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I watched Eagle Eye a couple of days ago and, I have to admit, it was a decent flick. (Yes, even with man-child Shia LaBeouf as the lead.) Well paced action, halfway intelligent dialogue. Not bad at all. (And how far we’ve come Billy Bob! Once a slovenly retard in Sling Blade and now an FBI agent. If that’s not an American dream come true, I don’t fucking know what is.) What really pleased me about the movie, however, was that the writers did such an excellent job of hiding the fact that one day, someway, there will be an Eagle Eye 2: Eye of the Beholder. (Again starring LaBeouf but switching out leading lady Michelle Monaghan with the more attractive but significantly less talented Jessica Simpson and the deceased FBI agent played by Billy Bob Thornton with everybody’s go-to older black gentleman, Morgan Freeman.)
See, my problem is that most big budget action films today are written with the express purpose of introducing sequels that no one’s even really thought all that much about yet. Sure, Brendan Frasier may have shot the mummy six times in the head but we all know that after all of the main character turn around and walk away, a bandaged arm is going to rise from the sand with a renewed sense of vitality - if not before the credits, then after. Oh, and you were fairly sure that Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum had finished off all of the aliens with their computer virus, weren’t you? Well, they didn’t, because, unbeknownst to them, the cargo hold of the ship they rode back to Earth on is full of spacebaby eggs, ready to hatch in two years, just after post-production on Independence Day 2: Even More Independent. (And, see, I realize that neither of those two examples actually happened in The Mummy or Independence Day, and that by not occurring they, in fact, make it look like many more movies than just simply Eagle Eye fit under the “Didn’t Announce Their Sequel” category, but I think you get my point anyway. I would have used real cases but I keep getting hit with royalty and libel suits... So, I’m trying something new: Making shit up and appearing less and less coherent.)
But, seriously, Eagle Eye 2 is going to be awesome. I’ll rip it from the Internet on day one.
I love America. Want to know why? You don't? Well, too bad! You're going to hear it anyway!
I love America because this is the land of people who get shit done. Get sick of your boss? Well, if you're an American, you'll pull out your Van Halen in front of her and yell "Harassment!" Bam! Problem solved, bitch! Can't get a date because your breasts resemble two pieces of fish tank gravel glued to a cardboard box? Be a goddamn American! Knock over a convenience store and get those suckers professionally inflated! Nothing like a good boob job to make you publicly presentable! Get tired of feeling unloved and alone in the world?
...well, that kind of sucks. I guess you'd need Prozac for that one. But if you were American, you'd totally pop those pills with a vodka chaser because, in this country, we do everything hard, fast and with little to no thought involved. Yeah, baby!
That's why we're called Americans: Because we cans take care of business. And, no, I don't give a shit if that's improper word usage. This is America, bitch: Only terrorists and queers bother with appropriately utilizing the language.
When I was in high school, I wanted to have my own newspaper column where townspeople would mail in questions and I would give them timely answers. (This wish was just under "A Night With Carmen Electra" on my The Ten Things I Want to Do Before The Robot Apocalypse Destroys America list. Back then, I was pretty horny and she was still of some relevance.) Really, I wanted to use the column as a platform to screw with people's lives - you know, tell them that lice infestations are hereditary and that drinking copious amounts of room-temperature milk can scramble drug test results. Stuff like that. But, alas, I never received my own column (if I did, I damn sure wouldn't be blogging to you idiots right now). Sometimes, when I think about it, I get a little choked up. That’s why you should never dream, kids. Ever. Shoot low and you’ll never disappoint yourself.
Unless you’re retarded, of course. Then every day that you wake up is a disappointment.
I hate warehouses - especially working in them. They're always lousy with dirt, infested with all kinds of arthropods/hobos, and the lighting is designed specifically to break the spirits of employees (while conversely reinforcing the evil auras of management). Warehouses just plain suck. I think that the United States government should give up waterboarding (it’s such a 2007 form of torture) and, instead, put all of our enemy spies and terrorists into warehouses and make them move boxes around all day. And then when they get sick or hurt on the job, deny them time off or worker’s comp. Yeah. That makes sense.
According to the National Endowment for the Arts, poetry reading in the United States is at a sixteen year low. (Yeehaw! Fuck the Taliban! Go America!) Now I like to think of myself as a pretty helpful guy, so to assist in continuing our statistical trend, I offer up some easily-ignorable and totally-skippable poetry of my very own.
Mechanical Horse
I had that dream again,
the one with David Hasselhoff
riding a mechanical horse
across the beach.
Except, this time, he stopped
and asked me a question.
“Do you know
who I am, boy?”
I thought about it for
a moment,
and then replied,
“I’m fairly sure you’re
television’s David Hasselhoff,
former star of hit shows
like Knightrider
and Baywatch.”
He smiled and nodded.
His teeth were as white
as those of Zeus,
if Zeus had known to
brush daily and
used Crest Whitestrips®.
I reached out then for
Hasselhoff’s
perfectly tanned hand,
but he pulled back
on the horse’s reins
before I could
and rode off.
On the wind
I caught
the faint murmur of,
“Recognizing me doesn’t
make us butt-buddies,
asshole.”
I like Transformers. Really, I do. And not just that crazy movie where Shia LaBeouf randomly became, like, sixteen again and where Michael Bay decided to have a close-up orgy with all his fight scenes. I mean the whole Transformers universe. It’s awesome.
Awesomely hilarious.
Seriously, who the fuck thought that creating a race of gigantic robots/aliens that come from an industrial factory/planet was anything more than completely nonsensical? Even for kids, that's hard to swallow. Certainly was for me. I remember seeing Transformers on television when I was about six. All those colorful robots flying around their psychedelic machine-world, shooting lasers at each other and talking gibberish about Decepticons and Autobots. I thought it was lunacy. I actually remember thinking to myself, “Those Japs sure do come up with some crazy shit.” And, if you put to the side my unabashed racism and the fact that the most enduring concepts associated with Transformers were, in fact, American ideas, it’s not hard to see the truth in my juvenile potty-mouth.
Who’s going to be fooled by a robot that folds up into an 800 pound, 6 foot high cassette tape, anyway? Cassette tapes went out with Kid ’n Play.
Guess what? As it turns out, I'm not funny anymore. At all. I found out just yesterday. Very big surprise. But I guess I should have known: I've had this nasty rash on my knee pit for the last couple of days; isn't that a sign that Jesus doesn't love you anymore?
And, to think, this entire time people have been lying to me. Complete strangers with nothing to gain from boosting my ego, telling me how hilarious they find my writing - liars, the whole lot of them! Dirty, deadbeat liars! It's pathetic, really. All they were doing was encouraging my insanity. Because, you know, what I do here is, in fact, insane. I mean, who talks casually about the scrotum? (Oh, well, other than physicians and men who're confident enough with themselves that they can talk openly about their physiology. But, hey, they don't count. They're all insane, too.)
Oh, and please, by God, let's not talk about my literary skills. My grammar and syntax are about as noteworthy as cow chips - and I'm talking pre-Al Gore, pre-"Farts Are Gonna Kill Us All" cow chips. You know, when it was just dry shit in a field.
There's simply no value to what I write on this blog. None at all. It's trash. Dreg. And I should have known that. (Stupid, stupid, stupid!) The economy is in shambles and sociopolitical stability is at an all-time low across the globe. What in God's name made me think that people wanted to laugh a little?
