Tuesday, April 03, 2007
When the Antichrist arrives, and marches into town with his throngs of mindless minions, carrying the corpses of the just and righteous behind them as trophies, corrupting with every movement, gleeful in their carnage... they will be playing this song on loudspeakers as a herald of the end of all things good.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
Movie Critics
You pasty fucks! Your comeuppance is coming!!
You sit there in your padded chair, clacking away at your 20-lbs. Compaq Laptop, feeling the familiar rush you get when you fool your brain into thinking you're being clever. I've got your number, you fuckturds!
I shall be dedicating this space to critiquing critics and reviewing reviewer's reviews. You've had this coming for a long time now, so stop crying. I'm calling you out on your shit, you no-talent rape-holes!
First up, A. O. Scott of the New York Times... haha.. oh, I'm sorry, I know picking on a New York Times columnist is like playing keep-away with a retarded kid's hat, but fuck that and fuck "A dot O dot". Get a name, douche!
This reviewer did not think Scott's review of 300 contained the same passion we've come to know from her...or him...or it (using initials in place of a name leaves the sexuality of the critic in a purposefully dubious position, thus alleviating their schlock from sexual bias. This also could be the designation for some sort of reviewing robot/algorhythm where the "A" stands for Artificial, the "O" for Obfuscation and Scott being a designation for the programmer who developed this self-aggrandizing piece of critiquing software). Where is the passion?? Where is the alliteration? Where are the $100 words extracted from her dog-eared Thesaurus sitting on the corner of her desk, waiting ever-patiently, to be used in a flimsy attempt to bolster her hack writing to a significant level of pseudo-sophistication which veils Scott's eyes from seeing her own failed and clumsy attempts at actual creativity. That manuscript you just can't quite seem to finish? You know the one, Scott, it's in a .txt file right next to your vague, pedantic, boorish review files. That manuscript is never going to be finished because you're no good. Your writing is sub-par, your vision myopic. You don't even understand the creative works of others, how can you expect that you would miraculously develop a coherent work of art all on your lonesome?? Honestly. Give it up.
I think all reviews should be limited in word count.
Here are some examples for future reference:
If you like a movie, but didn't think it was a truly moving or unique experience you can simply state: "It was pretty good."
If it was sub-par, but you didn't hate it: "Wait for the DVD"
If it was truly a shitstorm terrible film, like Big Momma's House or something: "Fuck you, movie!!"
And if you as a reviewer, like A. O. Scott and the film 300, if you just DON'T GET IT, the movie is just above and beyond your limited capacity for art, well, just don't say anything. If you have to, and I"m sure your editor requires something in the way of words, let's keep it clean: "I didn't get it. Instead of wasting your time trying to disregard something I don't understand and never will, I'll just say that I didn't like it. If you're retarded like me, you won't like it either"
Oh, and if you actually like something: "Put down whatever your doing and GO SEE THIS MOVIE!! NOW!!!"
You guys suck.
Fuck you and fuck your "critiques".
You sit there in your padded chair, clacking away at your 20-lbs. Compaq Laptop, feeling the familiar rush you get when you fool your brain into thinking you're being clever. I've got your number, you fuckturds!
I shall be dedicating this space to critiquing critics and reviewing reviewer's reviews. You've had this coming for a long time now, so stop crying. I'm calling you out on your shit, you no-talent rape-holes!
First up, A. O. Scott of the New York Times... haha.. oh, I'm sorry, I know picking on a New York Times columnist is like playing keep-away with a retarded kid's hat, but fuck that and fuck "A dot O dot". Get a name, douche!
This reviewer did not think Scott's review of 300 contained the same passion we've come to know from her...or him...or it (using initials in place of a name leaves the sexuality of the critic in a purposefully dubious position, thus alleviating their schlock from sexual bias. This also could be the designation for some sort of reviewing robot/algorhythm where the "A" stands for Artificial, the "O" for Obfuscation and Scott being a designation for the programmer who developed this self-aggrandizing piece of critiquing software). Where is the passion?? Where is the alliteration? Where are the $100 words extracted from her dog-eared Thesaurus sitting on the corner of her desk, waiting ever-patiently, to be used in a flimsy attempt to bolster her hack writing to a significant level of pseudo-sophistication which veils Scott's eyes from seeing her own failed and clumsy attempts at actual creativity. That manuscript you just can't quite seem to finish? You know the one, Scott, it's in a .txt file right next to your vague, pedantic, boorish review files. That manuscript is never going to be finished because you're no good. Your writing is sub-par, your vision myopic. You don't even understand the creative works of others, how can you expect that you would miraculously develop a coherent work of art all on your lonesome?? Honestly. Give it up.
I think all reviews should be limited in word count.
Here are some examples for future reference:
If you like a movie, but didn't think it was a truly moving or unique experience you can simply state: "It was pretty good."
If it was sub-par, but you didn't hate it: "Wait for the DVD"
If it was truly a shitstorm terrible film, like Big Momma's House or something: "Fuck you, movie!!"
And if you as a reviewer, like A. O. Scott and the film 300, if you just DON'T GET IT, the movie is just above and beyond your limited capacity for art, well, just don't say anything. If you have to, and I"m sure your editor requires something in the way of words, let's keep it clean: "I didn't get it. Instead of wasting your time trying to disregard something I don't understand and never will, I'll just say that I didn't like it. If you're retarded like me, you won't like it either"
Oh, and if you actually like something: "Put down whatever your doing and GO SEE THIS MOVIE!! NOW!!!"
You guys suck.
Fuck you and fuck your "critiques".
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Blow This, Jackass!
Every Tuesday at our office is landscape maintenance day. Since we don't have any grass to mow, this generally means the landscape crew is busy tending to the many patches of gravel and ground-covering greenery in and around the complex, as well as cutting off palm fronds so I have to trip over them as I go to check the mail.
Mostly, though, they busy themselves blowing dead leaves about with what is possibly the most useless, annoying invention EVER - The Leafblower. I'm continually perplexed by this contraption. It's basically just a plastic gas can strapped to a guy's back, hooked by a plastic hose to a giant reverse vacuum tube that blows shit everywhere...which is rickety in and of itself, if you ask me.
I guess I just don't get it. What progress do you make with one of these stinky, loud pieces of shit? How can you measure your day's progress by the amount of dust and dirt and crap that you merely move from one place to another? It's not like any of this debris goes AWAY...it just goes out to the parking lot! And all over ME, as I'm innocently trying to walk to my car!
I can't even decide what offends me most about The Leafblower. Is it the loudness? Does it bother me most that I'm trying to have a telephone conversation and it sounds like there's a merry band of hillbilly teenagers riding around outside on their muddy dirtbikes? Or is it the "I just stuck my face in someone's tailpipe" smell that lingers about everywhere within 100 yards? Perhaps it's the blank, mouth-breathing expression on the guy blowing...like he actually might just understand the useless irony of his task.
Or not. He's probably just dumb.
Mostly, though, they busy themselves blowing dead leaves about with what is possibly the most useless, annoying invention EVER - The Leafblower. I'm continually perplexed by this contraption. It's basically just a plastic gas can strapped to a guy's back, hooked by a plastic hose to a giant reverse vacuum tube that blows shit everywhere...which is rickety in and of itself, if you ask me.
I guess I just don't get it. What progress do you make with one of these stinky, loud pieces of shit? How can you measure your day's progress by the amount of dust and dirt and crap that you merely move from one place to another? It's not like any of this debris goes AWAY...it just goes out to the parking lot! And all over ME, as I'm innocently trying to walk to my car!
I can't even decide what offends me most about The Leafblower. Is it the loudness? Does it bother me most that I'm trying to have a telephone conversation and it sounds like there's a merry band of hillbilly teenagers riding around outside on their muddy dirtbikes? Or is it the "I just stuck my face in someone's tailpipe" smell that lingers about everywhere within 100 yards? Perhaps it's the blank, mouth-breathing expression on the guy blowing...like he actually might just understand the useless irony of his task.
Or not. He's probably just dumb.
HateBack
Drinks are on me!
Lemme see what you're twerking with
Look at those hips, make me smile..
Go 'head child and get your hate on!!
That's right, bitches, I'm bringing Hate Back!!
This fucking wet-sop masturbation fest of internet self-aggrandizement has gone too long with out my pure, unfiltered, never-diluted brand of unbridled, smooth, straight-up-no-chaser HATE.
It's become a social wasteland spattered with Blog-mines waiting for the trip wire to send off the blast of meaningless opinion-ship and fucking WHINING bullshit hucksters lamenting their favorite comic book movies. All you shitheels would've been kicked out of the highschool newspaper room with your ill-conceived drivel. You're embarrassing yourselves. Get off your computer, your mom needs to use America On-line, you fuck.
What happened to the internet that was hard to use and, therefore, weeded out the annoying fucks that we were all trying to get away from by GOING TO THE INTERNET? Now it's all reflected, bright-colored, Web 2.0!! Logo bullshit with "user-created" fuckall. I long for he days of clumsy HTML coding, blue underlined and often broken links against a repeating back ground of a 10x10px rock texture made in MS-Paint. I long for the Thought Police to shut down your blogs for expressing dissent. I long for an intelligent conversation.
Let's just sum this all up then: I fucking hate you.
Shut the fuck up.
Peace out,
M
Lemme see what you're twerking with
Look at those hips, make me smile..
Go 'head child and get your hate on!!
That's right, bitches, I'm bringing Hate Back!!
This fucking wet-sop masturbation fest of internet self-aggrandizement has gone too long with out my pure, unfiltered, never-diluted brand of unbridled, smooth, straight-up-no-chaser HATE.
It's become a social wasteland spattered with Blog-mines waiting for the trip wire to send off the blast of meaningless opinion-ship and fucking WHINING bullshit hucksters lamenting their favorite comic book movies. All you shitheels would've been kicked out of the highschool newspaper room with your ill-conceived drivel. You're embarrassing yourselves. Get off your computer, your mom needs to use America On-line, you fuck.
What happened to the internet that was hard to use and, therefore, weeded out the annoying fucks that we were all trying to get away from by GOING TO THE INTERNET? Now it's all reflected, bright-colored, Web 2.0!! Logo bullshit with "user-created" fuckall. I long for he days of clumsy HTML coding, blue underlined and often broken links against a repeating back ground of a 10x10px rock texture made in MS-Paint. I long for the Thought Police to shut down your blogs for expressing dissent. I long for an intelligent conversation.
Let's just sum this all up then: I fucking hate you.
Shut the fuck up.
Peace out,
M
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