It’s good to chop kings’ heads off once in a while. Keeps the rest in line.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Category: Uncategorized (Page 226 of 1031)
Some folks, sometimes, need a little something. There are nights that go on for weeks and weeks. And there are stories you can’t forget–about what you did, about what was done to you–and long-playing records installed inside your ears. Movies you can’t turn off. You know how it ends. Christ, you’re bored with this flick. No off-switch to the projector, though. Get your snacks; we’ll adjourn at dawn.
If then.
Because days are a problem, too. Days are where they keep the people, and they can be a bit much. The ones that aren’t stupid are cruel. The ones that aren’t cruel are thoughtless. The ones that aren’t thoughtless want something. Everyone wants something.
You, too.
Little something to take the edge off. Or sharpen up. Make it easier to fuck, sleep, kill an hour. A little something to soothe the shriek. Some folks are shrieking inside all the damn time and they never tell anyone at all. We call those folks brave, because we’re thoughtless. Faster. Some people like to go faster. Or slower. Slower is also an option. Blind and blacked-out fuckery is available. For a reasonable price, you can battle the Sanhedrin. Pack some state secrets in a syringe and shoot it under your toenails. Psychological homeostasis is temporary. Little something’ll do it.
The Lord, He chose your shape, and your parents picked out your name, but you make your own decisions and you can decide to do the same thing you did yesterday, day before, day before that. You can decide whatever the fuck you want as long as you got the money and the balls. You can do anything you can live through. Some folks can even live through holding hands with strangers in a church basement.
Takes all kinds on the lot.
HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES – THIS MORNING
“Good morning. Good morning, everyone. My name is Trey Gowdy–G O W D Y–from South Carolina. I will be chairing this hearing into the conduct of FBI Agent Peter Strzok during the 2016 campaign. Conduct which includes lying, cheating, fornicating, old-lady swindling–”
“Congressman, this is uncalled for.”
“–taking number twos on the flag…sir, you’ll get your turn. Please wait your turn.”
“I’m not going to sit here and be accused of ‘old-lady swindling.’ That’s not right of you to do.”
“We’re so far past right and wrong, Agent Strzok. You ever read The 120 Days of Sodom? What’s going on is a lot like that: we’ve locked ourselves in the castle and now we’re in the freaky-fucking phase. Everything is being put everywhere. The whores are being fucked to death.”
“I’m sorry, is this actually happening?”
“It is, Agent Strzok. My party has complete control of the House. I am the Chair of this hearing, and I’m not running for office again. In this room, I am unto a god. I can say whatever weird crap I want, no one can stop me. You smoke, ace?”
“No.”
“Sucks for you.”
LUNATIC CONGRESSMAN LIGHTING UP NOISE
“That’s refreshing. You sure? I smoke Merits. I like people who have merit, and so I like cigarettes with merit, and so I smoke Merits. I find you without merit, sir.”
“That’s your opinion to have, Congressman.”
“You were from the very start biased against President Trump, as evidenced in your text messages, and you worked behind the scenes to prevent his presidency!”
“Well, then I failed, huh?”
…
“Agent Strzok, if you insist on being cute, I will find Ted Cruz and bring him in here to question you.”
“No one wants that.”
“No one wants that. Agent, why do you hate America?”
“I do not.”
“Are you a secret Muslim like our former illegitimate mulatto president?”
“Wow. And no. Wait, actually I’m gonna retract that ‘no’ because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Case closed. How many laws did you break in your reckless, ruthless, disgusting pursuit of then-candidate Trump? If you tell me right now, you won’t be charged ever.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“How many more double agents of the Deep State are active in the FBI right now?”
“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE, KNOCK THIS OFF!”
“YOU SHUT UP, BLACK DEMOCRAT LADY!”
“I demand time to speak!”
“Shout into your wig! Order! Order! I will have order! Agent Strzok, I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’m sorry anyone had to see that.”
“So you apologize for rigging the election?”
“Even though Trump won?”
…
“I yield the rest of my time to my distinguished colleague Jim Jordan from Ohio.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. That’s Jordan–J O R D A N–and I compliment the Chair on a wonderful hearing so far. We are getting down to the bottom of the FBI’s vicious attacks on then-candidate Donald Trump and speaking with an agent from the Agency, Peter Strzok. His offenses are deep and dire. Some might even call his behavior ‘treasonous.’ Others have been heard referring to it as ‘super-treasonous.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘super-treason,’ Congressman.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s what you call Aggravated Treason.”
“No. That’s a fictional crime.”
“You’ll find it’s not. And there’s Treason With Intent.”
“There’s not.”
“I’ll tie you to the mast, you bastard. Pirate code!”
“Mister Chairman?”
“What? I’m enjoying this.”
“Agent Strzok, I apologize for getting worked up.”
“I accept your apology, Congressman Jordan.”
“My week has been unproductive. I’m a little tense.”
“Because of the child molesting thing.”
“Not children! Not children! These were all legal men who got molested.”
“That’s not much better.”
“But you admit it’s a little bit better?”
“I admit nothing of the sort, sir.”
“Traitorsayswhat?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I yield my remaining time to Bob Goodlatte of the great commonwealth of Virginia.”
“Thank you, Congressman. That’s Goodlatte–G O O D LA T T E–for the record.”
“Call me Coach.”
“No, I don’t want to.”
“You can.”
“But I don’t want to, Jim.”
“Great, you have fun in there!”
TOWEL WHIPPING NOISE
“Where did he even get a towel? Anyway: Agent Strzok, you exchanged so-called ‘textual messages’ with your fellow FBI employee Lisa Page, is that correct?”
“It is.”
“I have here a selection of these messages. I’ll read them aloud and I want the committee to keep in mind that the sender of these messages is an FBI agent assigned illegitimately to harass the President even though the President is the strong leader that America needs. Here are some of your words: Forget taking candy from babies. I don’t think Trump is capable of keeping a baby alive for 24 hours. If he’s provided with all the tools necessary, but no instructions or help? You got a dead baby.'”
“I stand by that text.”
“I find that outrageous!”
“As do I, sir. That one could believe something like that about the President of the United State is truly outrageous.”
“I continue. You also sent this: Where we grew up was a fellow named Sloppy Charlie, and Sloppy Charlie tried to get the dogs of the neighborhood to fuck his face, but they wouldn’t. That’s how ugly Sloppy Charlie. was. And Trump’s worse.’ Those are your words, Agent?”
“They are, yes.”
“Why would you say such a filthy thing?”
“I must admit that I did not foresee that sentence being entered into the Congressional Record.”
“The bias that you have displayed here is astonishing and is a sad reminder of what is tearing apart America right now. You got a lot of what I like to call ‘non-American Americans’ floating around. Maybe you’re one. Let’s see.”
NATIONAL ANTHEM PLAYING NOISE
EVERYONE IN THE ROOM STANDING NOISE
EVERYONE SITTING BACK DOWN NOISE
“You passed that test.”
“The Congress I learned about in high school was not like this.”
“Oh, it was just as bad. A guy beat another guy to death once.”
“I’m aware of that. I stand by all my statements.”
DING!
“Your time is up, Congressman, and so I now ask Louie Gohmert of Texas to come on down.”
“Yes, hello. Louie Gohmert–I don’t know how to spell that–from the great state of Texas. I’m gonna get the facts here. Agent Shazam–”
“Nope.”
“Jazz Talk.”
“What? No.”
“I’m gonna call you Traitor Man. You went against your country, possibly for illicit gain. Maybe you were blackmailed. Did you have a shopliftin’ problem?”
“No.”
“You should give shopliftin’ a try. It puts you back in control. Anyway, What I wanna know is what was happening between you and Agent Lisa Page. You had a relationship of a sexual nature.”
“Yes, Congressman.”
“You were squeezin’ her titties and she was just, like, letting you. That’s wild behavior. That’s abnormal behavior.”
“It was inappropriate, but not abnormal.”
“Let the House of Representatives be the judge of what’s abnormal. You were married at the time?”
“I was.”
“Eatin’ ass?”
“Mr. Chairman, that’s a ludicrous question.”
“It is, and I’m going to allow it. Answer him, Agent Strzok: was there analingus?”
“It’s very hip now with the kids, Agent Starfish. Everyone in my office is like, ‘Oh, I ate ass last night.’ and ‘I’m off to eat ass.’ These kids can’t get enough ass.”
…
“I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“You munchin’ the donk?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Sir, may I remind you that you’re under oath.”
“What does your question have to do with anything?”
“I like collectin’ other people’s fuck stories. And, uh, lately I’m into ass. Just gettin’ real into it. I like wild tales, man. So…”
“So what?”
“So tell me some dirty FBI buttlicking stories.”
“I insist we take a break.”
“Aw.”
GAVEL HITTING NOISE
- That’s what I’m calling the second one: Jurassic Parker.
- Even though the sequel is mostly unlike the original in every way including how Postlethwaitey it is.
- The first film has utterly no Pete Postlethwaite.
- Which, to some, makes it inferior.
- The vast majority of critics prefer the first, even labeling it a classic, but the second movie is deeply weird and dark and the characters so damnably stupid that you’re rooting for them to be lunchified within seconds of their introductions.
- Only four people get eaten in the first (according to the tenets of Without Research): the zookeeper in the opening scene, Newman, Samuel L. Jackson, and Jonathan Price.
- And only Newman fully deserved it.
- Jonathan Price does abandon the children in the first T-Rex attack, but that can be ascribed to panic.
- The rest is just cheap anti-lawyer animus; his whole character is drawn that way, even though he’s absolutely right the entire time.
- Forget about the dinosaurs.
- Leave out the dinosaur portion of the equation and think of it how they taught us in economics class.
- John Hammond had an idea for a new widget.
- If realized, this widget would bring a high profit.
- Interested parties gave John Hammond capital to build the widgets.
- The widgets just ate a guy.
- Don’t the investors at this point have not just the legal right to examine the factory, but the fiduciary obligation to do so?
- I would argue that they do.
- Spielberg and the writers disagree.
- Lawyers get in the way of Great Men, and John Hammond is one.
- For example, if lawyers had their way, John Hammond would appear in the second film only via tele-link from prison, where he would be spending the rest of his wheezy, avuncular life.
- Along with every other human being along the way who knew about Jurassic Park and didn’t immediately call in an airstrike.
- MILITARY CELL PHONE NOISE
- “Aye-aye?”
- “Oh, yeah, hi. I need you to bring some ships down here and kill an island.”
- “Who is this?”
- “My name’s Randy. I was flown in to do some of the finish work on the banistering all throughout the resort. I’m a master carpenter, local 547 out of San Diego, how are you, and you need to bring, like, the Iowa over here and shoot this whole island until it doesn’t exist any more.”
- “Uh-huh. Randy?”
- “Randy Vandewater. It’s Dutch, but I’m American through and through. I’m gonna read you the coordinates and–“
- “Randy, this is not how it works. Civilians don’t get to call in military strikes. Most people in the military don’t get to call in strikes, come to think about it. Very few people are authorized to have artillery sent to where they’re pointing. And y’know what? It’s a good policy. So, Randy, you have yourself a good day.”
- “There’s dinosaurs.”
- “Oh, shit, hombre, why didn’t you say so? The Navy is on that shit.”
- Everyone is complicit in the tragedies of Jurassic Park.
- It’s a cliché at this point to note how strikingly well the CG has held up, and it’s similarly cliché to mention how much of the “CG” is practical.
- They just built dinosaurs out of metal and latex.
- Spielberg wants a T-Rex, Spielberg gets a T-Rex.
- The leads work in the first; not as much the second.
- Sam Neil and Laura Dern are the white bread to Jeff Goldblum’s spicy, cured meats and cheeses.
- It’s good white bread.
- Handmade and fresh.
- But they were just Handsome Guy and Blonde Girl.
- Goldblum’s where your action is.
- He’s wearing leather blazers.
- He’s greasier than your uncle’s dick on Monday morning.
- He’s delivering his lines as though he had auto-tuned the words to a Coleman Hawkins’ solo.
- Goldblum’s the key to it all, man.
- But in the second movie, they fuck up the Goldblum.
- They surround him with a pre-bloat Vince Vaughn, who is some sort of nature photographer/secret agent for PETA, and Julianne Moore, who is doing less.
- Julianne Moore is giving precisely the amount of effort required of a show business professional, and not one iota more.
- I say this as a fan of Ms. Moore’s, and someone who’s seen many of her films.
- She is capable of better work.
- And shackle him with a kid, because the Park ain’t quite Jurassic unless a child or two is in danger.
- This does not work for two reasons: casting and Jeff Goldblum Is Weird Around Children.
- The actress who played the daughter was (and, I’m assuming, still is) African-American.
- Not mixed.
- We’re not talking a Rashida Jones-type situation.
- And she just pops up on-screen and goes “Dad!” and Goldblum goes “My daughter!” or something like that, and it’s very confusing for a minute.
- But then you think, “Adoption.”
- Or maybe not.
- The movie does not let us know.
- It lets Vince Vaughn and Toby from the West Wing joke about it and look like assholes.
- And other people’s relationships are none of our business, especially when it comes to family matters.
- Yet: my curiosity remained.
- One line!
- One line could’ve fixed it:
- “Ah, Dr. Malcolm, thank you for coming. I hear you’ve been so sad since your wife left you and your three adopted black children.”
- One line.
- And then that line’s like Chekhov’s Gun: you’re now waiting for the black kid to show up.
- When she does?
- Oh, there’s that adopted black child John Hammond was talking about.
- (In reality, Spielberg had adopted some kids around that time. They were black kids, and maybe he thought that they’d never seen an onscreen representation of the relationship he had with ’em. Which is sweet, and makes me a dick for goofing on, but it was just so distracting. How about you pan past a picture of Goldblum and his three adopted black kids and the wife’s got a post-it note over her face?)
- The second reason the daughter character doesn’t work is that Jeff Goldblum Is Weird Around Children.
- Not bad weird.
- Not the kind of weird that make you rethink your position on Jeff Goldblum.
- Just awkward and confused.
- Goldblum, you see, seduces.
- Men, women, coffee shops and nightclubs: Goldblum seduces.
- Every line is a come-on.
- This does not work with children.
- Think about Jeff Goldblum’s oeuvre.
- Don’t oeuvre-think it though.
- Booo!
- Yeah, that was dreadful.
- Anyway, getting back to Goldblum and his body of work: notice a lot of “Dad” roles in there?
- Tom Hanks plays Dad.
- Jeff Goldblum plays the uncle who never got married.
- Reasons Jurassic Parker Is Better Than The Original
- Pete Postlethwaite.
- Pete Postlethwaite’s head. (Name a better head. I’m talking the whole picture: face, skull, everything. The man’s noggin exhibits the Golden Ratio in myriad ways; it has been noted by scientists. )
- Peter Stormare as “Foreign Mercenary Who Doesn’t Like Dinosaurs.”
- The jeeps in the dinosaur hunt scene have passenger’s seats that slide out to give the occupant more room to shoot, and the 8-year-old in me would greatly enjoy playing with that toy.
- The final reel, in which a T-Rex wanders through suburban San Diego, is so dumb I can’t believe it stuck to the film; I love it so.
- And then there’s the final shot, which is the moron cherry atop the shitheaded cake: the T-Rex, having been wrangled back aboard the ship, being escorted back to Isla Nublar under Navy protection.
- Like, eight ships real close around.
- Instead of–and don’t get ahead of me–killing the monster and setting its nest on fire.
- Isla Nublar is a foreign country to America, I would assume?
- Because that makes letting a T-Rex loose in San Diego an act of war.
- None of these movies discuss the political reality that any American president would be forced to bomb these islands off the planet.
- Politically, “destroy the monsters” is a no-brainer; even No-Brain could figure this one out.
- Your church groups are going to support it, your chambers of commerce are gonna be for it, and the housewives in the Midwest love the idea.
- We can’t have dinosaurs infiltrating America and refusing to assimilate, or speak our language, or not eat our children.
- Or worse.
- Some dinosaurs rape.
- Paleontologists don’t like to talk about it, but it’s true.
- Facts don’t care about your feelings, and the facts are: some dinosaurs rape.
- You’ve lost the plot, haven’t you?
- I have, yes.
- Take five, slugger.
“Annabelle?”
“Yes, Trixie?”
“Is he asleep?”
“I think so.”
“Because he’s got, like, all of his weight on my shoulders.”
“I know where you’re coming from. My boat is leaking in the same way. Lemme check.”
PERCUSSIONIST-NUDGING NOISE
“Nah, he’s out.”
“Breathing, right?”
…
“Yeah.”
“Oh, good. We could–and this is just a suggestion–flip him backwards over the railing and let him be someone else’s problem.”
“Trixie, most of the world’s ills have been caused by letting Mickey Hart be someone else’s problem.”
“Well, he’s heavier than he looks.”
“Let’s walk him around town and buy stuff with his credit card.”
“You’re suggesting we pull a Weekend at Bernie’s?”
“I am, yeah.”
“I can’t carry him. If we find a wheelchair, then I’m in.”
“Did you see Babbs?”
“Holy shit, yeah. Does Mom look that old? Because Mom’s that old, but I don’t think she looks that old.”
“Mom doesn’t look that old.”
“Are you the one farting like that?”
“What? No.”
GUITARIST’S DAUGHTER SNIFFING NOISE
“That’s clearly Mickey. You can still smell the Courvoisier.”
“He loves that shit. It’s so terrible.”
“Tastes like someone bottled a dead monkey. What is John Mayer wearing?”
“It’s called streetwear.”
“I have no idea what that means. Like, not pajamas? You can wear all clothes out into the street. It’s kinda the point of clothes.”
“He’s a hypebeast.”
“Trixie.”
“He kicks it normcore.”
“Trixie. Shit! Trixie!”
PERCUSSIONIST RELIEVING HIMSELF NOISE
“Oh, c’mon, Mickey!”
“Down.”
“Just lay him on the ground.”
Literally everything is wrong with this photo. From the rando’s sneakers to Josh’s eyebrow game. Every single thing.
“Oh, it’s not that bad.”
Who’s talking? Wait, lemme guess. It was vaguely optimistic and not slurred. Oteil?
“Hey, friend.”
You’re such a cheerful guy.
“Got a lot to be cheerful about. I’m a blessed man.”
Sure.
“Happy, healthy family. Money’s rolling in. Hell, I’m sorta in the Grateful Dead.”
Sorta.
“I said ‘sorta.’ I know that my membership has some sorta to it. But, hey: I’m more in the Dead than, like, anyone else on the planet. Jeff Bezos. How much he worth?”
Like, a hundred billion dollars.
“And he isn’t in the Grateful Dead in the slightest. You know Cardi B?”
She’s killing this rap game.
“Killing it. But what percent in the Grateful Dead is she?”
Zero. Cardi B is 0% in the Grateful Dead.
“There you go.”
You and Jeff really are the reasonable ones.
“Well, fucking duh. We’re not Rock Stars. They’re all of ’em nuts. It does something to your brain, man. Rewires stuff. Lose touch with the real world. I once had to sneak Gregg Allman out of a grocery store because he thought the produce section was the backstage spread and went hogwild on the carrots. Man ate, like, forty bucks worth of carrots in ten minutes.”
All of that story is terrible.
“And then I tried to, like, explain what had happened to him, because he was blaming Clive Davis, and I say to him, ‘Gregg, that’s not how the supermarket works,’ and he just stared at me for a while. Then he played his harmonica. I don’t think I got through to him.”
Almost certainly not.
“These four aren’t the worst I’ve seen.”
Who was?
“Ozzy. That man had no relationship with reality.”
Why do you know Ozzy Osbourne?
“I played in his band for years, man.”
No, you didn’t.
“I did, but I used a different name.”
What?
“Rudy Sarzo.”
Stop it.
“Look it up.”
I looked it up. You were not Rudy Sarzo.
“Different haircuts.”
Different hair, Oteil. That guy’s white.
“Makeup.”
Uh-huh. Your contention is that during the 1980’s, you performed with Ozzy Osbourne, Quiet Riot, and Whitesnake as Rudy Sarzo?
“It is.”
Why?
“The Hair Metal scene of the 80’s was racist as shit, but I had power ballads in my soul. So I pulled a White Girls.”
Going the other way is called “pulling a Soul Man.”
“No, it’s called fucking blackface.”
Oh, right. Forgot. Listen, Oteil: I love you, but you were not a King of the Sunset Strip.
“Believe what you want. I have my memories and my leather pants. I can’t get into the pants any more, but I still have them.”
Nope. Too weird even for this shitshow.
Jeff Chimenti is whispering to Billy, “Sun’s going down, big guy. You’re getting real tired.”
OR
Is that a Real Housewife? If so, from which program/location? Whose flag does this Real Housewife pose under?
OR
When Josh stands in the middle, he looks like he’s the tall candle in a menorah.
OR
Mickey is befuddled; he has been thoroughly fuddled. Mickey has gone through the process of fuddling.
OR
Josh.
“Don’t call me that in front of the band.”
They’re the ones who called you that in the first place.
“What?”
You grabbing ass?
“No.”
Dude.
“No.”
Duuuuuuude.
“No.”
…
…
…
Dude.
“I’m grabbing ass.”
I knew it! I knew it, you grabasstic sumbitch!
“When you’re famous, they just let you do it.”
There’s my guy.
OR
Is there a wind machine? This is a fancy party, indeed, if there’s a wind machine on the blue carpet. (Blue for the oceans. Nowadays, the red carpet can be whatever color you want it to be, which I despise. A blue red carpet is self-contradictory, like vegan beef jerky. We don’t need forced diversity in carpets, Hollywood.)
OR
Bobby?
“Yuh-huh?”
You furious?
“Yuh-huh.”
Any reason?
“I’ll kill you, boy.”
All right, then. But what about here?
“I’m in a better mood here.”
Looks like it. What was all that before about? You frightened me, Bobert Weir.
“God bless ’em, but the randos get to you. 53 years of randos. Y’know, think about it: who in show business has been exposed to more rand than me? Maybe Duke Ellington. He, uh, played until he was 106 years old.”
Not true.
“His trombonist was 98. He could still blow.”
You are exaggerating.
“Okay, fine, yes. Get, uh, get the musicians off the greens, please. And, uh, bring Mr. Gleason another carton of Pall Malls.”
“Kind of you, Mr. President. I were you? I would’ve shot those hippies.”
“Y’know, Gleason, you’re right. Bebe? Where’s Bebe? Someone get Rebozo and tell him to bring his pistols.”
Excuse me. Excuse me, President Nixon. Mr. Gleason. What is going on here?
“You, uh, couldn’t come up with an ending to the post.”
“Terrible. You’ll never make it in show biz, kid.”
This was the other night, Sunday night, the night after Dodger Stadium; this is not Dodger Stadium, as no Mexican-American neighborhoods were razed to build it. No one at all lived here before the Whites. There used to be monsters in the Hollywood Hills, but since Lohs AN-halays became Loss Anj’liss, there are now mansions. Rich people love living in the Hollywood Hills because rich people listened to the same Eagles records that you did as a teen.
(TotD, you’re saying, it was a charity event. The band didn’t get paid. And I rip the skin from your body and use it to sew myself a toppermost. The band got paid. If Bobby had shown up with his acoustic and a stool and Matt Busch? Then maybe it’s charity. But when Billy shows up, it means a check has been cut. I’m gonna guess they were issued their normal show fees on paper and donated ’em right back for the tax benefit.
And you say, That doesn’t sound like a plan a Grateful Dead would come up with. I, astounded that you’re still alive without your skin, answer thusly: Of course the band didn’t think it up. Their manager did. That’s why managers are rich enough to live in the Hollywood Hills and hire the Dead to play in their backyards. Trust me: there was tomfoolery.)
A million dollars was raised, though, and that is a good thing. The oceans need our help, and we can accomplish this task: fixing a complex system is surely as easy as breaking one. Most of the million smackers will go to awareness. Many people are not aware of the oceans.
“Oceans? I’m saying that right? Oceans?”
“Perfect.”
“And there’s more than one?”
“Kinda. Sorta. For human purposes, it makes it easier to think there’s four or maybe five. But there’s really just one big one. Don’t worry about that. Not the important point.”
“How big are they?”
“Fucking enormous.”
“Could I throw a rock across one?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What if I was incredibly good at throwing rocks?”
“Still no.”
“Bigger than the lake?”
“Puts the lake to shame.”
“What about the mountains?”
“Dude, there are mountains in the ocean.”
“Good gravy. What’s it like?”
“The ocean?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, you know the land?”
“Like, dirt and trees and stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I know the land.”
“Opposite of that. Ocean is the opposite of the land.”
“How so?”
“Can’t stand on it.”
“Go on.”
“Try to plant crops in it, and the crops just sink.”
“That is very unlike what happens upon the land.”
“In every way. Also: how salty are you right now?”
“Not salty at all.”
“Ocean? Salty as hell, brother. It’s halfway to brine.”
And so on.
The million dollars raised will also go to Democratic candidates, all of whom promise to maintain a shining record of voting to destroy the environmental just a liiiiitle bit slower than the Republicans. (And civil rights, once they’re absolutely forced to.)
A negligible amount of the cash will go to tipping out the bartenders, waitstaff, and valets.
No proceeds will purchase explosives and a list of the top ten polluting factories in the country. Which is a shame.
“I don’t understand. You just don’t shave?”
“You just don’t shave.”
“No shaving at all.”
“And then the beard comes in? All by itself? I don’t need to import it from Japan?”
“No importing at all. Natural process.”
“Is everyone noticing me and my wild antics here? I mean: look at me.”
“What about face-washing? How does face-washing get affected?”
“Hugely, my dude. It’s a whole new world of facial shampoos and grooming products. You’re gonna love it. Y’know how your hair has leave-in conditioner? Your beard gets leave-on conditioner. You’re in for an education, son.”
“It’s a baby outfit, but it’s got the Public Enemy symbol on it. The juxtaposition, right? So much jux!”
John.
“Now what if I stopped shaving my balls? Would a beard grow there, too?”
John.
“It would. It totally would. Thick and manly.”
John.
“It’s just the last symbol you would expect on clothes of this cut, so that makes it adventurous.
SNAP
“John, I don’t feel too good.”
“Tell my family how I was dressed.”
…
“Dude, did you just Thanos my friends?”
I did, yes. You know I hate your friends.
“But you disintegrated them.”
No, no. Trapped them within the Soul Stone. Totally different. So, how ya doin’?
“Stop killing my friends.”
Get good friends. Like Chapelle. Get more friends like Dave Chapelle. How about Shucky Ducky?
“No.”
Alonzo “Hamburger” Jones.
“Stop it. Can you bring my friends back, please?
Absolutely not. Wander around the store and let me make fun of people minding their own business and enjoying life.
“I hate you.”
Wander!
“A rando got me.”
I see that. What’s with that dude? Face says 12, but the chest hair says 35.
“I don’t know. I’m not gonna engage.”
Good idea. I now believe that rando is an evil marionette brought to life through hoodoo.
“He has no smell whatsoever.”
Get out of there, man.
“I’m gonna hide behind a clothes rack.”
“I’m hiding behind a clothes rack.”
You probably could have picked a better spot.
“Gotta be honest: always lost at Hide And Seek as a kid.”
Makes a lot of sense. Can we talk about your shoes?
“Dude. We can always talk about my shoes.”
“These are not the shoes I’m currently wearing.”
But they are of a kin, are they not, to the shoes you are currently wearing? Military-inflected and doodled upon?
“Yes.”
What the fuck, dude? I used to draw on my Converse during math class, but what the fuck?
“Fashion is art.”
Sure, you’re right, but these are boots someone drew titties on. Oh, Jesus, is that a peace sign?
“No, it’s an inverted cross to secretly signal to the other members of the Celebrity Illuminati that I’m one of them.”
…
Oh, well, that’s cool as hell, then.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
I won’t. Promise. Who’s in charge of the Celebrity Illuminati?
“Well, it was Johnny Depp. That’s why he’s going through all this shit right now. Someone’s staging a behind-the-scenes coup.”
Wild. Is Taylor Swift in the Celebrity Illuminati?
“In it? Dude, she’s most likely the one behind the coup. And if she takes over, my life is gonna get complicated.”
I am learning so much.
“Damn it.”
What’s up?
“Randos.”
That guy looks like third place at a David Spade lookalike contest.
“Only third?”
There are some downright amazing cos-spaders out there. It’s an art. Have you ever been to Spadecon?
“You’re making all this up and I’m going outside.”
“I’m outside.”
You look unhappy.
“Getting cockblocked out here.”
She’s nice.
“I wanna put it between her eyebrows.”
I’m with you.
“But there’s a Hangabout.”
You want me to get rid of him?
“You kinda owe me after zapping my friends.”
True. Okay, take cover behind the hottie.
“Gotcha.”
SNAP
“Duuuuuuuuude. John Mayer and me, duuuuude!”
“He’s still here.”
Wow. Lemme try the Shwazzathoominator. Seriously, stand back.
SHWAZZATHOOM!
…
SMOKE CLEARING NOISE
“Duuuuuuuude. From Dead & Company! John fuckin’ Mayer, man!”
“You’re losing your touch.”
Holy shit. I’m kinda baffled. Fuck it: Code Black.
“Code Black?”
I’m opening up the photo editor. Gimme a sec.
“Sure.”
“YOUR BODY IS A WONDERLAND” BEING CASUALLY WHISTLED NOISE
I’m back.
“Well?”
I can’t erase him from the timeline. He’s a Permanence.
“Can you at least get him in the other room?”
No.
“What about putting his tongue back in?”
He may as well be God, John.
“You never know what you’re gonna find at the pop-up store.”
No, you do not.
- Michael Douglas runs like an old fucking man.
- They hide how old that motherfucker is for one hour and 59 minutes of the movie, but at one point Michael Douglas has to chug up a ramp or something, and it’s geezer city, man.
- They do the de-aging thing, too, and Marvel needs to stop that shit because the technology is getting too seamless.
- Douglas, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Lawrence Fishbourne all get digitally youthified and it is creepy as hell.
- Fishbourne, especially.
- Remember Boyz in the Hood?
- That’s what he looked like: Furious Styles.
- I thought he was about to tell Paul Rudd that there’s no place for a black man in the army.
- The rest of the movie was fine.
- Oh, wait, I guess Michelle Pfeiffer coming back was a spoiler.
- SPOILERS.
- Listen, it’s fucking Ant-Man & the Wasp: it literally cannot be spoiled.
- For example, Walton Goggins is in it.
- Knowing only that piece of information, you now know precisely who his character is, right?
- He’s the comedic bad guy.
- And he’ll end up hoisted on his petard in a comedic way.
- As always, Judy Greer gets to play the ex-wife or the step-mom or the best friend or whatever.
- Evangeline Lilly was decent, but I would have preferred Judy Greer as the Wasp.
- About halfway through the movie, I realized that none of the Marvel heroes actually have personalities.
- Of their own, I mean.
- Ant-Man, for example, has Paul Rudd’s personality.
- Iron Man, on the other hand, greatly resembles Robert Downey, Jr., in every way.
- Anyway, Paul Rudd Paul Rudds.
- Paul Rudd Paul Rudds as hard as he can for two hours, occasionally becoming bigger or smaller, while the rest of the cast techobabbles.
- “What about the quantum vectors!?”
- “I’ve calibrated those! Check the relays on the quantum tunneler!”
- And then Paul Rudd cracks wise.
- Shit like that, constantly.
- Ant-Man & the Wasp misuse the word “quantum” more than Deepak Chopra does.
- But they have to, as absolutely none of the superpowers work if you think about them for more than an instant.
- Hulk makes sense.
- He’s just big and strong.
- Thor makes sense.
- He’s a literal god.
- But growing and shrinking and what keeps its mass and what doesn’t?
- You need some professional-grade handwavium for that nonsense.
- And give Peyton Reed (the director) and his crew credit: they have–like alchemy–found the purest of handwavium, and it is this:
- Cast charming people and keep the film moving forward at all costs.
- That’s why people hated The Last Jedi.
- The movie slowed down and gave you time to think about how fucking stupid it was.
- I assure you that Ant-Man & the Wasp is every bit as dimwitted as TLJ, but it did not strand two characters in Space Atlantic City for 45 minutes in the middle of the picture and therefore is better.
- TO THE PROBLEM ATTIC WITH YOU: Why were the special effects for AM&TW better than they were for Black Panther?
- I am calling you out, Marvel.
- TO THE PROBLEM ATTIC WITH YOU, PART THE SECOND: the Hyundai Veloster is not a fucking sports car, Marvel.
- Consumers enjoy their funky styling and lean handling, but they’re not actually fast.
- I know that your contract with Acura is now up, so everyone onscreen–including FBI agents, for some reason–has to drive a Hyundai, but don’t treat me like an asshole, Marvel.
- Okay, if you’re not going to see it and want to know what the all-important end-credit scene is, I’ll tell you.
- SPOILING BELOW
- Serious.
- …
- …
- …
- Honest to gosh, gonna spoil it.
- …
- …
- …
- All right, you asked for it.
- Fisting.
- It’s like a fist-off.
- Paul Rudd shrinks his hand and inserts it into Evangeline Lilly, and then regains resize; when he does, she orgasms and vomits simultaneously.
- And you think, “Well, that’s over.”
- It is not.
- Michael Douglas and Michelle Pfeiffer do mutu-fisting.
- It takes a while to get into the right position, but when they do: fireworks, baby.
- Then there’s a close-up of Evangeline Lilly’s face.
- She smiles.
- Cut to Paul Rudd.
- He smiles back.
- Camera tracks down EL’s arm only to find her fist is buried deep within Lawrence Fishbourne.
- He smiles.
- And they fist again.
- Like they did last summer.
- Yes, they fist again.
- Fisting time is here.
- Excelsior, True Believers!
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