Trillaphon: I AM ROTOR. *hrghrgrhghrghhh* PULL MY FINGER. DOES MY GUN SMELL FUNNY TO YOU?
Hydrogen: And introducing Dr. Steele as special guest She-Hulk!
Trillaphon: Mme. Mildred von Musclemilk.
Hydrogen: Xena, Warrior Cyberneticist.
Trillaphon: If The Thing's slow-witted second cousin Billy-George Beauford and the Bride of Frankenstein had a baby and raised it in the Solomon Grundy Memorial Intensive Head Trauma Center and All-Night Olympic Gym, it would be that lady.
Hydrogen: The gripping combat here almost makes me forget that they've spent the entire rest of the movie revealing R.O.T.O.R.'s crippling weakness to loud noises, but the comedy team of Steele and Coldyron decided that wouldn't be as sporting as just wrasslin' him to the ground.
Trillaphon: And esteemed doctors Steele and Coldyron made disgusting, passionate love there down by the river bank, and were married, retiring to a ranch just outside Duluth, where he breeds horses and she wrestles them to the ground.
Trillaphon: They still live there to this day in simple, quiet comfort, blowing up baskets of pristine free range eggs, body-slamming buckets of fresh frothy milk out of their cows every morn, and supping on the tenderest grass-fed beef you ever did see suplexed into a meat grinder every eve. The end.
Hydrogen: You wish that was the end.
Hydrogen: Just to be clear, Police Commissioner Jowls T. Evil shoots Coldyron in the back with a giant rifle in broad daylight right outside the police HQ where he was testifying to about a dozen federal agents, and then gets away with it. That's the totally believable ending they're going with here.
Trillaphon: This is the worst plot device I've seen since the book I read where the president was assassinated in a bank lobby in the middle of the afternoon by a guy with a trident after finding a bunch of money in his pants. Or something.
Hydrogen: Worst...or best? Let's face it, this is some mind-blowing red pill future shit here, and you can't expect your average slackjawed 80s home sci-fi VHS novitiate to understand the intricacies and shocking originality of the ideas presented here.
Trillaphon: Nope, fuck that noise, there's not enough self-aware meta-irony in the universe to pull this one out of the fire. R.O.T.O.R. earned a solid -50 and then some, and we never even got to most of the stellar supporting cast.
Hydrogen: At least we've all got plenty of time to think about what this means to each one of us.
|Music / Sound||-10|
At what point does your ruthless gnawing count as self-cannibalism?
Liberals want to mess with the rooms where we poo and pee. Unacceptable. We must protect our poo and pee.
These all just look like normal cats to me.
From what I understand, this genre is about getting eaten by crocodiles. I excel at this.
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