Dear Student:
Poop State University requires that all students be immunized against measles, mumps, and rubella and submit their immunization information electronically. Great!
You will find terrible directions for submission and additional frustrating information regarding the meningitis immunization, other recommended immunizations and medical clearance at our poorly designed website.
Your online reporting is used to determine if Poop State's immunization requirements are satisfied. WE DEMAND SATISFACTION. Therefore, the dates must be accurate. Non-compliance may impact your ability to register. Or live.
There have been increasing numbers of cases of mumps and measles on college campuses in recent years. Ha-ha, WHAT? This has got to be a lie! If there is an outbreak at Poop State and you are not fully compliant with the immunization requirements, you may need to receive additional vaccinations (or your first ones apparently, you disgusting boil), leave campus, or be restricted from class attendance for a period of time. No class, guys. I'M NON-COMPLIANT.
Welcome to Poop State. I hope your time here is happy, successful and healthy.
From what I've read, it will be none of those things.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
You Must Not Know 'Bout Me
Take your pictures, friend. I see you in there. Warm, are you? Hungover, are you? Yes, I suppose you're a bit of both. You needn't worry. I'm out here for the both of us. Pay no attention to the inches of accumulation or the frost forming on my wings. I am the idle hand of God. I am Plane. I am the plane that will take you above the clouds, where the sun always shines, while cold fury wreaks havoc upon your world below. Feed me your belongings, then climb into my belly. I will taxi through this slushy mire with the stolid determination of an aged general. When it is time, I will let out my shrill bellow and you will watch the air behind my wings shimmer into oblivion as it is all...burned...away. The snow can only fall. Let me show you what I can do.Take your pictures, friend. I see you in there.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Guarding The Dead
"Now descending from Level Six to Level Five:
Junction Wallows. Mind your manners, Dorn Ricker."
"Fine and fancy." mimed Dorn in a pleasant, mechanical drone. He laughed while checking himself in the drop-down mirror of his auto-flight taxi. It always got the better of him, hearing the dead politeness in these filthy cabs. They stink like Munk piss and used sex, but that voice almost makes the drops bearable. He laughed again, and his cheery, smiling reflection drew some confidence. Of course, his smile wouldn't help him gain entry to the Nim'roh tavern. In fact, he dropped a hand behind his back. Reminded and assured of his weapon's certain and discrete hiding, he flicked a coin into the deposit tray and opened the door. Feet on solid ground for the first time in over a cycle, Dorn Ricker felt positive he would get what he came for.
The change in pressure was a menace on the brain, so he shoved a hangover chew into his mouth and proceeded down the block. Bad lighting wasn’t a concern. Humans don’t live down here anymore, and the only things he expected trouble from were enormous, loud, and had a tendency to shimmer under this fuming red sun. Dorn stepped lazily over refuse and dented steel, his destination already in sight. The sign, borrowed architecture from Earth, flashed brown, Nim’roh lettering; probably something like “Drink to The Fathers.” It didn’t matter. He was here. One last obstacle between the Reader and the answers he was paid to seek: one big, ugly obstacle.
“Sape! You are lost!” it said.
“Nim’roh. Burn Victim. Mind-Slave. Asshole. I am not.” Ricker did not touch his weapon. Even when the monster bent over as if to remove his skull with a single bite, he remained steady. Dorn Ricker stared. He focused on the thing staring back at him. He watched it fall over unconscious, and he stepped over it, careful not to tread on its miserable face.
SHUNK!
The door opened and Dorn had to fumble to find his Earth-shades. The fucking lights these things were so accustomed to were blinding and dull. They would mock him for relying on glasses, a Human weakness, but who cares. They’d talk to him just the same. They had no choice.
Most of the patrons, equal terrors to the sleeping meat just outside, had noticed. None, it seemed, had bothered to care. Dorn kept his head up and let his eyes wander. He consumed as much group-thought as possible and realized how little a threat he seemed to pose. Reader or no, it was slightly devastating to feel so small. He Read what he was looking for, almost like a whisper, beyond a door at the far end of some smoking monstrosities; he did not hesitate. Suddenly, his concentration broke. Everything had been too easy, and his punishment came from his own lips; a laugh. It escaped his mouth, choked up from his throat, born from the memory of that ridiculous taxi voice.
Fine and Fancy! he thought, losing control. He was laughing now. And by the time he regained a fragment of control, he Read his name beyond the door. Dorn Ricker, he Read, stomp him. The door opened and they shared a moment of surprise.
“The simple pleasure in seeing your enemy face-to-face for the first time!” shouted Ricker.
And the last, Sape. he Read.
Dorns’ old hands knew where to find salvation, as they were taught. From his back he drew the elongated tube, simple radar-like dishes on each end. He aimed one at the enemy, and the other stayed directly in front of his face. He fired a thought through the tube, nullifying the space left uncovered by the dishes’ field. Around him, the crash of a dozen Nim’roh signaled success. Ricker lowered the weapon and stared down the red alien ahead. For all its unmatched strength, its endless rage, the thing was hopeless.
“They will be fine, Garroht! Surrender?” In response, the alien marched close to Ricker and settled on its haunches. Dorn marveled at how huge Garroht remained, even humbled, and offered a posh nod. Was he not asked to mind his manners?
“What do you want to know, Reader? My night seems spoiled considering you’ve milked my patrons’ minds of thought.” Garroht belched. “What could have possibly drawn you from the High City? Who has bought this disruption?”
Ignoring him, Ricker began. “Tell me about the one called Raike.”
Wear Your Glubbies
On Thursday, Michigan and Michigan State announced finalized plans of an outdoor game to be played Saturday, Dec. 11, 2010 in Michigan Stadium. The two teams started the recent trend of outdoor hockey with the “Cold War” in 2001 — a 3-3 tie at Spartan Stadium. The event has already been officially dubbed “The Big Chill at the Big House,” and with about 30,000 more seats than Spartan Stadium, it could potentially break the world record for attendance for a hockey game, set at 74,544 in the original “Cold War."
Friday, December 10, 2010
Delivery For D. Esperates
Mother Whofleck ordered me this frigid morning to run an errand. I was to pick up bags upon boxes of donated food stuffs from the church she teaches at and deliver them...to another church up the street.
Be calm, Whofleck. Let the insanity of this arrangement trickle past your perfectly plucked brow without a trace.
I arrived promptly at 1pm. I parked close to the doors with efficiency in mind, leaving everything unlocked (it's a lovely neighborhood, plenty of Whites). I opened the doors and found...boxes everywhere. No organization; not a shred of labeling or arrangement.
It's fine, Whofleck. It. Is. Fine. Take it all.
Although the P90X has been working it's magic for some time now, the obstacle was neither strength nor speed: you see, the boxes had no handles, as anyone properly prepared would have demanded. Many of them were even gift-wrapped to appear like presents under a tree, which ruined the grip. Regardless, I was swiftly dispatching The Desperates' meals-to-be with a fire; a Christmas fire. The cleansing inferno had consumed nearly all distractions, when suddenly Mother Whofleck rushed to meet me.
"There are some in my trunk, can you get them as well?"
"Sure. Where are you parked?"
"Down the street, about a block."
Faster, Whofleck. Focus on the task at hand.
Finally, everything was packed and ready to go. Within minutes I was at Church 2.0, my sleigh of gifted peanut butter and olives in hand. Cautiously I entered, eyeballs careening from side to side, seeking a secretary of legendary poor attitude. Gold: Struck.
"Can I help you?" disdain crawling from her throat.
"Yes. I have a lot of food donations from Our Stupid Lady, should I place them in the back (the usual dumping ground)?"
"Oh my. Jeez. Can you...-sigh-...can you fit it all right here?"
She has motioned toward the empty floor on which we stand. She has asked me to find somewhere, anywhere, in an enormous empty foyer to pile the poor-food.
"Sure!"
Classic Whofleck! Dodging an aggravating, idiotic, and inevitable conversation by agreeing to anything!
As I begin my laborious climax, a strange noise comes wafting through my drop-zone. It is laughter. Cheery fucking laughter. Shortly thereafter, four gentlemen exit a side-room. We exchange greetings. Assistance...is not offered.
Fuck it, Whofleck. Let the rage fuel you, as these non-perishables shall fuel the unfortunate masses.
And then it was done. I did not stay to make my leaving known. I bombed out of there, pausing only to double-check the back for anything that may have been...
This is an old cupcake and a candy wrapper, found mashed into the car-seat like a weeping kidnap victim's face. This mystery, like so many before it, has sullied an otherwise joyous day. Why, God, after putting all my effort into doing the Good Deed, the Necessary, the Nice, must I be punished?
Happy holidays, everyone who partakes of my hand-delivered feast.
I hope you choke on it.
Be calm, Whofleck. Let the insanity of this arrangement trickle past your perfectly plucked brow without a trace.
I arrived promptly at 1pm. I parked close to the doors with efficiency in mind, leaving everything unlocked (it's a lovely neighborhood, plenty of Whites). I opened the doors and found...boxes everywhere. No organization; not a shred of labeling or arrangement.
It's fine, Whofleck. It. Is. Fine. Take it all.
Although the P90X has been working it's magic for some time now, the obstacle was neither strength nor speed: you see, the boxes had no handles, as anyone properly prepared would have demanded. Many of them were even gift-wrapped to appear like presents under a tree, which ruined the grip. Regardless, I was swiftly dispatching The Desperates' meals-to-be with a fire; a Christmas fire. The cleansing inferno had consumed nearly all distractions, when suddenly Mother Whofleck rushed to meet me.
"There are some in my trunk, can you get them as well?"
"Sure. Where are you parked?"
"Down the street, about a block."
Faster, Whofleck. Focus on the task at hand.
Finally, everything was packed and ready to go. Within minutes I was at Church 2.0, my sleigh of gifted peanut butter and olives in hand. Cautiously I entered, eyeballs careening from side to side, seeking a secretary of legendary poor attitude. Gold: Struck.
"Can I help you?" disdain crawling from her throat.
"Yes. I have a lot of food donations from Our Stupid Lady, should I place them in the back (the usual dumping ground)?"
"Oh my. Jeez. Can you...-sigh-...can you fit it all right here?"
She has motioned toward the empty floor on which we stand. She has asked me to find somewhere, anywhere, in an enormous empty foyer to pile the poor-food.
"Sure!"
Classic Whofleck! Dodging an aggravating, idiotic, and inevitable conversation by agreeing to anything!
As I begin my laborious climax, a strange noise comes wafting through my drop-zone. It is laughter. Cheery fucking laughter. Shortly thereafter, four gentlemen exit a side-room. We exchange greetings. Assistance...is not offered.
Fuck it, Whofleck. Let the rage fuel you, as these non-perishables shall fuel the unfortunate masses.
And then it was done. I did not stay to make my leaving known. I bombed out of there, pausing only to double-check the back for anything that may have been...
...left behind.
This is an old cupcake and a candy wrapper, found mashed into the car-seat like a weeping kidnap victim's face. This mystery, like so many before it, has sullied an otherwise joyous day. Why, God, after putting all my effort into doing the Good Deed, the Necessary, the Nice, must I be punished?
Happy holidays, everyone who partakes of my hand-delivered feast.
I hope you choke on it.
The Accidental Purist
After a brief medical errand this morning, I thought I'd take the impromptu opportunity (read: day off) to drop by the eye doctor and pick up a pair of glasses that had recently come in. They were kind enough to see me at noon despite my lack of an appointment, but I did have to wait a bit upon arrival before I was fitted with the new specs.
Two elderly women sat in the corner of waiting room across from where I was seated. They spoke openly to each other, and I was present. From their mouths came the most glorious things.
One woman's husband died from melanoma in 1973. He had a very good specialist at Jefferson, but the treatment just wasn't as good as it is today, she said. She took up with her sister for the three decades afterwards, and they had some wonderful times together until she herself passed away a few years ago. The woman misses her so much, but she knows that she is in a good place. She died quickly, 10 days after being admitted to the hospital for what sounded to me like the onset of a natural death. Towards the end she lost her ability to speak, and when her sister would speak to her she would simply look towards the sky and point up. The priest recounted this tale at the funeral mass and still today, the surviving sister is grateful to him for that.
She had her son at a late age, and he weighed 8 pounds 8 ounces. Her friend marvelled at this accomplishment in light of the woman's tiny stature. "Well, he did take a while," said the proud mama.
The other woman's grandchildren were twins, born four months premature. They each weighed under two pounds. They are now three years old and healthy. However, her heart is broken, because their parents are now divorced. She loves her daughter, of course, but also loves her son-in-law as her own and cannot understand why they were not able to stay together. She is convinced that it is the Devil's work. She hopes every day that they find a way to reconcile, so that she can have her family back.
The other woman told her to pray on it, because you never know.
They both bemoaned the state of things, wondering why people, especially the young, act as they do. One woman lamented that she hears "everybody's doing it" as the rationale behind the collective backsliding of a generation. "Oh?" She continued. "Did the Ten Commandments change? I didn't hear about it if they did, so I don't know how suddenly 'everybody's doing it.' I am sure He will deal with all of this in His own way when the time comes."
It was charming, bittersweet, humbling, and totally unexpected. Driving home, I realized that the experience, while a chance encounter, really came about as the result of two simple things:
Waiting.
Listening.
Two elderly women sat in the corner of waiting room across from where I was seated. They spoke openly to each other, and I was present. From their mouths came the most glorious things.
One woman's husband died from melanoma in 1973. He had a very good specialist at Jefferson, but the treatment just wasn't as good as it is today, she said. She took up with her sister for the three decades afterwards, and they had some wonderful times together until she herself passed away a few years ago. The woman misses her so much, but she knows that she is in a good place. She died quickly, 10 days after being admitted to the hospital for what sounded to me like the onset of a natural death. Towards the end she lost her ability to speak, and when her sister would speak to her she would simply look towards the sky and point up. The priest recounted this tale at the funeral mass and still today, the surviving sister is grateful to him for that.
She had her son at a late age, and he weighed 8 pounds 8 ounces. Her friend marvelled at this accomplishment in light of the woman's tiny stature. "Well, he did take a while," said the proud mama.
The other woman's grandchildren were twins, born four months premature. They each weighed under two pounds. They are now three years old and healthy. However, her heart is broken, because their parents are now divorced. She loves her daughter, of course, but also loves her son-in-law as her own and cannot understand why they were not able to stay together. She is convinced that it is the Devil's work. She hopes every day that they find a way to reconcile, so that she can have her family back.
The other woman told her to pray on it, because you never know.
They both bemoaned the state of things, wondering why people, especially the young, act as they do. One woman lamented that she hears "everybody's doing it" as the rationale behind the collective backsliding of a generation. "Oh?" She continued. "Did the Ten Commandments change? I didn't hear about it if they did, so I don't know how suddenly 'everybody's doing it.' I am sure He will deal with all of this in His own way when the time comes."
It was charming, bittersweet, humbling, and totally unexpected. Driving home, I realized that the experience, while a chance encounter, really came about as the result of two simple things:
Waiting.
Listening.
Top Fun
In three hours I will be fondled, irradiated, and tucked into the fuselage of a giant metal flying machine that was unfathomable a mere 100 years ago. No wonder I told work it was a Personal Day.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Mutha Fucka.
-DMXXXLadyKilla is online -
Pussyp0et: Yo, dawg!
DMXXXLadyKilla: Sup, bro.
Pussyp0et: Fffffriday night, mutha fucka! What's da plan.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Beatrice has been sexting me for a hot minute, gonna go hit that shit.
Pussyp0et: Dude, come over fo some blow first!
DMXXXLadyKilla: And let my dick get jello? You crazy.
Pussyp0et: Chillax! The Daddio left his little blue pills set out, you can munch on thems.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Fuuuuuck. Sounds like Momma been bizzay.
Pussyp0et: Yo, faggot. Mellow on the Moms. Besides, this china is gonna put you in the perfect mood to ravage some savage VAG, nah'm sayin?
DMXXXLadyKilla:You know it. Hard to argue wit such a fiiiiiine playa.
Pussyp0et: Ma nigga.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Whatchu doin, son? Plan on layin the hurt on any fine bitches?
Pussyp0et: Shit, son! You know I'm out to GET. IT. WET!
DMXXXLadyKilla: Pfffthahaha!
Pussyp0et: Shaney sounded like she could use a HEAVY dicking in Bio today.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Bro, she's been ITCHIN.
Pussyp0et: Excuse me!?
DMXXXLadyKilla: FO. DAT. DICK.
Pussyp0et: Ha-HA! Shit! Enough, son. Get yo crazy ass over here and let's coke up.
DMXXXLadyKilla: I'll be a minute, gotta clean up the mess yo Momma made in my bed.
Pussyp0et: You tryin ta get fucked, brudda?
DMXXXLadyKilla: I heard, dummy! CHILL.
Pussyp0et: Yo, yo. Son.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Yea.
Pussyp0et: You got yo game face on?
- Incoming Images -
DMXXXLadyKilla: Sex, Money, Murda.
Pussyp0et: Thug life.
Pussyp0et: Yo, dawg!
DMXXXLadyKilla: Sup, bro.
Pussyp0et: Fffffriday night, mutha fucka! What's da plan.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Beatrice has been sexting me for a hot minute, gonna go hit that shit.
Pussyp0et: Dude, come over fo some blow first!
DMXXXLadyKilla: And let my dick get jello? You crazy.
Pussyp0et: Chillax! The Daddio left his little blue pills set out, you can munch on thems.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Fuuuuuck. Sounds like Momma been bizzay.
Pussyp0et: Yo, faggot. Mellow on the Moms. Besides, this china is gonna put you in the perfect mood to ravage some savage VAG, nah'm sayin?
DMXXXLadyKilla:You know it. Hard to argue wit such a fiiiiiine playa.
Pussyp0et: Ma nigga.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Whatchu doin, son? Plan on layin the hurt on any fine bitches?
Pussyp0et: Shit, son! You know I'm out to GET. IT. WET!
DMXXXLadyKilla: Pfffthahaha!
Pussyp0et: Shaney sounded like she could use a HEAVY dicking in Bio today.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Bro, she's been ITCHIN.
Pussyp0et: Excuse me!?
DMXXXLadyKilla: FO. DAT. DICK.
Pussyp0et: Ha-HA! Shit! Enough, son. Get yo crazy ass over here and let's coke up.
DMXXXLadyKilla: I'll be a minute, gotta clean up the mess yo Momma made in my bed.
Pussyp0et: You tryin ta get fucked, brudda?
DMXXXLadyKilla: I heard, dummy! CHILL.
Pussyp0et: Yo, yo. Son.
DMXXXLadyKilla: Yea.
Pussyp0et: You got yo game face on?
- Incoming Images -
DMXXXLadyKilla: Sex, Money, Murda.
Pussyp0et: Thug life.
Why are you doing that?
Do you ever have the rare experience that you are sitting in a room, and you are listening not to music, but something spoken-word? Perhaps it is stand-up or a podcast or a talk radio program. Perhaps it is erotic fiction as read by Kevin Spacey. Now say that you're not doing anything in particular. You are not cleaning or knitting or anything else domestically worthwhile. Maybe you are sipping a beer. Okay, I was sipping a beer. And I could not stop staring at the speaker grill of my stereo. I had an entire room to look at. But no matter how many times I tried to focus on something else, I kept focusing directly at the speaker grill. I was powerless to stop. It was completely unconscious, and every time I realized it I felt like a dog who forgot he's not allowed on the couch. BAD TUXEDO! The speaker grill holds nothing for me. The people speaking are not in there. You can not see them speak by staring at the speaker grill. It is a ridiculous phenomenon and I defy anyone to not do it if they are sitting somewhere just listening. In the future, the government will make announcements through street-wide public address systems, and we will stop and stare forlornly at the speaker grills when we are told that there is a protein ration shortage for the 8th consecutive month.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Midnight Special
Occasionally when I am awake late at night, staring blankly at walls or churning out 32,000 character essays for graduate school admissions applications, I see ads that I've been riveted by for years. These ads are for DVDs of a show that had ended well before I began. This is a show I can not believe existed, and one that I can believe even less so ever got canceled. That show was The Midnight Special.
From Wikipedia:
"The Midnight Special is an American musical variety series that aired during the 1970s and early 1980s, created and produced by Burt Sugarman and airing on NBC. It premiered as a special on August 19, 1972, then began its run as a regular series on February 2, 1973; its last episode was on May 1, 1981.[2] The ninety-minute program followed the Friday night edition of The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson.
From Wikipedia:
"The Midnight Special is an American musical variety series that aired during the 1970s and early 1980s, created and produced by Burt Sugarman and airing on NBC. It premiered as a special on August 19, 1972, then began its run as a regular series on February 2, 1973; its last episode was on May 1, 1981.[2] The ninety-minute program followed the Friday night edition of The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson.
The show mostly featured guest hosts, except for a period from July 1975 through March 1976 when Helen Reddy was the regular host. Wolfman Jack served as the announcer. The theme song, a traditional folk song called "Midnight Special", was performed by Johnny Rivers.
The Midnight Special was noted for featuring musical acts performing live, which was unique since most television appearances during the era showed performers lip-synching to prerecorded music. The series also occasionally aired vintage footage of older acts (such as Bill Haley & His Comets)."
Musical Stylings Of A Tiny Asian Infant:
You better watch out.
You better watch out!
You better watch out,
You better watch out...
Hmmm Hmm Hm Hm Hmm Hmmm, Hm Hmmm!
You better watch out.
You better watch out!
You better watch out,
You better watch out...
Hmmm Hmm Hm Hm Hmm Hmmm, Hm Hmmm!
Etc.
You better watch out!
You better watch out,
You better watch out...
Hmmm Hmm Hm Hm Hmm Hmmm, Hm Hmmm!
You better watch out.
You better watch out!
You better watch out,
You better watch out...
Hmmm Hmm Hm Hm Hmm Hmmm, Hm Hmmm!
Etc.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Oatmeal Lace Chocolate Sandwich Cookies
Real lace
Sixteen And Pregnant reruns
Other stuff, probably
Jaybro doing all the work
What! I can't cook shit too?
Shoooooot Haaaaaaaaa
Attend the tale of Rudolph Claus
Known for his nose and flying paws
Larger than life, the children then squealed
Ignorant of the fate that they had then sealed
A comely parade down North Meadow Street
The publicized murder of Santa's elite
Hunters with ropes captured the deer
Hugely he strained, eyes frozen in fear
Red nose aglow, he took all their blows
And accepted an end that he never chose
Loudly they clapped when they thought he was free
But all they had done was ignore all his pleas
The cold steel rail plunged into his head
All but the bravest turned and fled
A dismal shout of panicked dismay
Surely it can't, won't end in this way
The rope-holding hunters heaved and were grim
The blood on their hands poured thusly from him
A shriek of high terror, a wail of regret
Our holiday madness his death did beget
As the crowd laughed glibly and returned to the fun
A teary-eyed child screamed "What have we done?"
Known for his nose and flying paws
Larger than life, the children then squealed
Ignorant of the fate that they had then sealed
A comely parade down North Meadow Street
The publicized murder of Santa's elite
Hunters with ropes captured the deer
Hugely he strained, eyes frozen in fear
Red nose aglow, he took all their blows
And accepted an end that he never chose
Loudly they clapped when they thought he was free
But all they had done was ignore all his pleas
The cold steel rail plunged into his head
All but the bravest turned and fled
A dismal shout of panicked dismay
Surely it can't, won't end in this way
The rope-holding hunters heaved and were grim
The blood on their hands poured thusly from him
A shriek of high terror, a wail of regret
Our holiday madness his death did beget
As the crowd laughed glibly and returned to the fun
A teary-eyed child screamed "What have we done?"
Monday, December 6, 2010
sruoH 721
An actual review of the film 127 Hours:
James Franco frolics into the wilderness and then gets screwed by his own stupidity.
Favorite scene? James Franco, nearly surrendering to the pressure to surrender, almost masturbates to footage he filmed days earlier of a pair of women he ran into with glorious, soaking wet breasts.
...almost.
Yup. That was my face, too.
James Franco frolics into the wilderness and then gets screwed by his own stupidity.
Favorite scene? James Franco, nearly surrendering to the pressure to surrender, almost masturbates to footage he filmed days earlier of a pair of women he ran into with glorious, soaking wet breasts.
...almost.
Yup. That was my face, too.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Back By Popular Demand
Today, we're reviewing 127 Hours, a movie I haven't seen.127 Hours is the new film by Danny Boyle, director of such masterpieces as Trainspotting, Slumdog Millionaire, and Sunshine. I haven't seen any of those movies.
So far as I can tell, 127 Hours is the story of a young hippie named James Franco who frolics off into the wilderness and then gets screwed by his own stupidity. Sounds kind of like this movie. What's that Emile Hirsch? You wandered off into the wilderness all alone with no survival skills and you died alone in a Alaska? What a fucking surprise. You cockmongering douchebag. What was the moral of that movie again? "People are what really matter"? Really? REALLY? Because I had thought it was all about superficial things like cars and money and meaningless sex. But oh, thank you, Sean Penn! If it wasn't for your pedagogy, there is no way I could have ever come to that deep realization. Fuck you. Fuck you and the horse you stuffed Emile Hirsch up the ass of and then rode into the Oscars. You even made Eddie Vedder seem shitty. How dare you? And if people are really what matter then why did you make this movie? Oh, right. Because Academy Awards and public praise are really what matter to you. Assfuck.
What?
Oh.
Right.
127 Hours.
I don't know. It has James Franco in it. I've heard it's really good actually. But I'm not going to see it. Because the only thing I ever want to watch James Franco in is this:
Redempted?
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