Archive for the ‘whatevs’ Category
Ahhhh…“The good old days.” I’m sure you’ve heard folks utter those words as they whimsically look into the distance and think back to their boy or girlhood days of yore, skipping through fields of sunflowers and gripping buckets of fresh antibiotic-free milk for mama, donned in a papoose, and papa, working on something with clanking and cranking tools. For most of my life, I couldn’t help but feel that people are full of shit and these memories are fabrications created by crazy people who were fucked in thebarn as kids. When the hell were these “The Good Old Days?” It seems they are currently a reference to the first half of the 20th century in America. Well, I suppose if you were straight, white, and a man the old days had very arguably more potential for good. Although, it seems white men during that time were emotionless drunks who beat and owned their wives and treated their children like insects. No. It takes a lot more than some confused white people to make days good and old. Therefore, after lazily, randomly, and confusingly consulting the internet, I do believe I have pinpointed the shit out of “The Good Old Days,” AND exactly what made those old days good, and if y’all agree, I’ll do a TED TALK on the subject. Allow me to whisk you away to 1930’s London where an American-patented device jutted from the windows of buildings and high rises by the thousands like awesome mini-prisons or “smart-playpens” as I like to think of them. Yes folks, I’m talking about a little known gem they called the “Baby Cage.”
Imagine you’re a nanny, mommy, babysitter, or au pair, and you’re living in a small flat in 1930’s London. Everything is in black and white. Shit’s moving all stuttery and skipping frames and shit. No iPads or MP3 players. No Facebook or Twitter. No Likes or Up-Votes. Nothing. Just you, the destroyed economy, news of the rising Nazi Party, and to top it all off, a screaming fucking little vomit machine. Now listen here, Junior, mommy only has so many hours in a day to drink bathtub gin and crotchet the fuckin’ doilies and you’re screaming is fucking my shit up! How the hell will people in the future EVER see these as “The Good Old Days” when they look and smell and sound like THIS? There HAS to be a better way. Suddenly, you look out the window of your 40th story apartment, and there, hanging outside, as beautiful as a Vietnam-made red, white, and blue flag, bolted to the outside window frame, is your shiny new freshly lead-painted silver baby cage. Looks like your British hubby really does love you…now you know why he doesn’t bruise your face!
Suddenly, your window to the world has become a doorway to peace and quiet. All you had to do was put down some newspaper, a water bowl, some mashed food, and then shove the little bastard out there and shut the blinds. On a side note, this is why British old people are notoriously unafraid of heights. That’s not a peer-reviewed fact, just a personal astute observation. However, to be clear, admittedly, I don’t know anything about British people and even less about babies. I learned recently on the local news programs that they die if you leave them alone in the car with the windows up in the summer…babies, I mean. Not British people. Apparently, they don’t do well in excessive heat and sun. Not very sturdy. Definitely not the folks you want parachuting into the desert to shoot terrorists. Which is a shame because they’re small and can fit into any cave-nook and cave-cranny…British people, I mean. Not babies. So if this masterful invention, that makes sliced bread and fire look like some hack piece of junk your stoned one-armed uncle Billiam drunkenly nailed together in the garage one night, ever makes a much needed comeback, you’re going to want to dress that shit up for the new age. But I say, “Why wait for a comeback!? You can do it yourself!” Remember, the 1930’s in London were good and old days, but thanks to incredible technological breakthroughs, we’ve got pollution and holes in the ozone layer to deal with. But it also means we can take “The Good Old Days” of yesteryear and move on into “The Great New Old Days!”
Before we sort of build this dream together, listen up all you gents and deadbeat dads out there. This isn’t the 1930’s anymore. Women aren’t just sitting around knitting and shit. They aren’t just going to take care of your farting shitting kids while you party down at the local watering hole jabbering about that one time years ago when you did that one thing that could’ve lead to something impressive but didn’t. They are MMA fighters who run for president, and they will kick the shit out of you and throw your dick in the river. Women have important shit to do too, and I know I don’t have to say this, but you don’t want to hire someone to come over and watch your seed anymore with the tsunami of kid-fuckers in the news today. It’s time technology took over in the caretaking department in a big way to loosen up your schedge™. So, here’s how you bring the “Good Old Days” back, bigger and gooder than ever, ensuring that you can live your life the way you want and most likely not go to prison!
To begin, get yourself a bunch of iPads. There are websites that give them away for free. Just check your AOL mailbox every so often for offers. Once you have the iPads, put one on the side and turn on some party music. I recommend Andrew W.K. or Kottonmouth Kings. After you’ve accomplished this, pour yourself a drink and hit the net hard. Probably Craigs List. There’s good people giving away all kinds of weird shit on there who will totally come to your house and you’re going to need some things and the less you have to get up and go anywhere, the better. Find a hefty dog cage, one that’s large enough to rivet to the outside of your window, turning the window itself into a suspended metal outdoor domain if you will. Don’t worry about what floor you’re on. The kid should learn that in life the sky is the limit, so I say, the higher you are the more chance you have of your kid becoming emperor someday. If you suspect you’re buying your cage from a reformed dog-fighting ringleader, try to make sure there’s no pee or blood on it. Keep it classy. I know what you’re thinking; Rick, is that all?! Upon hearing you in my mind, I think-shout back, Shit, back in the day, the bulk of your job would be finished. You’d be standing there with a kid out of your hair, openly hanging out above the bustling city in the fresh air where it belongs and a “Mission Accomplished” sign over your head on a boat. BUT, as I said earlier, those days are gone. There’s more.
Next, you want to get a shitload of Plexiglas, some duct tape, and a huge water feeder, preferably something appropriate for a chinchilla or some other large adorable rodent. OH! And for fuck sake don’t forget umbrellas. I know we’re trying to avoid spending money and/or leaving the house, but you can get one of these for a dollar from a homeless dude on the streets of New York and probably other places too. My recommendation; buy a shitload because one gust of wind over eight mph and that umbrella looks like a prolapsed asshole (listen, this is your kid…sometimes you gotta spend the money to do what is right).
So to speed this up I’ll just say WHAM BAM line the thing with iPads, drill some holes in the plexiglass for air and tape all this shit and the other shit to the cage and voila! There may never be a reason for the little guy to ever come out again. Also, don’t be afraid to get creative. It’s a hip-hop world. I know I’d want my baby cage to be extreme! I’d want it to literally drip with Mountain Dew, Doritos dust, and game! TIP: Use ALL the duct tape…you can go to jail if one of these things, AKA, “babies,” dies out there! Did you know that!? I mean, fuck…it’s not like they pay taxes or anything. But you know…liberals. #amirite Hopefully, if you’re lucky and there are still birds in your town, maybe one will make a nest out there and befriend your little DNA carbon copy, so they’ll learn about nature.
You know what? I see the future, and I’m smiling a gummy smile back at myself and giving a thumbs up. I’m wrinkled, wearing a diaper, and have dementia. My 20-year-old wife is miserably trying to stop her newborn baby, whom she conceived with the pool boy, to stop crying and squirting stuff, but I’m happy. Want to know why? Because after she spends her obligatory nine minutes at the nursing home jiggling her tits at me to ensure she inherits my millions, I’ll go back to a life of apple sauce, Viagra, and hot GILFS, but she’ll have to go home to this never-ending geyser of stinky fluids and loud noise. But as I said, I’m happy…because she’ll never know what it was like when I was that age…back in 2014, or as I like to call it, “The Good Old Days.”
I’m not very good at what I like to call “normal people stuff”, and one of my worst is small talk. I hate small talk to a degree that it almost makes my eyeballs turn to goo and bleed out of my faceholes whenever I feel like it’s about to be imposed upon me. And since our country decided that “Sanrio announces Hello Kitty not really a cat” and “Tony Soprano isn’t really dead” (you know, even though the dude who played him is dead, how’s that for shit luck) are the most important goings-on in the world today, I figured I would complain about you all here on my page on the internets, and bitch and moan about some of the worst types of small talk.
1. Talking about things that are normal but a big deal to you: Okay, as unfortunate as it may seem to me, things like having kids, being nagged by your ever-annoying way-too-stereotypically-female-to-be-allowed-to-own-vocal-chords wife, or being late for some meeting nobody knows anything about because they don’t work with you- are all things most people you will be around have dealt with numerous times, or at least have heard others talk about so much they don’t need to hear it yet again. The thing is, just because it is important to you, doesn’t mean anyone else gives a fuck. YOU might be totally excited your two-month old triplets stopped throwing their gross baby shit at your wife’s face, but nobody else cares. Nobody cares about the zany debacle that ensued when little Sally couldn’t find her sandals and you were late for the little league game of the century. UGHHHH IT IS SO BORING!
2. The “how are you” walk-by: This is a really dirty version of small talk, where the perpetrator tries to sideswipe you with conversation as you innocently attempt to avoid eye contact and move past them and on with your life. They walk past you and in mid-step they vomit the dreaded “Hey, how are you” out of their infected mouth parts. IN MID STEP! And if you try to close this little session down with a “ok how are you” (the one nobody ever really means), the dude tells you, in detail, just exactly how he is, AS HE IS STILL WALKING AWAY! Please stop doing this, people. It’s bad enough you stop people you only knew for a half hour every day in English class fifteen years ago to tell them about how your little angel finally stopped licking the dog’s balls for no reason, it’s another thing to try to spark up a conversation about as someone is actively trying to escape your attempt. Seriously, no one cares.
3. Your stupid bumper stickers: Yeah I know this isn’t exactly considered a form of small talk, but in my world that’s exactly what this is an attempt at. The second I’m stuck behind your ugly tan Dodge Caravan, and have to read another ” keep the Christ in Christmas” bumper sticker slathered across the back of the dusty window smeared with slimy children’s fingerprints, you’re forcing me to have a conversation in my head. Essentially I have to have small talk with myself. I have to ask myself what kind of jackass would say something like this, then I have to do follow-up questions, who would care about this so much they’d glue it to the back of their car? Why aren’t there any “Keep the Han in Hanukkah” stickers? It’s a Star Wars themed Jewish holiday, and I’m all for it!
4. “Nice to meet you”: Goodbyes don’t escape the small talk nightmare, either. When someone says “it was nice to meet you”, you usually are expected to say “oh blahbittyblah it was oh so nice to meet you, too”. The thing is, this usually happens after you had -barely- been introduced to someone, then spent all night no where near them, then when they’re leaving they pull this “nice to meet you” shit. Well, you know what, most times it really wasn’t all that nice to meet you, at most times it was marginal -at best-. Unless meeting you was accompanied by fireworks shooting out of Russian vaginas, a parade of circus elephants or those sort of elephant-things from Lord of the Rings that gave Sam a hard-on, and the reemergence of Tupac in non-holographic form, I probably didn’t find it all that nice, at all. In fact, meeting you probably meant I was forced into the position to have even more awful small talk and aware of the fact that upon leaving, I’d have to deal with the “nice to meet you” bullshit because I’m too crippled to duck out before some stupid motherfucker decides they really want to talk to me about their shitty life and kids again.
A number 5? I don’t have one, I’m tired of talking about the type of talking I don’t want you to do. Just stop it, if all of you got together in one room it would be the equivalent of a flatlining heart machine noise repeating for hours, with over-indulgent laughter and oh-so-crazy little anecdotes about who suburbia truly isn’t the nightmare world of baby-puke and lawnmowers that we all know it truly is.
Well, well, here it is, the second part of the AYAOTD? update, by IAMRICKSEE, written at the same time as we both watched and scratched our eyes raw with glass. Cheers!
Well… I’m sitting with Sarah watching Are You Afraid of the Dark? for Smeat. I didn’t even watch that show when I was young and it was popular. I think some kid just chopped his own dick off in front of some blond whore. She looks familiar. But it figures this dumb fuck works in some creeper creepy shop.
Now we are in the OshKosh B’gosh woods apparently… this looks like the Sears catalog in the early 90’s just jacked out all over my line of vision. Nice haircut, dipshit. Your purple shirt sucks… and why is this little bitch color coordinating with his shit grape colored sweater? Fuck these people. Fart. She definitely wants to suck his dick… not the weird child molester guy who looks like a fat, taller, child molestier looking Chris Katan… the black kid… with the rad fade.
These plastic glasses are the shit. He shoulda pushed her stupid ass… now that’d been a horror show! Thumbs up! SPOOKY YOGURT! Now filled up to the brim with cocaine… or roofie dust… he’s after these arrogant ass hoes… why not? HOLY SHIT! That bitch just seriously got more annoying, if that’s even possible… how is that a worthwhile spell, dumb dick!?
The acting here is making my head crave a bullet. Nice red pants and vest, you stupid ass shit… it’s just a silhouette! AH… a little one on one with some tubular Jordans, and a basketball covered in cocaine. Cocaine IS a hell of a drug! What the hell is that bitch wearing? What is wrong with the human race? There is no God… just look…this is the best we can do? OMFG! Oh, I get it… this chick with the fucking… whack-ass vest has been eating grandma’s glaucoma cookies… that’s why she’s seeing dead people! She needs to find the “Chill-Tent”. Go fucking chill that shit off, girl. Something terribly unincredible-looking is happening.
Now, it kind of feels like I’m watching “They Live” meets “Terminator”, except there is no one cool in sight, and there is a gay pride flag vignette all around the screen… it’s making me feel confused about everything.
Great… back to old Nose-N-Glasses. This guy fuckin’ sucks. Those are the most unscary, unskilled looking ninja’s I’ve ever seen… I’m pretty sure it’s just a dance troupe in ninja pajamas… and all they want to do is “Serve” this bitch, and she keeps all running around screaming some dumb shit about spells… for god damn sakes. Back to creeper McChildhumper. I think he’s just into dumb young chicks. Or dudes… actually he’s starting to seem more asexual because he’s got this blouse on and shit… and he seems to like these young ones around… but so far, from what the audience sees, there’s been no inappropriate touching… but these strange other negotiations could be symbolic of how a patriarchal society… holy crap… that chick just stopped that other kid from flushing a whole bag of angel dust… they are fucking totally buying off this kid-fucker with angel dust… makes them seem pretty fucking self-efficient and worldly… why don’t they just sword-fuck this asshole in the stomach? Uck… fuck her and that other kid anyway. I hate them. They are just… uck.
Cool, a rave. This is leotard-hell. Someone better dance or I’m fucking leaving. Somebody get SERVED! Instead, this fat, gay, pirate with the blouse is rapping. Nice spotlight. Stupid eyes… yes, that sounds like scientific language. All of us fucktards from public schools will buy this as a believable scenario based on your absolute bastardization of the education system. FML. Look at that old goth chick… back to the glasses kid trying to get blown by telling his shit story about teenagers stuck in a ball. Looks like it’s ending in a devil’s threeway. Good for you guys.
It’s been a long fucking time since I did one of those not-really-a-review-but-more-of-a-writing-while0watching-extrvanagnxa-disaster. This time I have new Smeat writer IAMRICKSEE with me, and we’re going to watch this crazy shit together, and possibly kill ourselves before it even gets five minutes in, and if we make it, I shall post this is two parts, the second being his version of this nightmare. WoOOoo
Ooh super spooky opening… Boner Stabone’s going to cut his finger off! Aww, blondie doesn’t like it. Now she’s telling him she doesn’t like it when he makes her smell his ball-fingers. Now he’s playing 80’s techno and turning into Michael Jackson, but white, and sort of Jewy. Nobody likes the glasses dude anymore, and Metallica starts playing. Holy shit, we didn’t even get to the title yet…
Reject from Hogwarts obsessed with stupid magic tricks does some crap to some plastic glasses. Guy who owns the store is a big, gay version of a mix of Luigi, Mario, and Richard Simmons. He wears gold puffy shirts, too. And, he rolls his r’s. Now the magic glasses make you see people in those fabric suit things… terrifying! Wow, little stalker kid just stole someone’s yogurt, now he’s roofie-ing it up, I SHIT YOU NOT! He watched her eat it! Every time magic-kid’s horse-faced girlfriend puts on the glasses, she sees figures in black that look like they came out of a Fatal Frame game.
Little drug dude just roofied a basketball game, pimpin’ ain’t easy, but it’s necessary. Ohh. long-faced depressed girl throws out magic glasses but they keep coming back, being ushered in each time with terrible 80’s synth-pop, chock full of pipe organ and phone noises. She sees a phantom tea kettle, Oh shit’s about to get real! She sees a fireplace in a fireless place©. How deep is that line for the opening of your next novel? They’re coming at her, the camera man must have just fallen, now she’s being chased, only when she looked through the glasses, now they’re like a gang out of West Side Story and they’re all snapping and dancing in unison.
Wow, this dude must have arrived really late to his acting classes. I feel like he still invites people over to watch this episode on repeat while he talks about what it was like to be on Nickelodeon back when it still felt like it mattered. How do so many random grown strangers end up hanging out with elementary school children in empty houses on this show? It’s insane! Yeah random joke shop guy, just come over and put a spell on this thing and dance around in your gold puffy shirt before my parents come home, oh yeah, bring your swim trunks, I’m making brownies, and they’ll be dick-sucking and demon-conjuring right over there by the hot tub. God, this bitch is annoying, she’s like that moon faced guy that used to do the Mcdonald’s commercials. That’s this girl. Fucking over and out!
So lately I’ve been thinking about how Google is slowly taking over the whole world, and in a few years it will control every facet of our existence. It knows who we message, text, or call and what we say or send. It knows what we’re looking up, trying to learn more about, or what we’re fondling our squishy little private parts to. It knows our medical histories, what books we’re reading, where we went on vacation, and how much you just paid for your last twelve pack of color-changing heat-sensitive dildos.
So anyway, it occurred to me yesterday whilst in conversation with ole’ Jon, (whom you might remember from when this creaky old website started, in helping me with my sleeping pill comparison chart, among other updates), that Google has within it the power to rewrite history, all willy-nilly, just whenever the hell it behooves them to do so. Picture if you will the following scenario:
You and that really annoying friend of yours that you actually don’t like very much, are in the middle of an argument. Your friend insists that some random bit of information is fact, you, on the other hand, wholeheartedly believe the exact opposite is fact. What is the first thing you do? Well if you’re like millions of people across the world that no longer have any need for actual books made of paper, you go and consult your Google. So then you type in whatever it is you’re arguing about, type type type tippy type “Google” you type, “Do all llamas excrete Mountain Dew from their tear ducts every morning upon waking?”, To which a reliable Google may answer by telling you that you’re a complete ass fuck and that you should get off the Internet immediately. But what if Google wanted you to believe that? What if Google told you that you were absolutely correct? You’d hardly dispute the almighty Google. And what if you were the other party, arguing that it is, in fact, Stewarts Cream Soda that gets excreted, and Google corrected you when you went to prove your friend wrong, and told you it was absolutely Mountain Dew. It would be a game changer! You would walk away feeling dejected, and ugly all over. And why would you feel that way? Because Google told you!
Google could already be doing this, just changing facts at random, whenever it pleases. Who was the first President of the United States? Don’t know? Look it up on Google! Sam Kinison? I didn’t even know that dude was alive in… wait what year was that? *checks Google* …I didn’t even know that dude was alive in 459BC. Crazy what Google could teach you! And they have every website ever made at their disposal to back up all their claims. What the hell do you have to back up your claims? Facts? Books? Those are things of yesteryear, my silly little friends. This is the dawning of the age of Google, and Google knows everything, whether it knows it or not!
And in other news!
New Mp3 of the moment now up, take a listen to the first episode of mine and IAMRICKSEE’s new audio podcast, Ice and The Face, and if you like it (or if you don’t), find us on iTunes.
Well now that the stupid holiday season has come to a welcome close, it’s time for another installment of “Why I Probably Hate You”, and in this one, I shall tell you all why you make going to a store one of the most miserable experiences of my life. Say hello to “Why I Probably Hate You: The Shopping Edition”.
1. Cashiers that want to talk it up- Having lived in parts of the world that weren’t the East Coast, I realize that not everybody has a problem with this, but they should. If I just gimped my way through a store, listening to your screaming, fat babies, getting bumped into repeatedly by your wayward shopping carts because your stupid, fat eyeballs are too busy casing the aisles for your fave brand of Pringles, and somehow successfully managed to make it to the checkout, I am in no mood to talk to the cashier about whatever the hell it is she thinks is conversation-worthy in the short amount of time it should take for her to scan and bag and take money. I honestly couldn’t say I remember what any of them ever look like, because I don’t make eye contact, I don’t want to show any signs at all that I am open for any discussions, of any sort, about anything at all, in any way, whatsoever. The cashier that promptly checks my stuff out, takes my money, gives me change, and moves on to the next person, even without saying a word to me, is the best cashier of all.
2. The no-help helpers- Although I encounter this type of worker in nearly every type of store I’ve ever been to, it seems to be frustratingly common amongst any sort of tech related business. If I’m going to Best Buy, and it takes three people to answer my question about an external hard drive, and in the end, I have to repeatedly correct them because they’re giving me information I know is wrong, I’m just going to take a wild guess and say these people have absolutely no training whatsoever in anything computer-related. I do have one tip for you, if you need help at Best Buy, look for the small skinny kid with the messed up hair, kind of scraggly, always has his eyes to the ground, I know that he will be able to answer any, and all, technological concerns as if it was the only thing he ever truly cared about. This of course is a generalization, but it has yet to fail me.
3. Lazy shopping cart users– I am so sick and tired of lazy people leaving their shopping carts in the parking lot of the store that I am so close to getting out of my car and killing them with it. First of all, a store isn’t required to have carts, they’re put there for your convenience. But truthfully, even if there were no shopping carts, you’d still need the same things, and you’d still go to the store and get them. So why is it that so many people use this thing, placed there solely for their convenience, and then leave it in the parking lot in order to make someone else’s life harder? The amount of entitlement involved in just emotionlessly saying “Well, someone else will take care of it, they hire people for that.”, is mind blowing. If you’re one of these assholes that likes to leave their carts in parking spots, or even worse, in the handicapped parking spots, please do us all a favor and stay at home, whee you can be happy mowing your lawn and evening out the grass with tiny little scissors, taking sewing classes online, and calling your BFF up to gab about the latest gossip around town, before eating that little piece of chocolate you’ve been saving for yourself all week, and then getting to bed by 8 o’clock soyou can wake up early to fill the bird feeder, and spend the rest of the day looking through L.L. Bean catalogs. Please don’t leave your house, the world doesn’t want you.
4. Your annoying children in the store– Okay, I get it, some people have kids and they have to bring them everywhere or they’ll die, or whatever. But if your kid can’t shut up in a public place filled with people that have ears, then maybe you should tie your kid up outside to one of the bike racks while you go inside and buy whatever pointless crap you’re convinced you can’t live without. I was once in a store and all I could hear was this loud, murder-inducing, kid screaming over and over, and whining because its father wouldn’t buy something. He kept saying if the kid didn’t stop by the time he counted to ten, he would take the kid to sit in the car. He then proceeded to count to ten about five times over, which completely obliterates the counting to ten punishment rule. I was so frustrated by hearing this, I actually said, “dude it doesn’t work if you don’t actually follow through when you get to ten.” Which he may, or may not have heard me say over the shrill tones of his demonic hell-spawn. But, I assumed it’s common knowledge, based on how many parents I see constantly do that shit. I’m starting to realize that all the shitty kids are more the product of shitty parents, than anything else. So stop being shitty parents, which comes from being shitty people, so how about shitty people stop having shitty kids, and then there’s no more shitty parents because there will be no more shitty kids to bring up the completely wrong way! There’s enough fat ugly babies in the world, anyhooooo.
5. Tip jars on counters- This sort of became a thing I noticed several years ago, and I’m actually really surprised that more people don’t complain about this. Now, I understand that you’re supposed to tip waiters and waitresses, bartenders, or people that actually go out of their way to carry something to your car, but when you’re at a regular store buying some random thing, like a bottle of soda, I don’t understand exactly why there’s a jar in order to tip the cashier. They’ve done absolutely nothing outside of the realm of their job description. It seems extremely egotistical to just have a jar in front of your stupid, flapping mouth (see number 1 on the list) basically insinuating that you deserve more than the money you agree to make with your employer, and that the person patronizing your store is somehow the one that should be giving you the money. Why don’t we just tip for everything, then? If it’s that simple, why shouldn’t the cashier tip me from making my purchase, based on this logic, it’s completely sound for me to assume, and expect, that my having picked up my product and brought it to the counter for her to check it out is worth getting a tip from her, essentially I’m part of the reason why she has job, and if that doesn’t deserve a tip, well I’m not sure what does.
Thank you, and have a burgerific day!
So, starting last night, I decided to sit down and watch the entire “Rocky” anthology, starring Sly Stallone as Rocky Balboa “The Italian Stallion.” I haven’t watched these movies in MANY years. My dad was a huge fan, so therefore, growing up, I was also a huge fan. One of few items of his I received after he passed away (my POS stepmother butt-fucked me and my sister out of everything else, and hopefully, she gets catapulted into the Fukushima power plant cunt first) was his “Rocky” anthology. I recently realized that I’ve never seen the 6th one, so before I sit down and watch that (which I do not have high hopes for), I have decided to rewatch the first five movies…in doing so, I realized a few things:
Firstly, Rocky 1 is a GREAT movie. Say what you will about Stallone’s acting abilities, but he BECOMES Rocky Balboa in that movie, and that is why the first one is great. It’s gritty, low budget, easy to relate to, and full of heart. It even feels like the cast is enjoying being a part of that film. On a side note, I also realized that Mickey Avalon looks exactly like Rocky in the 70’s and that Yolandi Visser from Die Antwoord looks just like Adrian, except I’d much rather fuck Yolandi…not important, just an observation. But that movie captures the essence of a good person trapped in an unfair situation doing whatever he has to do to survive. He’s a really nice guy who is working for a loan shark and hustling motherfuckers for money because he doesn’t have a high IQ and basically has no choice. I like that. I like good people who do bad things. It adds something irking to the tale. But then, opportunity knocks, and it truly becomes a great story about legitimately pouring your soul into an endeavor and overcoming all odds in the end. What makes it even better (spoiler alert for the slouching FAR behinders) is that Rocky loses the fight in the first movie, yet manages to emerge as a different kind of winner. Awesome!
Then I watched Rocky II. It seems my youth deceived me because number 2 is exactly that: A huge piece of tumbling steaming shit on the chest of the movie industry that never stops happening. It is a Steaming Cleveland combined with a Turkish Earthquake, meaning you’re just falling down the stairs with another person who was squatting over you, who you just blew, mind you, and now, that dude is just spraying shit in the air, and you’ve got diarrhea in your chest hair, not to mention a mouthful of cum, and now THAT’S spewing all over both of you because you’re screaming, while the other dude’s recently serviced dick, which is spittling like grandpa babbling with skewed dentures right in your face, is just flopping in the breeze like the business end of bingo arms. In other words, it is not a good movie. For starters, the writing is awful, and the lines are delivered as if by people who are trying to act instead of actually acting. Bored porn stars with their clitorises removed do a better job. There are so many cringe-worthy lines it’s actually hard to watch. That said, I realize that many movie sequels back then fell victim to the movie studios’ belief that the franchise name would sell the film, and they wouldn’t have to try very hard. See Teen Wolf 2 for another example of this. That doesn’t seem to happen so much anymore, however. It seems that sequels come out now to destroy their predecessors, with the exception of Boondock Saints II, which is such a piece of shit that during the first five minutes, I wondered who set out to destroy that movie franchise on purpose. I’m a huge Boondock Saints fan, and it saddens me to see how many other Boondock Saints fans are in complete denial about the second movie. I’ve never seen the end of Boondock Saints II because I’d rather chop off my own dick than sit through that movie to its fucking poorly written, poorly acted end. Someday, I’ll eat a bunch of pills and try to slog through it like a champ in order to validate my opinion.
AND, to bring it full circle…I think that’s what happened with Rocky II. I think people at the time loved the first Rocky movie so much that they were willing to completely look past the fact that it was awful. Even the New York Post raved about it like it was some sort of Hollywood achievement (which goes to show who owns what and who’s pulling what strings). Eighty percent of that movie is Stallone walking around acting like someone thinks Rocky Balboa acts with his new found wealth, blowing his money on bullshit while his wife looks at him disapprovingly whilst simultaneously having no qualms about wearing fur coats and diamonds and shit. Hey, look, alright, I understand that the series is about the life of a man who comes from the streets and hurdles to fame and fortune over night, but there was certainly a way it could have been done that required at least some decent writing, acting, and perhaps some real action…and by action, I don’t even necessarily mean violence, though some more believable boxing scenes would have been a treat…just more than a bunch of nothingness, as we follow an idiot around the city and watch him buy cars and clothes. And for fuck sake…beat the fuck out of Pauly or just give the guy a fucking job! What’s with the song and dance?! You’re fucking the guy’s sister, he’s letting you train on his meat, so throw the fucker a bone, which I know he does…but WTF is the hold up about?! The only guy who remains consistent through the series was Mick. Mick is awesome…end of story.
Today, I began Rocky III, and even after watching only the first half hour which includes Hulk Hogan as “Thunderlips: The Ultimate Male”. I absolutely still love this movie. It recaptures everything; there are great scenes, great lines, and it captures that need to climb to the top as the first one did. Not to mention, both the plot and Mr. T are fucking awesome. Mr. T is like an angry rabid badger in that movie, and it’s so visceral, you may actually worry he’s going to climb out of the television and eat your wife. AND…there is a message that remains RESPECTFULLY intact: Never forget where you come from and watch your ego because there is always a hungry motherfucker out there in the shadows ready to take your shit from you no matter how tough you think you are.
Perhaps Boondock Saints NEEDS a third movie for some god damn redemption. Please for the love of all things fucked, someone redeem that franchise! It’s not good when a movie makes me want to get drunk and shoot my fucking T.V.
Rocky rant part 2 is coming soon my pretties.
A brand-spanking new writer has joined the ranks of this here smeatysmeat team of maladjusted ruffians. IAMRICKSEE is the new writer, so enjoy sending him naked pictures of your bondage-loving grandmother, or just spam him links to your creepy doll-collecting blog, he loves those (a lot).
New bio, new front page, new updates coming by next week. YES I ALWAYS SAY THAT! The thing I love about you assholes, is you never know whether or not I mean it this time, but you’ll check, anyway. Now that’s dedication, especially after over a decade. You’re all clearly getting old and delusional.
So, I wrote some girl on etsy about some of her “art” like a month ago and never got to post it. I plan on sending her more messages about the other stuff she has for sale and telling her that each one reminds me of a dead relative who died in some horrifically weird way.
Here is the item in question that I am referring to in the message:
Hello, my much-neglected readers, how are you? That’s nice.
The other day I saw someone with a bumper sticker that said “I am Catholic, AND I vote!”, and I thought to myself, who the fuck cares? I wonder what sort of self deluded cunt wipe would actually think they are so important to the world that they need every stranger on a busy highway to be aware of what stupid religion they are. Weirdly, the way it’s worded, it sounds more like a threat than it does any proclamation of who and what they are. Like, hey I believe in dumb shit that will fuck up your life, AND I take part in society by voting to make sure your life is going to suck because of it! YAY!
I don’t put bumper stickers on my car, but I just can’t imagine ever feeling like I was so important to every random driver that passed me, that I needed to let them know who I was and what I believed. I seem to just hate people in general these days, but this new widespread disease of self-importance seems to be running rampant and it’s getting sickening. And once again, I blame facebook. It has deluded millions into thinking that they’re so important people actually give a fuck if they just got out of the shower, if their cat just thew up, or if they happen to be bored at the moment so they’re going to go watch a movie. Who the fuck cares that much about every single moment and detail about someone else’s existence? They’re so much dumb shit constantly posted to the internet that anything actually important is drowned out by the plethora of mind-numbing horse shit people are constantly puking forth from their face holes.
Before you post something, buy a sticker, buy a tshirt, or whatever way you want to proudly scream to the world that you’re a person, and you’re special, think about how fucking boring and stupid and pointless what you’re writing is, then either shut up or go do something worth reading and caring about instead.
All my dumb shit is on my website, if you don’t like it, don’t read it. If I got my posts painted all over my car, I would invite others to have fun egging it.
Oh yeah, fuck Easter.
And one more thing, I realize I don’t post much these days, but so is life when you’re dying. Not, oh I have a cold, omg I’m dying, but, oh I have a fatal bacterial infection slowly eating each of my organs, type of dying, so posts are scarce at times.
Hey look, it’s Christmas, the time of year I lovingly post the star wars holiday special every single year for you to cry and gauge your eyes out over.
Where have I been, you ask? Like you fucking care. Cheers!
So, I promised fellow smeat movie reviewer, Joe, that I would make him a “trannydactyl”. Originally I said I’d make one with cut out pictures from magazines, but you’d be surprised how few pictures there really are left of actual pterodactyls. Body parts are easy. So here is your post-op, in femskin, trannydactyl. He still doesn’t have the money for surgery, but he feels confident flying around in his fleshy woman-shaped outer shell, wig, and little slot for his penis head to stick out and pretend it’s an enormous clit.
Pleasant dreams, all.
You know what I hate? Well, you’re reading this crap, so you should, but in case you didn’t know, I hate furries. But more specifically, I hate their propensity for making really terrible artwork of their “fursonas”, it’s horrible, all of it. I don’t want to see a thirty-five year old dude dressed as a raccoon who likes to fuck people in rabbit costumes, and I definitely don’t want to see his mentally challenged crayon drawings of what he thinks he looks like, either. But I DO want to show it all to you. Why? Well because I look at this crap and if I see it, you need to suffer as well. These are the people that are ruining the internet, my second edition…
you will have nightmares
S01 E05 The Tale of the Hungry Hounds
Well well if it isn’t the ole’ lesbo gang, hanging out in the woods and blahblahblah. Dun dun dunnnn there’s howling oh nooooo what will they do? Oh they’re still making fun of blondie while simultaneously all lesbo-ing after her. And she’s the storyteller this time around. meh.
Hey this episode stars Mia Kirshner, someone told me I looked like her once, I completely disagree, but it would be kind of cool if it was actually true. There’s an attic with a woman with a white sheet over her head, she must have read that wikihow on how to make a cheap ghost costume. Ahhh she just misquoted Hamlet, that annoys me tremendously. Oh they’re goonie-ing this shit up and finding random stuff in the attic now.
They find an old chest, it can’t be opened, it’s time for dinner, or to feed the dog, or eat it or some shit. Now they look at horses, and she pulls a carrot out of her ass, seriously, she does. She isn’t allowed to ride horses, and her mother is angry about horses, she must have had an uncle turned into glue or something.
Now they’re suddenly playing with a ouija board out in a field, no idea why the board is partly in French, though, but it is. The board tells them they’re annoying little cunts and to stop waking up the ghosts. Her friend has the worst hair cut ever, and she looks like a fifty year old widow. And it also gives the the combination to the chest. 1-4-9 guys, remember that.
The chest seems to have a fog machine in it, and some stuff for bondage night. Now she puts on the clothes and suddenly turns into a whore. It’s weird. This part really seriously makes no fucking sense at all. She walks through a hole in the attic wall, down some stairs to a field, and suddenly they’re in the woods. You know what, fuck this, I went through twelve minutes of hell, and I’m not finishing this. Watch it yourselves, I’m not in the mood for lesbian horse-fucking orgy movies.
ps… new mp3 of the moment up over on the right, particularly spectacular choice this time around if you liked the first Troll movie.