I'd say this kid was old enough to watch some X-rated movies, or at least a film where the lead character blows peoples' heads off with a shotgun for 60 minutes.
I don't go out to the movies that much these days, mostly due to the fact that the theaters are located outside of my home and therefore make it quite tricky to get there while refusing to wear pants. This strict "no pants" rule severely limits my outdoors activities, but since the only things you can do outside your home in Missouri is get bitten by insects or watch other people get bitten by insects, I don't feel I'm really missing too much. I'm one of the ever-growing minority of people who refuse to see movies in the theaters, instead waiting for them to come out on DVD so I can subsequently refuse to watch them on my DVD player. I blame this sentiment on the fact that I have pretty eclectic taste in films and don't really care for the newest "cars driving into other cars and then exploding in slow motion from nine different camera angle" films that Jerry Bruckheimer shits out on a regular basis. Some of my all time favorite films include "Blackmale," "Thick As Thieves," "Miami Blues," and "Session 9," none of which could particularly be labeled as box office blockbusters. In fact, I think the number of cast and crew members from each of these films outnumber the quantity of people who have actually watched the movies, which is a shame because I honestly love each one of these films and encourage everybody reading this to check them out.
To give you an indication of how terrible my movie-attending performance is, I've only seen two movies in the theaters within the past six years and one of those films was "Gone in 60 Seconds," which I mistakenly thought was a film about my sex life. Now I don't need to fill in the blanks here and explain exactly how watching "Gone in 60 Seconds" will make anybody with half a brain despise movie theaters and everybody associated with them in any way, so let me instead simply indicate my burning desire to stick a few hundred pounds of plastic explosives up Jerry Bruckheimer's ass and then film his bloated carcass exploding from nine different camera angles, preferably in slow motion. I recently broke my "no outside movie" rule by attending a showing of "Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines and Downfall of Arnold's Political Aspirations" in one of the many Kansas City 546-screen movie theater complexes. I'm a modest fan of the "Terminator" series and I have to admit that one of my most favorite movie scenes occurred during the ending of "Terminator 2" when John Connor bit the finger off Gollum and fell into Mount Doom. "Terminator 3" has received mixed, mostly positive reviews from movie critics and my fat next door neighbors alike, so I decided to bite the bullet and attend a movie which featured a man biting a bullet.
Although I wouldn't claim "Terminator 3" was a bad movie, I would have a difficult time convincing myself to believe it was a good movie. I'd say the biggest flaws of the film revolved around the fact that it lacked a good, solid pacing. The movie would toss out an action-packed, intense action scene which lasted 15 minutes, immediately followed by 30 minutes of dialogue between two people who had the charisma of rotting plasterboard that had flown out of the back of a pickup truck and landed in a ditch alongside a highway. Now I must admit that I'm a big fan of humanity; hell, some of my best friends are humans. However, I was really rooting for the robot apocalypse to take place in T3, as the murder-death-kill fueled machines of genocide had much more character and sex appeal than any human being featured in the movie. If you want to save yourself the $36 that it costs to see a film these days, let me briefly sum up "Terminator 3" for you:
1) Bad robot appears.
2) Helpless and stupid humans run away from it.
3) Bad robot finds them.
4) Helpless and stupid humans run away from it again.
This image appeared when I did a search for "Terminator 3." Draw your own conclusions, I guess.
This pattern repeats for about 90 minutes until the humans find some place that the bad robot can't chase them because there is a particularly large door in its way and, in the future, robots cannot figure out how to open particularly large doors. Hell, I don't think there are even any doors in the future, as the post-apocalyptic world of the Terminators seems to support a style of architecture best described as "blown up concrete blocks that are on fire despite the fact that concrete doesn't usually burn." If you plan on being an architect or interior decorator later on in life, please keep in mind the fact that you'll probably be out of a job once the robots start slinging nuclear warheads around the globe. I'm guessing the mobile ice cream delivery service will be adversely affected as well, mostly because I honestly cannot remember a single ice cream man appearing in the futuristic clips from the "Terminator" franchise, despite the fact that many of the filthy people holding automatic weapons looked like they would really enjoy a Bomb-Pop or Creamsicle.
But I digress; today's update is not about what happened onscreen during the viewing of "Terminator 3: The Rise of the Franchises," but rather what happened offscreen. There is an unfortunate trend that has been increasing in popularity the past decade or so, one that threatens to undermine our way of living and sanity in general. I'm not referring to the amount of movies using "bullet time," I'm talking about all the fucking six-year old retarded kids that are being hauled into R-rated movies by their deadbeat parents. There was a large black woman behind me who apparently thought it would be an utterly fantastic idea to bring her four small children to watch "Terminator 3: Rise of the Box Office Receipts" the fine day I chose to attend. Now I don't have any problem with kids in general, just as long as I don't have to fucking see them, hear them, smell them, or ever think about them in any way whatsoever. If you want to go hitch up with some guy who predominantly wears shirts that feature various farm equipment manufacturer's names, pop out a few dozen kids with him, and then bitch about how he's not there for you on the next episode of "The Jenny Jones Show," that's absolutely fantastic with me. I assume I'll still be eating at Wendy's 17 years from now, so your kids will assuredly have a job in their future. However, I do not appreciate it when these gutter-dwelling hagbeasts tug their filthy dirtbugs into the movie theater to watch an R-rated movie about mass murders and graphic violence.
"MOMMA! WHY DID DAT GUY DO DAT?"
The underage oafs in question sat behind me in the theater, asking key questions such as "MOMMA, WHO IS DAT?" and "MOMMA, WHAT DEY DOIN?" every 13 nanoseconds, which provided a really helpful service for me since I found it somewhat difficult to follow the detailed and complex dramatic storyline behind "T3." The mother kind of dropped the ball and failed to help out her kids, as all her answers were some variation of "just watch the movie, Quantisha" or "watch the movie, Lungfisha" or whatever the hell her little bastard children were named at the current time. A 10-minute procession of explosions and gunfire would inhabit the screen, and the split second that things ceased blowing up and catching fire, her dimwitted hellspawn would shout, "MOMMA, WHERE DEY GOIN TO?" As you can obviously imagine, the children lacked the ability to distinguish between "I should shout at the top of my lungs because the film is very noisy" verbal mode and "I should fucking talk in a normal goddamn volume because the explosions stopped happening half an hour ago." These kids talked so outrageously loud that people attending the next sequel in the Terminator franchise will still be able to hear their screeching voices. I realize that previous analogy didn't really make too much sense, so please just pretend it was so incredibly clever and hilarious that you are unable to fully comprehend what a fantastic writer I am.
While my reasons for loathing the presence of children at movie theaters are fairly selfish at this point, I would like to explain one of the resulting perils that will undoubtedly affect you soon. We've currently got these land monster mothers bringing six-year olds to R-rated movies, content to let their little lifelong unemployed greasehogs view movies that feature hundreds of people being shot to death after engaging in fairly explicit sexual situations that caused them to shout enough curse words to make the ghost of George Carlin blush once he dies and his ghost begins making celebrity appearances at the charity fundraisers of his choice. If irresponsible parents want to haul their children to these types of movies because they're too cheap or lazy to hire a babysitter, hey, that's fine with me just as long as they don't object once I pull a fucking Baretta on them and proceed to wrap enough duct tape around all their McDonalds-encrusted rotting mouths to ensure that they'll never say a goddamn word for as long as either I or they live. What worries me is that soon we'll have a generation of kids raised on these R-rated movies, completely immune to exploding skulls, people punching through other people's crucial body parts, and women having sex with men inside of fast cars which drive on a speedboat on top of a horse's back snowboarding down a snowy cavern while holding a can of Mountain Dew: Code Remix Ultra Vanilla Slice Extreme LiveWire XP Pro. Think about this: what kind of movies will these kids be making once they turn 18 and realize that the only career prospects they have lie in either preparing deep fried objects, professionally running into other fat men in the pursuit of a brown ball, or being an action star who must remember such key lines as "who, me?" and "what, you?" and then being required to run from one side of the screen to the other?
Although this has nothing to do with today's update, I recently purchased this velvet painting of the Notorious B.I.G. for my house. Thank you very much, eBay, for making my dreams come true!
If the current trend of "let's take our stupid little loud-mouthed kids to graphic R-rated movies" continues, the movie industry will be doomed. Where will the shock value go? When I was a kid, I was horrified by many of the scenes in "Poltergeist," particularly at the image of Craig T. Nelson with hair. If somebody were to release "Poltergeist" in this day and age, it would get a G-rating and Taco Bell would begin offering a "Crazy Choking Clown" toys with every Kid's Meal purchase. We've got a generation of youth who are being exposed to movies that our parents would've slapped us silly if we tried to watch during our childhoods. What types of movies will these kids be making when they grow up? To what levels will the Hollywood "shock value" ultimately sink to before our culture decides to do the job of the machines and willingly nuke ourselves? Full-frontal nudity is no longer shocking in current movies, instead becoming a staple, expected feature of any film. Did you know that over 86% of Disney cartoons these days feature at least one shot of the female lead's exposed breasts? Even more disturbing, over 41% of Disney cartoons show oral intercourse between two non-consenting adults, although they may be adult fish or adult polar bears or adult space creatures. I guess there's a slight chance those aforementioned two facts may be slightly factually incorrect, but I'm 100% sure of the "86%" and "41%" figures, I'm just not positive exactly what the percentages were describing.
In the year 2031, will we be seeing blockbuster releases of movies such as "The Stabinator: Vengeance Comes in Blood," a PG-rated film about a contract killer who rips out his victims' veins one by one and then winds them together to form a giant prosthetic penis which he uses to rape his next victim with until it bursts through her spinal column? How about "Sexy Sex 37: The Sex Above" which has 80 minutes of film shot from a tiny camera that was inserted inside a man's penis and then used to film it entering a vagina repeatedly? Will Hollywood get so desperate to shock audiences and offer new experiences that the directors will personally attend every screening and throw buckets of semen on the audience during the main character's climax? Well, now that I think about it, that last idea is kind of funny, and I'd actually pay to see people attending the next Jerry Bruckheimer movie get covered in man-splooge. Hell, I'd pay a lot of money to watch that. Maybe it's actually a good thing to have these kids growing up on a steady buffet of ultraviolent, sex-filled, curse word movies. As long as I don't have to hear their ratty little mouths open every goddamn second and ask their blubberbag bitch hog mom why person X is beating person Y to death with their own severed penis, I'll be happy. Well, I won't necessarily be happy, but I won't be praying for them to explode from nine different camera angles in slow motion, which is certainly a step in the right direction.
Straight Outta Bronxton
Zack "Lice Mediator" Parsons here with a Movie Review! I've endured all or most of the horrors that "Bronx Executioner" has to offer and I am reporting back to you! That means I reviewed it you jerks!
While Dakkar and Crowley are walking tensely around the inside of the security control room occasionally shooting androids that enter, Margie is upstairs in the villa living the high life. For evil android gang leaders the high life involves watching weird red and black video footage of rape and hanging out with the gang that includes a woman that appears to be a super hero and a man in a shirt that say "MARIJUANA" on it. Exhausted from too much wild partying like this she heads off to bed. Shark is all turned on by watching the grainy red rape video and he confesses his robot love for her, but Margie will have none of that. Spurned Shark watches from the shadows as Margie undresses and then gets busy with a random robodude who just walks in.
I didn't sweat and bleed for you just so you could ignore my link to this amazing review! Go and read it now or be damned to the fires of eternal something.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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