Thoughts On The Dead

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TotD’s Oscar Picks 2019

February 24, 2019 / / 3 Comments

BEST PICTURE

Black Panther Important question to ask yourself, if you’re an Academy Member and Oscar voter: Does this film have basically the same plot as Ant-Man? And if the answer is “yes,” then that film cannot be the Best Picture. That’s just common sense. Also, Black Panther wasn’t even 2018’s best movie set in Wakanda and the special effects were done on a Commodore 64.

BlackKKKKKKKKlansman Spike Lee was a dick to Brother on the Dead, so fuck him forever.

Bohemian Rhapsody You know how I feel about this excretion. If I discuss it, I will become flustered.

The Favourite Emma Stone’s in this, and I would let her pee on me. I’m not into that, but I would pretend to be if that’s what she dug. Probably not in my mouth, but it’s not a definitive no.

Green Book I have not, and will not, seen Green Book. I imagine this is how it goes:

“Oh! You’re tellin’ me that you’re a mulignan AND a fanook? Marone!”

“Sir, just drive the car.”

“Oofah, I’m not racist no more!”

And then a mid-credits scene in which Nick Fury invites them both to join the Avengers of Tolerance.

Roma The movie is called “Roma” but takes place in Mexico City. Fuck you for a liar, Roma. That’s like Casablanca being set in San Diego. AND it’s black-and-white. AND it’s in Spanish. AND there is no punching, let alone super-punching. BUT the director will most likely give his acceptance speech in Spanish, and that’ll send Basketball Head into a paroxysm of rage, so it’ll probably win.

A Star Is Born Not only have I not seen this film, I have managed to avoid hearing–even once–the much-loved song it spawned, Shallow. I will listen to it now, in order to generate fresh and exciting content for you, the content-enjoyer.

That was fine.

This is better:

You’re welcome. Get that taste of power ballad out of your mouth. (ALSO: old-timey, down-homey sexism!)

Vice This is like leftovers of a meal that gave you food poisoning: why would I want to suffer through Dick Cheney again?  The man was a war criminal, and not even an interesting one. Pinochet was imaginative, at least. Kissinger was friends with Robert Evans. Cheney had no style.

WINNER: ONE OF THE ETHNIC MOVIES

BEST ACTOR

Christian Bale Is he Batman? No? Then, fuck him.

Bradley Cooper Is he Rocket Raccon? And is he buddies with Sean Penn? Fuck him..

Willem Dafoe. Look at this bullshit:

Admit it: you couldn’t tell whether or not that was a satire.

Rami Malek Bug-eyed fuck.

Viggo Mortenson Why is he still so handsome and virile? Fuck him.

Nobody wins Best Actor this year.

BEST ACTRESS

Yalitza Aparicio Finally! A good role for a Latina woman in Hollywood. (She plays the maid.)

Glenn Close The woman’s been in four films a year for the past three decades. She’s the white Samuel L. Jackson. As to what particular movie she’s been nominated for at present, I haven’t the foggiest.

Olivia Colman I have no idea who this person is.

The Lady Gaga She won’t win. Hollywood doesn’t let dilettante outsiders waltz in and win the big prize their first go-round. Unlike some cities I could name.

Melissa McCarthy Comedians and comic actors always pull this shit: they get successful and the first thing they do with their new power is stop being funny. Bill Murray demanded that the studio fund The Razor’s Edge if they wanted him to do Ghostbusters, and Jim Carrey spent a decade trying to be meaningful, maaaaaaan, and now Melissa is a mopey drunk with a terrible haircut. You just wait: two more hits and Kevin Hart will make Paramount pay for his version of Raisin in the Sun.

WINNER: Glenn Close, I guess.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

Mahershala Ali I have never attempted to say this man’s name out loud in public. I would screw it up and Twitter would cancel me.

Adam Driver Does he play a sullen mumbler in this one? Because I have seen Adam Driver in two roles (Star Wars and the underrated Logan Lucky) and he was a sullen mumbler in both. I have no need for sullen mumblers. Gimme a James Spader who sings his damn lines.

Sam Elliot Would his mustache receive a smaller, more bristly Oscar statue? Because 90% of Sam Eliot’s performances are the ‘stache.

Richard E. Grant He’s just fucking desperate for this award. He’s all over the talk shows and social media and I’m sure at every meet-the-voters cocktail party in Beverly Hills. Dignity, Dicky.

Sam Rockwell Love this man. Forget Dwayne Johnson: Sammy is the real Rock. Better Sam than Sam Elliot, and that’s a fact.

WINNER: Just give it to Grant; he’ll have a breakdown if you don’t.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

Amy Adams One of these days I’m gonna be able to tell her and Rachel McAdams apart. This is not that day. Those two are the female Dylan McDermott/Dermot Mulroney.

Maria de Tavira I have no idea who this woman is and neither do you.

Regina King Regina King’s name means “Queen King.” Isn’t that fun?

Emma Stone She can pee in my eyes. I’ll keep them open, perhaps with clips like in Clockwork Orange, and Emma Stone can blast my eyeballs with her versatile and expressive urine. Hell, she can pee in my butthole. I don’t even know how that would work, but I would let her do it.

Rachel Weisz Emma Stone can also pee on Rachel Weisz. That would be a party.

WINNER: Emma Stone’s healthy and wide urethra.

We Can All Agree That…

February 23, 2019 / / 0 Comments

…Mustache Garcia is the worst Garcia. Sweatpants Garcia was the saddest Garcia, and Clean-Shaven Garcia was the most unsettling Garcia, but Mustache Garcia was awful in every way.

…Billy’s beginner’s paunch is adorable.

…No favors are done by Ramrod’s hair. Grow that shit out, Ramrod. You look like one of those naked holy babies in the Sistine Chapel

A Post That’s Actually About The Grateful Dead, I Swear

February 23, 2019 / / 3 Comments

The 18th is Mickey’s last night for a while, plus the never-to-be-repeated Dark Star>Wharf Rat>Beautiful Jam; the 19th is immortalized (or something) on Three From The Vault; the 21st is the infamous “Tapir Section” performance. 2/24/71 from the Cap gets very little attention next to its brothers in choogle.

Don’t sleep on this show, though. We got:

  • An acceptable Cumberland!
  • A sleepy but true Bird Song!
  • An itsy-bitsy Playing!
  • King Bee, motherfucker!
  • And more songs by the Grateful Dead!

What did I tell you about sleeping? Go, listen, enjoy, noodle dance.

A Partial Transcript Of Roger Stone’s Hearing, 2/21/19

February 21, 2019 / / 1 Comment

FEDERAL DISTRICT COURT – WASHINGTON, DC

“All rise. Honorable Judge Amy Jackson presiding.”

“Good morning. Let’s get right to it. Mr. Stone, please take the stand.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you wearing two monocles?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why not just wear glasses?”

“Why not just show up in wine-stained pajamas? It’s called fashion, sweetie.”

“Mr Stone, I will warn you that I am in no mood for your nonsense.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.”

“We are here this morning to have a little discussion about your social media post of Monday, February 18th. Instagram, specifically. Do you recall the post I am speaking about?”

“Was it the thinspo one? I know I shared a Rumi Kaur poem about sticking to your diet.”

“No, Mr. Stone. I am referring to the post featuring my picture with a crosshairs right above my head.”

“Oh, thaaaaaat Instagram post.”

“Yes.”

“Your Honor, I have many explanations, several of which contradict both each other and themselves. Which would you like to start with?”

“I’d start with the truth if I were you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be here if I led with the truth every time, now would I?”

“Mr. Stone.”

“They weren’t crosshairs. What you saw was an X. As in ‘X marks the spot.’ Essentially, I was calling you a treasure, ma’am.”

“Nope.”

“Wouldjabelieve it was a Celtic rune that means ‘Best judge ever?'”

“I would not, no.”

“Good call.”

“It was a crosshairs, wasn’t it?”

“Well, ma’am, I do not know the intentions of the artist who placed that symbol there. I cannot attest positively to what it means.”

“But it certainly looks like a crosshairs, doesn’t it?”

“One can spot a resemblance.”

“And the casual reader who saw it would think it was a crosshairs, yes?”

“Your Honor, no one casual listens to me. It’s only political people and wackos.”

“Notwithstanding. Walk me through your chain of thought when you were posting this.”

“It was morning. My neighbor, Chad Ochocinco, had just stopped by for a cup of sugar and to bang my wife in front of me while I masturbated tearfully.”

“Please confine your account to the Instagram post, sir.”

“Don’t dismiss my cuckoldry, Your Honor. That’s not right. Actually, yes: dismiss it. Call me a sick worm.”

“Mr. Stone.”

“May I petition the court to step on my testicles real hard?”

“You may not. I asked you about the post. What were you thinking, sir?”

“Well, you should be aware that an intern put that particular posting up on Instagram.”

“An intern?”

“Yes.”

“What is the intern’s name?”

“Their name?”

“Is it a he or a she, Mr. Stone?”

“I was led to believe that it’s rude to ask that nowadays.”

“No, sir.”

…

…

…

“Boy.”

“The intern is male. Wonderful. And this male’s name is what?”

…

…

…

“Court.”

“Court? Is that a first or last name?”

“Both. He’s like Cher or Bono”

“Uh-huh. And what does this one-named man look like, Mr. Stone?”

“Look like?”

“Physically. Describe him.”

“Oh, sure. He’s, um, a little on the hefty side. Orange hair. Hates Mondays, loves lasagna.”

“You’re talking about Garfield, Mr. Stone.”

“I don’t think so, ma’am.”

“Mr. Stone, there is no intern, is there?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“You’re just a degenerate liar, aren’t you?”

“Big time.”

“But you are white and of the ruling class, so I’m gonna give you one more chance.”

“Huzzah!”

“I am putting you under a gag order, though.”

“Double huzzah!”

“There’s no actual gag, sir.”

“I thought maybe I would get the ball in my mouth.”

“Like in Pulp Fiction?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“One question, Your Honor.”

“You may buy yourself a ball gag and do whatever you want with it.”

“I’m back to huzzah.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“Get out.”

We’re In For A Long, Bumpy Ride

February 21, 2019 / / 1 Comment

“Who did this, boy?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“DON’T LIE TO ME! I know it was one of your little hoodlum friends. Was it Fat Mommy?”

“I don’t know anyone named–”

“Was it Sleazy Kevin?”

“Again, I know no one with that–”

“Dog Dick? What about Dog Dick?”

“I have no friends called–”

“What about Rufio?”

“He was a Lost Boy, Pop.”

“Don’t you ‘Pop’ me. I’ll pop you right in the beard.”

“Dad, none of my friends grafitti’d the wall.”

“Are you in a gang?”

“No.”

“Tell me, boy. You’re a Baseball Fury, aren’t you?”

“I regret teaching you and mom how to work the Netflix.”

“I have regrets, too, boy.”

“Aw.”

Thoughts On The Zack Snyder DC Trilogy: Part II

February 21, 2019 / / 0 Comments
  • I know it’s been a while.
  • A break was required.
  • One needs a breather in between writing about Man Of Shpilkis and the second and third films in the Syndology, Mister Man vs. The Fuck-You Guy: Let’s Touch Dicks and Justice Luge.
  • I would have much preferred to watch Justice Luge than the actual movie.
  • Two hours of an unwilling Jason Momoa hurled down a mountain on a cafeteria tray.
  • “MY MAN!”
  • And also Gal Gadot luging, and wearing the luge outfit with the helmet.
  • (Enthusiasts, you know I have never lied to you, and I maintain that streak with this revelation: major fetish. The skintight outfit that lugists and bobsledders and ski racers wear, but only with the helmet on. Tres sexy.)
  • Also, the woman’s name is pronounced Gal like in “pal” Guh-DAHT.
  • Not Gail Godot.
  • She is not French, and no one is waiting for her.
  • She is Wonder Woman, whose personality lies at the midpoint of “having a foreign accent” and “standing confidently.”
  • They gave WW some character in her solo film, but Zack Snyder thinks chicks are faggy and so all she talks about is how much she misses Steve Trevor.
  • Who died in The First World War One.
  • Which was 100 years ago.
  • Get some new dick, Diana.
  • There have been five generations of fuckable men since then.
  • Bowie.
  • You could’ve banged Bowie.
  • Or perhaps you could have explored your sexuality and rubbed muffs with another lady.
  • I am quite sure that someone on your all-lady home island of Themiscyra could have shown you the ropes of rubbing muffs.
  • But, no, you pined for Pine.
  • Like a sexless Disney princess.
  • BOOOOO!
  • YOU ARE NOT THE EMPOWERING FIGURE I WAS LED BY THE CHILDREN’S MOVIE TO BELIEVE YOU WERE!
  • Anyway, Wonder Woman shows up twice in BvS, once to fight and once to wear a dress
  • That is as precise as I can be.
  • It is an aggressively stupid movie in which nothing makes sense.
  • JL is similarly insipid, but the plot makes sense.
  • “CG monster desires Magical Things; heroes align to interfere with his plans.”
  • Simple.
  • Not BvS.
  • The machinations by which the script (assuming there was one) goes through to get Batfleck to fight Superduperman are uncountable; the Industrial Revolution didn’t have this many machinations.
  • Now, the excuse for having Cap and Iron Man beat each other up in Captain America: Civil War was similarly ludicrous, but at least there was some fun in that picture.
  • You had the airport fight and…okay, you had the airport fight.
  • That was a hell of an airport fight, though.
  • James Brown used to fight a lot in airports, but that wasn’t as entertaining as Spidey and Ant-Man going at it.
  • Much of the time, James would be sparring with a trash can or kicking a stranger’s children.
  • Which, again, is not entertaining.
  • At least,  it’s not entertaining in the way you want something to be.
  • The viewer spends the entirety of BvS asking two questions:
    • How does that character know that?
    • How does that character not know that?
  • Also: everyone is an idiot.
  • Batface, Superguy, Jesse Eisenberg doing his Crispin Glover imitation as Lex Luthor: thorough dunces.
  • The evil plan is kicked off when Lex frames Superman for a mass murder in Africa.
  • Warlords and all that shit.
  • The evidence?
  • All the bullet-ridden bodies.
  • You know, like Superman tends to leave around.
  • Super “Have Gun, Will Travel” Man.
  • (And don’t give me any bullshit about how the mercenaries burned the bodies in the Extended Cut. Fuck the Extended Cut. I’m not watching a longer version of this diarrhea sandwich, even if it is more coherent.)
  • And then there’s some Kryptonite, which Lex knows will kill Superman and Bruce Wayne knows that, too.
  • How?
  • Good question, dude.
  • Good question, but now you’re to report to Section 112 for reconditioning.
  • You should be more respectful of Brands and their Intellectual Properties.
  • Whatever, who cares about the plot now that the white men are punching one another.
  • This is what we came for.
  • This is why we will come.
  • Punch each other, white guys!
  • Batman is in Bat-Armor.
  • Superman is in his customary suit.
  • Sha sha, pocket Kryptonite!
  • (This allows the bout to take place at all. If Superman is not massively depowered, he turns Batman into a fine, moody mist within milliseconds. Or a charred, brooding lump. Maybe a thick, vengeful jelly. It wouldn’t qualify as a “fight,” and certainly wouldn’t do as the climax of an action picture.)
  • Jesse Eisenberg watches the brouhaha, which is taking place in Gotham, from Metropolis.
  • He can do this because–and I was just as shocked by this as you will be–the two cities are within a mile of one another.
  • And why not?
  • Z-Dog has gotten everything else wrong about the DC Universe, why not this?
  • There are also numerous–and ass-slappingly blatant–references to the area of the fight being “abandoned” or having “virtually no one there” after work.
  • This is, of course, in response to criticism received after StahlMenschen graphically depicted the deaths of thousand of Metropolitans who had the temerity to get in the way of a superhero dust-up.
  • And it’s late, late at night.
  • The DC Universe takes place at night because otherwise you can’t have Batman.
  • He’s a bat.
  • Maaaaaaaan.
  • He cannot be present at two in the afternoon.
  • It would just look weird
  • Like when you saw your grade school teacher in the supermarket.
  • A NOTE ON HENRY CAVILL: Guy got fucked.
  • He coulda been a contender.
  • I mean it: might’ve taken on Christopher Reeve for the title.
  • The look was not the problem.
  • Motherfucker looks like Superman.
  • Tina Fey doesn’t look as much like Sarah Palin as Henry Cavill looks like Superman.
  • Nor was it his chops: he can act; go watch The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
  • The role of a lifetime, and the sap gets saddled with Z-Dog as a director.
  • “Say the line mopier! MOPIER!”
  • Anyway, Batman is punching Superman, vice versa, some tossing through brick walls, etc., until now Bats had Supes on the ground, weakened by the Kryptonite, with a spear (also Kryptonite) to his throat.
  • Superman goes, “MARCIA!”
  • Batman freaks out.
  • “WHY DID YOU SAY THAT NAME?”
  • Then Amy McAdams runs in and says,
  • “That’s his favorite Brady! Don’t hurt him, that’s his favorite Brady!”
  • Now, Enthusiasts, what was just reported is not what occurred in the movie, but can anyone argue that my version is dumber?
  • At this point, Lex Luthor gives birth to a cave troll.
  • Kinda.
  • It’s complicated.
  • And stupid.
  • Plus–and I realize I keep repeating myself here–it is uninteresting.
  • The laws of dramatis personae demand that Batman and Superman team up after their fight to take on a third, more powerful foe.
  • Doomsday first appeared back in the legendarily dopey Death of Superman run of comics; he was expressly created for the sole purpose of killing Superman.
  • It was his raison d’etre.
  • And he did.
  • Doomsday was self-actualized.
  • It was such a sad event that DC included black armbands in the mylar bags the comic came in.
  • Superman was, of course, resurrected a short time later sporting a bitchin’ mullet.
  • (A very short time: the first issue of the storyline killing him off came out in December of ’92 and the Big Blue Boy Scout was back among the living in October of ’93. That’s a cash grab. You have to give it a full year for the death to mean anything, in my opinion. Marvel let Colossus stay dead for a decade.)
  • And thus, as Doomsday exists only to murder Superman, Doomsday murders Superman.
  • I wish that he had gone on to also murder Batman and Wonder Woman, and then the rest of both Gotham and Metropolis, but that is not what happened.
  • This gives Z-Dog the chance for one of his beloved funeral scenes.
  • “Z-DOG NEEDS HIS CAISSONS, BABY!”
  • Shut up, Z-Dog.
  • Jesus fucking Christ, I did it again.
  • Fine, this is now a trilogy about the Snydology.
  • I’ll get to Justice League next time.

Marvelous Team-Up

February 20, 2019 / / 1 Comment

Nice.

“Shut up.”

Cleave, bro.

“I said–”

Anybody see Drew Carey? Cuz we’re in Cleave-land.

“–shut up.”

Yell “Kobe!” and chuck a grape in there.

“Dude, knock it off. This is very sexist.”

No, sexist would be saying her cleave couldn’t succeed in the STEM fields.

“Just stop talking.”

“Ja. Stop talking, mein liebchen. You become so ugly vhen you speak.”

“Oh, God, who is this now?”

“Vhat you are vearing ist unacceptable. You look like a fat gypsy fighting wiz a raccoon for a slice of pizza.”

“First off: offensive in many ways. Second: no, I do not.”

“Hide your neck! Ze neck ist ze shame of God!”

“What?”

“Paloma Picasso told me to tell you she hates you.”

“Why are you here?”

“I follow my muse. Is like your Bobby’s bliss, but not as American and stupid and smelly.”

“You’re a terrible snob.”

“DONTCHOO GO TALKIN’ BAD T’ COUNT DRACULA!”

“Ah, shit. Not him.”

“THEM’S SOME BIG SUNGLASSES, HOMBRE! AH DIG YOUR STYLE!”

“Mein Gott. Are zose rhinestones?”

“THEY TH’ RHINIEST STONES ‘VAILABLE, COUNT!”

“You are exquisite in your trashiness.”

“AH BET YOU TURN INTO TH’ FANCIEST BAT EVER, MAN.”

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