Trillaphon: "Yes, I've decided not to sell or give away my top secret incredible new miracle fertilizer, which is why I'm holding a press conference right now to make sure everyone knows all about it. Tell your friends!"
Hydrogen: I'm pretty sure the Pentagon at least would be dying to get ahold of his miracle manure, since it seems to be pretty much a fucking comic book super-soldier serum.
Hydrogen: New Captain America origin story: he rolls around in a pile of irradiated hog shit.
Trillaphon: I think it would fit better for his new sidekick, the Amazing Hog Boy: Defender of the American Way (of Eating and Living in Your Own Shit and Having Like a Million Nipples). Come to think of it, there might be a reason why those issues are so rare.
Hydrogen: This bit is integral to the fly-kid plot, by the way, because everyone knows it's impossible to catch houseflies without using research-grade, industrial-strength fertilizer as bait. No other way to do it.
Trillaphon: Let's contextualize here for a minute, because this is crucial to the whole arc of the 3rd act of this movie: see, the farmer, who at the beginning of this segment was frothing with rage and trying to kill the fat kid with his shotgun for stealing his weaponized nuclear ultra-shit, subsequently invites him in to give him a special free jar of said uberfertilizer which he's just announced loudly on the local news that he'll never share with anyone ever.
Hydrogen: "Yep, mixed this here batch up real special, just for you, kid who's driven me into apoplectic fits of rage every day for the past six months. Let's just say you won't be bothering me anymore after you try out my extra special batch of fertilizer. Because you'll be murdered by giant mutant flies. Wink wink. Oh shit, I'm not supposed to say that part out loud."
Trillaphon: It's arguably slightly more subtle a plan than trying to directly obliterate him from existence with a shotgun blast to the face every day...yet somehow it's supposed to be a big shocking reveal when giant flies rip off his arms and legs 20-odd long fucking minutes of "tension-building" later:
Hydrogen: That was the worst fucking collection of campfire stories ever put together, real or fictional. But on the plus side, it was still a better campfire story than Hellgate.
Trillaphon: Maybe it's like The Aristocrats of spooky campfire stories--the punchline is retarded and everyone knows it's coming, but the payoff is all in the buildup of how you tell it!
Trillaphon: Wait, no it isn't, the buildup was the worst part, and there is no goddamn payoff.
Hydrogen: Phew, glad we figured that out now instead of trying to watch it again to find out.
Trillaphon: What sickening kiddy-diddling slimeball made this pile of radioactive hog-enricher again? Gregory Peck?
Hydrogen: I dunno, but I don't think Gregory Peck was a registered sex offender. That we know of.
Trillaphon: Should we Google it?
|Music / Sound||-9|
"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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