The Mean Green Redeeming Machine

Ever since the news came out that Edward Norton and Liv Tyler were starring in the new Incredible Hulk movie, there've been naysayers coming out of the woodwork insisting that this "sequel" was nothing but a bunch of big-name actors trying to make up for the cinematic fiasco in which Eric Bana and Jennifer Connell shamelessly displayed their respective suck-factors. To those people who groaned in disbelief that Marvel could showcase their raging steroid gamma monstrosity without disappointing the world, I have five words for you.
Nah, nah, nah nah, nah!
From the flashback sequence that swiftly retconned the dismal 2003 attempt at bringing Bruce Banner's alter ego to the big screen to the much-anticipated Robert Downey Jr. cameo at the end of the film, The Incredible Hulk breaths life into the big green walking anger management issue. Edward Norton's portrayal of a man who must constantly ration his emotions is both enjoyable and saddening, as we see the effect that desperation and isolationism has on someone whose genius would otherwise likely garner him everything in life that he could want. The fact that Norton also had creative liscense with the film proves that he's not only one of the best actors in Hollywood, but also one of the best imaginations.
As for Liv Tyler, gone are the days of Empire Records. Instead, she's at a point in her life and her career where she can do just about anything she puts her creative mind to, as evidenced by the way she surpasses Jennifer Connelly's take on Dr. Betty Ross by leaps and bounds. Tyler shows the audience that Bruce Banner isn't the only tragic character in this story; a woman who believes the man she loves is dead, only to be reintroduced to him as a fugitive that she must risk everything to reunite with. Where Edward Norton brings his fair share of action and drama, Liv Tyler brings something that's sorely lacking in female love interests in cinema today: heart.
As for William Hurt playing General Ross, I'm not really sure what he brings. Granted, the man's made a name for himself as a stoic personality, and the military strives to convince the world that stoicism is it's stock in trade, Hurt's performance brings little to the story but someone to hate for being a tool of his own ambition and distorted sense of patriotic duty. The only scene where he shows any sign of life is his meeting with Tony Stark, and I'm not entirely convinced that the positive impression I gleamed from their interaction wasn't due to Downey Jr.'s unfailing presence in the billionaire industrialist turned superhero's shoes.
Tim Roth as The Abomination. Need I say more? Now, first of all, I enjoyed Ted the Bellboy as much as anyone, but the man was born to be a villain. There's something about that cockney intensity that just screams "You need to be afraid of me, even though I weigh about as much as a fourteen year-old Asian girl." From start to finish, the man oozes that sort of unassuming tough-as-nails hard-ass persona. If anything, his mutation actually makes him seem like less of a threat. There's something about a gigantic freak with skeletal protrusions that will never have a chance at combating a soldier who's out of ammunition and still walks up to The Hulk and says "Is that all you got?", knowing full well that the latter juggernaut could grind him into the asphalt.
The rest of the cast, while none of them individually noteworthy, did a terrific job of contributing to the story, with the exception of Mr. Blue (no, despite Roth's presence, Tarrantino had nothing to do with the picture to the best of my knowledge). The implications made by his character and fate were amusing, but let's face facts. An annoying scientist will always be an annoying scientist. That aside, The Incredible Hulk succeeds in every area that it's predecessor failed in. If you need any further incentive to go see it, I couldn't even force myself to sneak into another show afterward. I was that impressed.
Even though there was no Sam Jackson appearance after the credits. Damn it.

Indiana Jones and the Ruined Franchise

The only thing that could possibly make this film better is fire, directly applied to every copy in existence, and the execution of George Lucas, whose status as an alzheimer's patient is made blatantly apparent by this fourth installment in a series that, once upon a time, made me happy. It was bad enough when he ruined Star Wars, not once, not twice, but three fucking times, and every time the public lapped it up with the abandon of a cum-addicted whore working overtime. Fuck you, Lucasarts. Fuck you, George Lucas. Most of all, fuck you, Harrison Ford, for allowing your second greatest character to be completely destroyed in the eyes of everyone unfortunate enough to be suckered into paying eight bucks to watch this sub-par genre piece. If I hadn't theater jumped after the flick, I'd probably be on my way to kick your ass.
In other news, there's a new Mummy flick comin' out. I'm warning each and every one of you, if I find out that they replaced Rachel Weisz for any reason other than she's too busy reading my rants and fantasizing about the more integral portions of my anatomy, I'm going. To kill. Everyone.
Except Rachel Weisz.

Re: The Sarah Connor Chronicles

Please tell me I'm not the only one thinking about the finer points of having sex with Summer Glau's version of the Terminator. I mean, c'mon, they can bleed, they can sweat, they can have bad breath...there's gotta' be something at least resembling a vagina on that thing.
...Sweet Jesus, but I need a hobby...

Time to put the brakes on your sex organs, people.

Look, I know my friends and I are all at that age where we start thinking about how warm and fuzzy we'd feel if we settled down and started our own families. It's the curse of getting older, we start worrying about our own genetic progeny, we start entertaining thoughts of how wicked cool our offspring would be. We play mental scenerios of baseball games, birthdays, sex talks and embarassing the shit out of them in front of their first serious significant others.
Sorry to burst your bubble folks, but in case you've forgotten, life sucks. S'true.
There isn't enough food on the planet at this point in time to adequately feed the current population, and at the current rate of knocked up prom dates per capita, it's only slated to get worse. Overpopulation and resource scarcity is an escalating problem, and guess what? It's our fault! Yeah, I know, it's a buzzkill, and having been raised Catholic I'm probably in no place to preach, but humanity's rapid spread across the globe is destroying this planet.
While I'll grant you that after the inevitable death of one of God's most disastrous oversights, more commonly known as the baby boomers, things'll get a little better, it isn't enough. What would be enough is if someone got America and China together, sat them down in the biggest gymnasium in history and instructed our respective cultures on how to use a fucking condom. At least China's trying. Killing babies isn't the coolest thing they've ever done, but they're putting forth an effort, and I respect that. America, on the other hand? America rewards it's populace for fucking like rabbits with free money. Free. Fucking. Money. What kind of incentive is that to pay a little fucking courtesy to the rest of the world? "Y'know, overpopulation is going to result in planet-wide food shortages, and we're not gonna' have enough space for these little bastards to stand and wave their arms around without smacking their neighbors in their scrunched up little faces, but hey, we're fine at the moment. Here's twenty bucks, Miss Legswideopen. The rest is in the mail."
And yes, I know how this is gonna' go over with those of my friends who already have children and think that they're the greatest thing since Nintendo, but y'know something? Every parent on the planet thinks their kid is going to grow up to be a Nobel Peace Prize winner. They're not. In all likelihood, they're gonna' end up just like everyone else; subsisting on frozen pizza and working some stupid, underpaying job, driving like idiots, and generally wasting more oxygen than they're worth.
"But Rem, the sanctity of life, the miracle of childbirth, the first time they burp, baby blue walls with rubber ducky wallpaper and-" shut the fuck up. Children are loud, obnoxious, and smell funny even on the best of days. I refuse to respect any human being as a worthwhile individual until they can wipe their own ass, and by that time they've usually picked up enough jackass habits that I hate them anyway. Long story short, pop the pill, wear the patch, make your skeezy-assed boyfriend double wrap it, I don't care. Just stop multiplying, and stop pretending it's a miracle.
Fuck's sake, you shit all over yourself popping the little bastards out. What's so miraculous about that?

Oh, the humanity...no, seriously.

I hate nights like this. Nights when my mind's going in a million different directions at once, gears turning a mile a minute in some desperate attempt to distract me from my own frail mortal bullshit. I've got worries, problems, hopes, fears, desires and things I pray with every fiber of my being that never come to pass, whether I know they will or not.
I'm human, a member of the worst thing to ever happen to Earth since it's creation. Strong in some ways, weak in others, and towing the line between both in most. I brave up, I get scared, and at the end of the day it doesn't really matter which I do more. All the jokes and rantings won't change a damn thing in the long run, no matter how many people think they make me sound like a genius or a prick, depending on who they are and how much shit they had to swallow that day.
See? Perfect example. Yeah, everything above pertained to the same thing, but it was all about as random as Indiana weather.
Indiana. Never thought I'd say, or in this case type, that word and have any sense of longing whatsoever. I miss people there, more than I ever would've thought. Fact is, moving to California wasn't even a knee-jerk reaction. It was just one of those "What If" scenerios that spiraled way the fuck outta' control way too quick. Do I regret it? Hell no. I proved something to myself by coming out here with nothing but a paycheck, some old debts called in, my car and a place to crash. I found a job damn quick, especially by West coast standards. By some minor miracle I managed to attract the positive attention of a few people who, in all honesty, don't know me from Adam, and all that's kept me warm on nights that would otherwise probably have frozen me solid. None of that changes the fact that I bailed on a lot of what I had back East without even knowing it. Same old story, the grass looks greener on the other side of the fence, only when you get there, you realize that the grass on the old side wasn't so bad after all.
I know what would've happened if I'd have stayed, though. I felt it happening, a flippancy that could've turned me into something that I never wanna' be. I don't mind having the mindset of an anarchic criminal, that much is pretty well hardwired into my DNA. The day I'm afraid of is when I finally break the moral compass that seperates being a criminal from being irredeemable.
You'd never know it to look at or listen to me, but redemption's a big part of my daily thought processes. Fact is I've done some rotten things to people in my life, and that keeps me awake a lot more than I'd like to admit. Disregard for the law I can handle; it was written by people who don't have a clue how the world I'm from works. It's disregard for people that I'm afraid of. When my apartment was broken into, it wasn't that my stuff got ganked that bothered me. What bothered me was that someone out there didn't have a rip about whose stuff they ganked. Ya' wanna' hit up some rich fuck's summer house for some extra dosh, be my guest, but don't rip off the lower-middle class working stiff who just wants to come home, jam out on his guitar, play an old beat up PS2 and pretend he's got it better than he does. That's just dick.
More immediately, I ain't scared of jail; I've been around too long and known too many convicts to buy into the media craze that prison's a bunch'a big, burly, tatted-up fags trying to assrape anyone who walks through the door. What's got me wigged out is what it's gonna' mean for my life when I get out. I've got a relatively decent job, I've got a place to live and, more importantly, other people living here who depend on my contributions to maintain their own lives. I go away, I lose my job. I lose my job, we might all lose our place, and that throws all manner of wrenches into the cogs. I can't afford a plane ticket back to Missouri for this shit, and the legal office has me chasin' my own tail tryin' to get this transfer sorted out. Likely, it won't happen, and then my ass'll really be in the fire.
I'm watching everyone around me get into relationships that don't seem as stupid and inconsequential as they used to. Sleeping alone sucks, and they fact that I'm one of the few still doing so sucks even worse. Worst of all, it's got me looking back on past relationships that weren't worth shit like they were the golden days, and that's got me a little pissed at the world in general. Life, thy flavor is bitterness. Also, fuck you.
I miss my brother and his dumbass antics that made me feel like I wasn't the only one afraid to take a chance and fuck up a little. I miss his crazy girlfriend who said I was a junked out car with a bad-ass engine that just needed a little tweaking, after she and her siblings agreed I looked a little like Johnny Depp. I miss my sister, even though we almost never hung out, because I spent most of my life wondering who and how she was and now that I'm two thousand miles away I'm afraid I might never see her again. I miss Will for being obnoxiously right and knowing me better than I know myself, I miss Scott and all his self-deprecating comments and seeming reliance on me to dispute them. I miss that stupid apartment on Main Street that everyone told me kicked ass. I miss Felicia and Penny, and the way they acted like me showing up on their doorstep looking like death warmed over was the best thing that happened to them every time I stopped by. Hell, I even miss my old man a little, even though I'm a little pissed that it took moving across the country to get a phone call out of him.
I miss my old life, no matter how much promise the new one has.
I wanna' go home, I wanna' stay here, I want everything, damn it.
And after all this ranting, I wanna' go to bed.

Now you, yes, you, can be a hero just like me!

Ladies and gentlemen, this is Drew. Drew, unlike the bastard who's writing this bulletin, is good people. Drew, not unlike the bastard who's writing this bulletin, has friends who occasionally are absent-minded and forget things.

Like his birthday.

Now, I'm not going to point out all of the times that I've made you laugh, helped you through some sort of crisis or otherwise gone out of my way to make your lives a bit more jolly. I'm not going to remind you how much it sucks to be forgotten on a day that, really, should be all about you. I'm not even going to guilt you into doing something nice by pointing out that this ten kinds of kick-ass and stand up guy's already had a hard time of things and deserves a smile more than most of the people walking this cursed planet. All I'm going to do is ask that you head on over to Drew's MySpace and wish him a belated happy birthday. Y'know, because it's the kind of thing God Jesus I would do.

And Mike Ness.

Apparently no one told you...

...But sex is a good time. No shit (and feel free to take that in more than one context, ya’ miserable deviants). Yep, fucking is pretty much the only reason that most men even bother getting out of bed in the morning. You could say that they wake up in order to go to work, but that’s just part of the trip. See, men work to support themselves, and having a place is part of supporting one’s self. Why? So we have somewhere to bring back the chicks who bought into our attempts at being charming and, thusly, plan to spread their legs while we grunt and sweat all over them for an hour or two.
Unfortunately, there are a great many issues that women, for whatever reason, seem to think merit not having sex. For those in a hurry, I’ll sum up this entire blog in one very simple statement: Unless your vagina is resembles some sort of hideous B-movie space alien, it’s a safe bet that we still wanna’ stick and stir you. For those of you who aren’t in a hurry, proceed below for...

Rem’s List Of Stupid Things Women Overreact To In The Bedroom

1. You forgot to shave your legs that day. So you forgot to pick up a new pack of Lady Bics on your way home from work last night and got a little stubbly. It’s not the end of the world. Honestly, unless you’re some kind of hippie scumcunt who found money under your pillow for a baby tooth more recently than you trimmed up, we don’t care.
2. You don’t think it’ll be special. Sex isn’t special. It isn’t some magic pagan ritual signifying the union of two hearts that beat only for each other, and honestly, every time you call it ’making love’, the world gets a little more gay. Make what? No, you fuck, and then the room smells weird because all you really made was a mess. I’ve used that line once before in my blogs, I know, but it fits. Put away the romance book, close your eyes, I’ll get a towel ready and we can get to work.
3. You have to be up early tomorrow. Ladies, there is absolutely no reason at all why this sentence shouldn’t be the best thing any man can hope to here. Sex isn’t always a long process. God blessed us with The Quickie for a reason; wham, bam, thank you ma’am, no I’m not cuddling because you’re not the only one who has to be up early tomorrow. Go to sleep.
4. You think we won’t respect you. Personally, I respect someone who doesn’t deny herself a good time a hell of a lot more than someone who turns it down for fear of some non-existent stigma that a woman who sleeps with a friend/a boyfriend/a husband/me is a sloptwat. Remember, no one likes a prude; we just pretend to until you put out and we mount our cumsoaked sheets on the wall as a tribute to our unerring tolerance for puritanical bullshit in the face of potential naked feel-good happy time.
5. You have morning breath. This is another one of those "We don’t give a shit" situations. Honestly, if you’re that concerned about it, keep a box of Tic Tacs by the bed and let’s start the day out right, damn it!
6. You have a headache. Well, my nad ache is worse, I guarantee it.
7. You’re on your period. Are you fucking kidding me? The other three and a half weeks of the month we swap spit, semen, sweat and God only knows how many germs in more capacities than even I’m comfortable thinking about, and you’re worried about a little blood getting on the sheets? Every time I hear this I wonder if there’s a way to tell someone to stop being a fucktard without hurting my chances of getting my cock wet. Seriously, have a little common sense.
8. You’re afraid the neighbors will hear. That’s funny, because I’m hoping the neighbors’ll here. The wife’s kind’a hot, and I’ve got a reputation to think about.
9. You’re afraid the children will hear. Though not something I’ve experienced personally due to the fact that all the single mothers I’ve had sex with came to my place and left their children with someone else, it does come up. Not to contaminate you with that nasty logic stuff, but it didn’t seem to bother you when you were horny and your partner’s cock was probably a quarter’s width away from little Timmy’s face as he was nestled snugly in your womb. Seriously, which do you think is worse: hearing the headboard hit the wall a few times, or staring in wide-eyed terror as your first introduction to the outside world keeps trying to hit you in the forehead and, upon failure, spits at you and leaves?
10. You’re still angry over an earlier dispute. Look, I understand grudges better than anyone, but what the hell? What’s the point in both of us being miserable because I didn’t like the toilet seat cover you thought made the bathroom so much prettier? Besides, when you get right down to it, when the hell else are you going to get a free pass to do so much damage? Have you ever once, in your entire life, heard a man complain because you left too many claw marks on his back? It’s the perfect solution to the domestic confrontation! You get to draw blood, I get to grudge fuck you, and both of us get our rocks off and feel better afterward.

In closing, I have absolutely nothing more to say. Good night, good luck, and good grief, put out a little more often!