while standing in the middle of the street. I don’t remember how the decision was made. I only remember the moment of realization. The Bolshedick was sending a stream down the double yellow lines.  The occasional car whizzed by as your humble (still drunken) narrator whizzed. I briefly glimpsed the horror and bemusement on the faces of the drivers and passengers, and I did not care.

Then, there was a long period of walking through neighborhoods festooned with Christmas lights.  I stumbled along the colorful desolation, not recognizing the streets.  I was reluctant to approach anyone at this point.  I knew that the sight of a desperately addled hedonist who might piss at any moment could be enough to ruin anyone’s holiday spirit. The further I delved into the neighborhoods, the quieter they became. I thought at one point that I heard the scabrous death rattle of infinite night resounding through the work-dead world, but it was probably just indigestion.





Finally, I could take no more.  I had been walking for a very long time, and I was no closer to home or sobriety.  The pill/whiskey combination had a death grip on my brain.  My feet were protesting their innocence. My world was pain and confusion and dread. I saw a drug store on the corner, and I felt it owed me one, so I entered and lurched to the counter. "I just want to go home," I said to the uncomfortable woman behind the register.  "Please get me home. Please."  And she did.  She called me a cab, which I took back to my palatial estate. Then, I passed out.

Ever since that night, I’ve been nearly Scientological in my aversion to “anti-anxiety” drugs, because I can’t love anything that hates alcohol so much.  I’ve also never been to a company Christmas party since that night, because I know that death is always waiting under the mistletoe.

Merry Christmas.













Wednesday, November 2, 2011

The Journalism of Crap: Geraldo Edition

For the last 30 years, Geraldo Rivera’s career has been marked by one spectacularly lucrative failure after another.  His incompetence is legendary. His lack of good judgment is astonishing.  His ability to remain employed is miraculous.  If failure was an Olympic event, Geraldo would probably find a way to lose that, too.  The man is a veritable crap factory, producing journalistic excrement with the regularity of a malevolent metronome.  Let us take a moment to reflect.






1986 – Al Capone’s Vault
During the renovation of a Chicago hotel that Al Capone had once inhabited, a system of secret tunnels was discovered that led straight to Geraldo Rivera’s ego.  A two-hour live special was constructed around the opening of a secret room in one of the secret tunnels, a room dubbed Al Capone’s vault.  The hype leading up to this show was extraordinary.  It was suggested that the opening of the vault might reveal anything from masses of money to bunches of bodies.  In the end, the only things Geraldo found were some empty bottles and a reason to cry.  The show became a national punchline for years.  It would have been enough to sink the career of any normal hack, but Geraldo was no normal hack. He was a hack with a fine mustache.






1988 – Satanic Panic
Those of you old enough to remember the 80s are probably having back trouble.  You might also recall that we actually lived through a friggin’ witch hunt which would come to be called the Satanic Panic.  Fundamentalist Christians and other crazy people had been making claims about rampaging Satanic cults for years, but it took a mainstream dipshit like Geraldo to spark a national hysteria that would send innocent people to prison and scar many children for life.   His two-hour NBC special, Devil Worship: Exposing Satan’s Underground, was a gloriously fact-free mélange that had great chunks of America convinced that Satanists were legion, and that they were torturing and murdering children with impunity all across the country.  People began to look with deep suspicion upon anyone who possessed a 20-sided die (for reasons other than the usual).  A Black Sabbath t-shirt was practically considered a confession of crime in some jurisdictions.  It was an exciting time to be alive for us non-Christians. Thanks, Geraldo.

Part One

1988 – Instant Karma
Before there was Jerry Springer, there was Geraldo.  Yes, it’s true.  Geraldo helped to invent the grotesque nightmare of televised daytime freak shows.  There had been plenty of talk shows before, but it took a slug like Geraldo to ramp up the exploitation to a new level, completely disdaining the well-being of his guests and the intelligence of his audience.  In 1988, a small slice of poetic justice was served when a mix of racist skinheads and non-whiteys exploded into this:

Naturally, that episode was one of the highest-rated daytime talk shows in history. Thanks, America.

1991 - Geraldo Exposes Geraldo
Having done his best to sully the reputations of countless innocent people, Geraldo finally decided to go after someone guilty: himself.  In 1991, he released one of the scuzziest celebrity autobiographies in history. 
Notice that the great journalist needed help to write his autobiography

Geraldo enjoyed kissing and telling to such a degree that one suspects he occasionally skipped the kissing.  Liza Minnelli, Bette Midler, and Judy Collins were among those shamed by having their (allegedly) wretched taste revealed to the world.


2003 - Geraldo Exposes US Troop Movements

After his journey into autobiographical sleaze, Geraldo spent the rest of the 90s sucking the toes of leprous dwarves in Manila.  Not really.  That was what Geraldo would call an "editorial comment".  In reality, Geraldo kind of fell off the radar for a bit.  But that's ok, because with Geraldo, you don't need radar. He'll eventually draw you a map. In 2003, he was embedded with a military unit in Iraq and broadcasting on live television (for FOX News), when he decided to draw a map in the sand to indicate exactly where the unit was located and where it was going.

Not actual map

Geraldo independently decided to leave Iraq shortly after the military told him that he had to leave Iraq.



Friday, August 19, 2011

Mount Crapatoa Mail Bag

I long ago stopped being bothered by spam, which is proof that humans can get used to anything.  In fact, I've become something of a connoisseur of the form.  We've been automatically filtering and deleting these things for so long that I fear we might have lost sight of their literary merit.  Over the last couple of months, I've collected my favorite examples in order to post them here.  For you.  You're welcome.  Again.  

My overriding thought as I read these is "Jesus rambling Christ, someone actually wrote this".  It's true. Somewhere out there, a human being sat down and wrote these things.  They thought they were being clever.  They thought they were being manipulative.  They thought they spoke English.   

Her friends call her “Lucky”
I am Mrs Kim Abbott ,I am 51 years old,i am deaf and suffering
from a long time cancer of the lungs which also affected my
brain,from all indication my conditions is really deteriorating
and it is quite obvious that, according to my doctors they have
advised me that i may not live for the next two months,this is
because the cancer stage has gotten to a very bad stage.
I was brought up from a motherless babies home, was married to my
late husband for twenty years without a child.My husband died in a
fatal motor accident.Before his death we were true Christians. Since
his death I decided not to re-marry,I sold all my inherited
belongings and deposited all the sum of $18.5million dollars with a
Bank.

Presently, this money is still with them and the management just
wrote me as the true owner to come forward to receive the money
for keeping it so long or rather issue a letter of authorization
to somebody to receive it on my behalf since I can not come over
because of my illness or they get it confisticated.

Presently, I'm with my laptop in a hospital where I have been
undergoing treatment for cancer of the lungs. I have since lost my
ability to talk and my doctors have told me that I have only a few
months to live. It is my last wish to see that this money is invested
to any organisation of your choice and distributed each year among the
charity organization,the poor and the motherless babies home where i
come from.I want you God fearing, to also use this money to fund
churches, orphanages and widows.




I took this decision, before i rest in peace because my time will
soon be up. As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the
contact of the Bank.I will also issue you a letter of
authority that will prove you as the new beneficiary of my fund.
Please assure me that you will act accordingly act as I stated herein.
Hoping to hear from you soon. Waiting for your reply.


Yours in Christ,
Mrs Kim Abbott


The Rosetta Stone of Grammatical Errors
YOUR FULL RESPECT,

THIS DEPARTMENT OFFICE WESTERN UNION HAVE BEEN INSTRUCTED TO SEND YOUR FUND TO YOUR LOCATION IN YOUR CITY FROM THE DIAMOND WESTERN UNION  DEPARTMENT HERE IN BENIN REPUBLIC.YOU WILL BE RECEIVING YOUR FUND ( $4500.00 U.S.D ) PER DAY AND YOU WILL RECEIVE THE TOTAL SUM OF ($950.000.00 Us dollars) I WANT TO USE THIS OPPORTUNITY TO INFORM YOU THAT GOVERNMENT IS PLANING TO CANCEL YOUR WINNER FUNDS AND TRANSFER IT INTO GOVERNMENT ACCOUNTS IF WE DID NOT HEAR FROM YOU WITHING 2DAYS YOU ARE REQUIRE TO SEND US OUR TRANSFER CHARGES THE SUM OF $49.00USD FOR THE $4500.00 U.S.D THAT WE HAVE ALREADY SEND, MEANWHILE SEND THE$49.00USD TO US IMMEDIATELY TODAY FOR FASTER SENDING OF YOUR FUND CORRECTLY BY TOMORROW MORNING...


AFTER THE MONEY HAVE BEEN TRANSFERRED CORRECTLY TO YOUR ADDRESS WE WILL MAIL YOU THE PAYMENT INFORMATION'S YOU NEED TO PICK UP YOUR MONEY IN ANY WESTERN UNION AROUND YOUR LOCATION CORRECTLY BECAUSE THE ONE THAT IS HERE IS NOT CORRECT BECAUSE WE HAVE NOT RECEIVED OUR $39.00 U S D ONLY. REASON WHY WE NEED YOU TO SEND US THE $49.00 U S D IS THAT WE TRIED TO DEDUCT THE TRANSFERRING FEE OUT FROM YOUR FUND BUT THE MINISTER ADMINISTRATOR TRUST FUND OF BENIN REPUBLIC TOLD US THAT NO ONE HAS RIGHT OVER YOUR FUND AS IT HAVE BEEN SIGNED AND STAMPED THAT NO MONEY SHOULD BE DEDUCTED UNTIL IT GETS TO YOUR HANDS TO AVOID STEALING SOME OF THE FUNDS SO IF YOU WANT TO TRACK THE MONEY AND CONFIRM IF THE FUNDS IS TRANSFERRED ENTER OUR CODE HERE IS THE CONTACT INFORMATION OF WESTERN UNION




DIRECTOR GENERAL…MR. PETER WILLIAMS
EMAIL ADRESS ... Email :( western.unionbenin12@w.cn  )
PHONE NUMBER :+229-98-721-558.
THEN CLICK TRACKING AND ENTER THE M TC N  NUMBER; 2612591885 ENTER SENDERS FIRST John .....ENTER SENDERS LAST NAME..Mike. AND CLICK TRACKING AND
IT WILL SHOW YOU THAT YOUR FUNDS IS AVAILABLE FOR YOU TO PICK IT UP SENDER NAME:HARRY PORTER,

WWW.WESTERN
SENDER'S NAME:==== John Mike
TEXT QUESTION:=======SENT?
ANSWER:==============TO YOU.
AMOUNT:===============$4500,00.
M T C N:================== :2612591885
 
http://www.westernunion.com/info/selectCountry.asp
FIN ALL YOUR GENT SEND US THE $49.00 U S D TO ENABLE US PROCEED ON YOUR PAYMENT IMMEDIATELY RIGHT.BELOW IS OUR ACCOUNT'S INFORMATION FOR YOU TO SEND THE $49.00 USD THROUGH WESTERN UNION MONEY TRANSFER BEEN OUR TRANSFERRING CHARGEFOR YOUR $4500.00 U S D,
1.Receiver Name :=======OKOLO AUGUSTINE .
2.City/Country:==========Cotonou - Benin Republic.
3.Question=============Who is Able
4.Answer:=============God
5. Amonut :=============$49.00
6. M TCN:=========
7.Sender Name=====
YOUR URGENT RESPOND IS HIGHLY NEEDED .

WAITING TO HEAR FROM YOU AS SOON AS YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE TO QUICKEN THE PROCESS OF THE RELEASING YOUR PAYMENT TO YOU TODAY.
THEN CONTACT US WITH YOUR FULL INFORMATION.
EMAIL ADRESS :( western.unionbenin12@w.cn )
PHONE NUMBER :+229-98-721-558.
UNION.COM

the bisexual masturbating girl scout who is moving to my hometown, who keeps sending me this same email under different names due to technical problems, and who I have engaged in stimulating conversation, apparently before my sudden-onset amnesia destroyed the blessed memory, but that’s ok because I can chat with her again for free at least once and don’t any of you dare use my special promo code!
Hi again. how u doing babe? in case u dont remember me its ME Jackie Sapp !!! met ya off cl lol. i wanna say sorry for takign a while to email ya again. my internet and laptop are both completely screwed up....my I.M. is also.. such a pain in the butt! i have also been tied up getting ready to move..sorry if u get this email more than once also because like i said my email and stuff keep freezing so i dunno whats happening. I was happy that we chatted briefly by email...i am really relieved that I will know somoene OTHER than my aunt when I move... relieves a bit of stress..I think we shoudl chat as much as possible before I move so we can get to know one another and that way when we meet we will feel like we have already known each other for a while lol :) You will find out soon enough that I am a good talker and sometimes need to be told to stop babbling lol! So you must be a popular guy, do you have a lot of firends there? who do you live with? what do u do for work and stuff? I woudl liek to meet some of you friends.. girls or guys doesnt matter im cool with both :) im bi lol! Whatcha do for fun and all that? like in your spare time? spend a lot of time online chatting? I DO! I am actually excited to move now and meet up with ya.. I am way overdue for a change and my rent here is soo expensive..plus i have student loan to pay back so it will give me kinda a fresh start ya know! So I am finally single after 2 years of HELL lol.. was with my ex for just abotu 22 months and he was such a tool. didnt respect me or treat me how i deserved.. im soo happy to be moved on, another reason why i am moving.. u got a girlfriend? I also wanted to ask you if you know anyone hiring right now? I need to find a job and I thought maybe u could help me? Like maybe u know a club owner or restaurant owner who will hire me? im good at serving :) Ok so I guess you want to know a bit more info about me right ? ok sooooooo... I am a big rhianna fan, I love music, mainly 80's, dance, hip hop top 40. I love to hang out and shop and dance and tan.. I love all types of men and women.. I am an amazing girlfriend if iI find the right guy, ill do anythign for them.. even in bed im totally open minded and will do basiclly anything.. I am a pretty positive person, i am smart, always got good marks in school, i am loyal honest trust worthy friendly happy and VERY talkative lol..I am also BIG on playing with myself and my toys lol.. sorry to be blunt but who doesnt lol? in bed i love doggy and i love it rough! spank me baby lol...Ok so let me explain to you a bit more about my job cause I know you're wondering right? ok so basicly I get paid to chat with people and take my clothes off and touch myself.. 3 things I LOVE doing anyways so why not make $ at it right? of course some guys judge me and look down on it, and im REALLLY hoping you're not like that or Ill be sad :( but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do... I really like my job its easy and its good $ which is what i need cause of my shitty financial situation :( So i am working like 24-7 trying to save $ for the move in a few days... and since i was wanting to chat with u more heres the idea i came up with.. every few months my company gives me 3 promos passes to give out to whoever i want.. with this pass you are able to chat me on my site for free.. unl;ike everyone else who has to pay lol.. so i was gonna give u one of these so u can coem chat me.. its totally up to u and i completelety understand if u dont want to come to my chat room to chat me.. its just alot easier that way cause im logged in there most of the time now and my messenger and email keeps freezing (ill be shocked if this email even gets through to you)... So i can give u one of my promo links but on ONE condition.. U ABSILUTELY cannot share it with anyone.. u cannot let any of ur freinds have it or i can get in trouble.. im trusting that u will keep it juyst for urself! is that cool? with this pass u can sign in whenever u want and chat me and see me at NO costs.. 0.00 where for everyone else its 5$....this way we can chat more and thenw e will feel a lot more comfortable when we meet up soon :) Now just so u know.. u still have to prove your over 18 by putting in your C.C but thats just for age ver!f!cation...babe im really trusting u and im really hoping we can chat... please dont let ur friends sign in wiht this link PLEASEEEEEE!!! i want to exchange cell numbers with u once u login as well as my new address and stuff.. i need u to help me move on moving day please if u dont mind? ill make it up to u.. diner on me + a massage for all your sore muscles lol.. ok here u go.. im signed in now and waiting so come nwo if u can... chat in a few mins.. go here ->> lhttp://bit.ly/n2l8Or  <- XOX


Friday, July 15, 2011

Holy Crap On Film: If Footmen Tire You, What Will Horses Do?

     This is a story about a simple man with a simple message and the simple filmmaker who helped him spread it.  The simple man was Estus Pirkle, leader of Locust Grove Baptist Church in New Albany, Mississippi.  The simple message was an attempt to rouse the patriotism of Americans by proclaiming that most of us are pure evil.  The simple filmmaker was Ron Ormond, who got his big break collaborating with Lash La Rue in the 40s and spent the next 30 years working his way to the bottom.   
     These two simpletons made three movies together in the 70s. The first, and most famous, is inscrutably entitled If Footmen Tire You, What Will Horses Do?  It focuses on the insidious communist menace that is always threatening to crawl up our sacred American buttholes and drag us all to that hot gulag in the ground.  To say that Estus demonizes communists and American culture is to make an understatement of Pinteresque proportions.  Here  are Mr. Pirkle’s  thoughts on a number of important subjects:    
Saturday morning cartoons:  “Have you seen these cartoons?  Programs motivated to lead your child into crime.  Into sex.  Into murder.”
Drive-in theatres:  “Spawning house for sex.”
Dancing:  “Dancing is just as wrong as it’s always been . . . It’s the front door of adultery.”
This probably all sounds like a joke of some sort.  It isn’t.  It’s as real as Christ’s suffering balls.
     At one particularly entertaining point in the film, Estus says  “Do these things seem farfetched to you?” and then proceeds to recite a list of the most fanciful facts this side of James Frey.  For example, he says “Are you aware that just 60 years ago, there was not one communist in the world?”  The Communist Manifesto was published in 1848.
     Estus also reveals the tactics used by these evil egalitarians.  There’s a terrifying scene where Christian children are lured into the arms of Fidel Castro with promises of commie candy.  What would you do for a Klondike bar?  Then, there’s the depiction of a diabolical brainwashing technique in which the innocent populace is forced to listen as someone chants “Communism is good.  Christianity is stupid”.  This section is so ridiculous that Negativland felt the need to turn it into a song.  This is the actual voice of Estus: 

I don’t know how any Christian could resist such a tactic.  After all, that’s how they became Christians in the first place. 
     Estus is a hot piece of sass, to be sure, but this movie wouldn’t be what it is without the directorial skills of Ron Ormond.  Ormond made a number of very cheap exploitation movies throughout the 50s and 60s.  Movies such as The Girl From Tobacco Road and Mesa of Lost Women.  Then, in 1967, he narrowly survived a plane crash.  It was a come-to-Jesus moment for Ron.  He renounced his tawdry material (well, after making The Monster and the Stripper) and decided to take his talents to church.  What we have here, then, is an extraordinary combination of two peculiar American art forms.  The paranoid protestant ravings of Pirkle and Ormond’s natural inclination to shock an audience produce something wonderfully appalling.  Trust me when I tell you that I've refrained from describing the most rectum-rattling moments in the film, because I actually want you to watch it.
     A word about the questionable quality of the video.  It seems likely that the ragged copies of this film that flit about the internet are the best we’ll ever have.  The film was filmed on  . . . well, film and carted around from church to church for viewings.  It would require an act of miraculous restoration by several trained professionals to improve this thing, and I prophesize that such an act will never happen.  For my part, I enjoy the lousy quality of the existent videos.  It gives the viewer a nearly tactile sense of what it must have been like to sit in some crazy Baptist’s rec room on a Sunday afternoon, eating pork rinds and fearing Jesus in the faithless flicker of the fragile celluloid. 
Here it is in all its goddamn glory.  Enjoy:




Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Sporting Crap: Athletic Napping

Spiking The Pillow
I don’t often praise the lobotomized jackals that run our television networks, but they do deserve credit for one great service.  They really know how to facilitate a nap.  This is especially evident when it comes to televised sports, many of which seem to exist merely to put the audience to sleep.  How can insomnia hope to triumph when faced with the following forms of athletic Ambien?

Golf

Next to competitive accounting and synchronized typing, golf is the most boring spectator sport in existence.  It seems odd that an activity invented by men for the sole purpose of escaping from their wives for an entire day should become a televised event, but here it is.  There is little about golf that isn’t conducive to swift sleep.  The limp ping of the ball as it’s struck.  The funereal silence of the crowd.  The gentle whisper of the announcer.  I’ve been hopped up on an afternoon of speed and fear, only to find Morphean solace by the second hole.  This isn't a sport for the living.

NASCAR

Given NASCAR’s reputation for high-decibel engines and yawping peckerwoods, this may seem like an odd choice, but allow me to explain.  First of all, the peckerwood factor is eliminated entirely by the broadcast of the event.  Once you get past the jingoistic, Nuremberg nightmare of the opening ceremony, there is no other televised sport in which the audience so thoroughly ceases to exist.  You won’t hear a single “git r dun” over the incessant background drone, and it’s that same drone that makes for such nice napping.   

Baseball

This is the only sport I’ve ever truly loved.  As a child, I played it every chance I got and absorbed every fact and figure and bit of legend and lore that my mind could contain.  Alas, I grew up.  The length of the average baseball game makes it useful not only for napping, but also for a full night’s sleep and the induction of a coma.  Baseball has more dead space than the Milky Way.  It has pauses so pregnant that they’d make Octomom blush.  Symbolically, this is a sport that actually suggests that the fans stretch in the seventh inning.  I’m afraid you’ll have to wake me up first.

Soccer

It’s fashionable for an American to pick on soccer, but I hope I’ve demonstrated that my failure to take sports seriously is ecumenical in nature.  Honestly, I don’t know why sports types in the United States don’t like soccer.  There are few commercials and the action is constant.  Oh wait, you need an attention span longer than a gnat’s cock in order to enjoy it.  Mystery solved.  At any rate, it is that lack of commercial interruption that makes this such a napworthy sport.  You can drool happily away on the futon of your choice without having to worry about being awakened by an ad for the latest blockbuster movie that yells at you like a retarded child or the screeching, antediluvian bigotry of the newest beer commercial. 
In Conclusion
I don’t want the fact that I’ve excluded such stalwarts as basketball, hockey and American football to suggest that one can’t rest in their hairy arms.  I’ve slept with all of these sports at one time or another.  But the broadcasts of those activities tend to be designed more for sufferers of ADD than insomnia.  Best to keep company with the calm when seeking the solace of sleep.  Pleasant dreams, assholes.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Crap On Film: Night Of The Comet

I saw Night of the Comet in the theater during its initial release. Twice. I'm not sure how many people can make that claim. I'm not sure how many people want to make that claim. The movie was released upon an unsuspecting populace in November of 1984, a wonderfully weird year in the world of cinema. The preceding months had already borne witness to questionable classics like C.H.U.D., The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension, Red Dawn and Friday the 13th : The Final Chapter (sic). The hair was big. The spandex was tight. The girls were from the valley. It was a totally tubular time to be alive.

Night of the Comet revolves around two sisters named Regina and Samantha. Regina is a video game queen (partial to Tempest) who likes to make it in theater projection rooms and kick post-apocalyptic zombie ass. Samantha is a refugee from a Jane Fonda workout video who longs to make it with anyone and can't even kick the scrawny ass of her wicked stepmother. With our protagonists sporting properly antagonistic personalities, we can now move on to the science fiction romp.

But first a digression on the subject of “making it”. This is the phrase used habitually in Night of the Comet to refer to fucking, and I'm hereby lobbying for the phrase to make a comeback. “Let's make it.” “Looks like we made it.” “Sorry, I can't make it.” It gives the act of copulation an industrious air that it normally lacks, as if you've accomplished something worthwhile, rather than made yet another horrible mistake. It's the Martha Stewart of fucking phrases.

To return to the plot, a comet passes near our planet and reduces most people to a Tang-like dust. Of those who survive, many are transformed into bloodthirsty comet zombies. A few people are left unscathed, if you don't count the fact that they are now living in a world littered with mounds of Tang and bloodthirsty comet zombies. Something ensues.

The apex of the film occurs when the sisters find themselves in a seemingly abandoned department store. One second, they are cavorting dumbly as “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” rules the soundtrack. The next second, they are meeting Willy. If Jello Biafra and Elvis Costello had a baby, it would probably make the papers. It would also be Willy. He and his cohorts were once stock boys in the department store. Now, he is a comet-sickened stock boy with a sense of mission and a panoply of menacing phrases. Phrases spoken in a voice that apparently wasn't made for movies, since I've never heard another one quite like it. Legitimately creepy, crap lovers.

At the end of the day, most of us sleep. In the end, we're all going to die. To conclude, I'm not sure whether I love this movie for the nostalgia factor or because it's an authentically goofy work of schlock. But the fact that I had to wait 23 years for it to be released on DVD might be a clue.

Some quotes from Night of the Comet that you might want to use in casual conversation:

“You were born with an asshole, Doris. You don't need Chuck.”

“What are you going to do when your complexion freaks out? The dermatologist is dead, you know.”

“If bachelorette number one isn't out here in half a tick, I'm gonna ice bachelorette number two.”

“The MAC-10 submachine gun was practically designed for housewives.”



The whole shebang:



Sunday, August 29, 2010

Alcoholic Crap: Old Crow


There are many things in this mean old world of ours that I don't understand.  I don't understand why people want vampires that send them FTD bouquets.  I don't understand why people like music without melodies.  I don't understand Mandarin Chinese.  I could fill a book with all the things I don't understand.  And I think I'd have to dedicate a chapter of that book to the subject of alcohol snobs and their expensive follies.

Those of us who drink professionally understand that the goal of the entire imbibication process is inebriation, not another extraneous culinary experience.   Anything that gets in the way of that inebriation is the enemy, and there are several things that can get in the way.  Sugary, fruity, girly drinks, for example.  You can't drink very much of that stuff without losing your ethnic cuisine in the nearest alley, and puking is enough to dampen any sensible person's fun.  Some people never learn that lesson.  Those people are called “sorority sisters”. Another thing that can get in the way of inebriation is the prohibitive cost of certain labels of hooch.  There's a reason that they call them “labels”.  It's because that's what you're paying for.  It's a name and a color scheme.  Don't believe the hype. 

My drink of choice is bourbon.  When it comes to how various bourbons taste, there are those who will go on about hints of this and echoes of that.  Those people are deluded and silly.  Or rather, their words contain hints of nonsense and echoes of yuppie effluvia.

To the untrained tongue, bourbon tastes a lot like ass, and that's ok.  The taste is irrelevant.  We aren't here to tickle our tongues until they coo.  We're here to obliterate our consciousness in the most efficient manner possible.  Priorities, people.  Priorities.  Despite its basic taste, there are some labels of bourbon that go for staggering sums of scratch.  You'd have to be drunk to spend that kind of money on a caustic ghost of urine yet to come.  And if you were already drunk, why bother?  That's why, when I wish to board the swaying train to Lush Town, I often get on at the Old Crow station.

Like a lot of cheap whiskey, Old Crow was once held in loftier esteem.  It's been around for a couple of centuries and was the favorite drink of Ulysses S. Grant, one of history's more productive drunks.  Hunter Thompson and Mark Twain were fans.  The Reverend Horton Heat and Tom Waits have sung its praises.  And then there's me.  At my local liquor store, I can score a half gallon of the stuff for $13.99, which is half the price of Jack Daniels and considerably less than Jim Beam (another personal favorite, which is made by the same folks who grace us with the Crow).  Despite the low price, I can assure everyone that it gets you exactly as drunk as those other brands and inflicts no more pain.

Old Crow doesn't stand alone, or even at the bottom, of cheap whiskeys.  It merely stands in the glass on my desk, which is why I decided to write about it.  Drink cheap, people, and put the money you save toward that new liver you'll probably need in a few years.  Cheers.