Hydrogen: Surely this is what Wagner was imagining when he composed the Ring Cycle; sand and extras flying through the air, legally ambiguous bargain knockoff sand people, and gratuitous multi-split screens for non-stop action.
Trillaphon: The translation's a little rough in some parts, but yeah that's the gist of it. The Ring Cycle was actually symbolic of the endless circle he crawled around his bathroom floor between the bath and toilet in while ritually purging all of his bodily fluids in an effort to cleanse himself of the toxic memories of this movie.
Hydrogen: You're talking about yourself again, aren't you?
Hydrogen: At least they stopped dicking around in this giant sandbox and chasing mutant hyper-chickens long enough to have some explosions near them. They've been wandering around in the desert longer than the Jews.
Trillaphon: Nope, any desert scene shorter than the director's cut of Ishtar barely registers as a subliminal message now that I've suffered through Battlespace.
Trillaphon: And so ends the first and probably last Sand People Minimalist Desert Parkour Invitational Acro-Jam, under what could only be considered genocidally tragic circumstances all-around. They always travel in packs, but they prefer to die by the bushel.
Hydrogen: Is this how the Recon saga ends? Please?
Trillaphon: I wish, then we wouldn't have to watch this random annoying fat guy explaining the resolution to the block-headed cybertronic Killfrau. And with that final "fuck you" from the vast, miserable universe of Recon, we can finally say our fond farewells to whoever the hell made this and kept making it and wouldn't stop goddamn making it, whatever the hell any of it was.
Hydrogen: Yes, and we want to wish Christian Viel and his buddies all the best of luck in the future, unless they're serious about the whole making Recon 2024 thing, in which case we hope instead they die in a blazing, stinky trash inferno lit with the film negatives of the first three Recon movies.
|Music / Sound||-10|
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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