Accepting that its initial reviews were lousy, I went to see Hancock anyway because I hate my own life, which needs more fake butter.
Ticket, drink, popcorn (the latter two refillable) totalled only 9 bucks, but I still felt ripped off.
The plot of Hancock was hopelessly muddled, like two movies in one and neither very good. The second half’s movie was irredeemable shit; had it had kept the dark-yet-sanitized tone of the first half throughout, it still would’ve been flat soda not worth a second sip but not, “I’ll never drink that rat-piss again” bad.
I understand people were also disappointed with Will Smith’s I Am Legend. After falling down these manholes masquerading as entertainment, Smith does try to act for all he’s worth but Christ, the secret of getting out of the sewer is not to fall down the hole in the first place.
The problem with Hancock is that it will be a huge hit. Fourth of July weekend looming with the world’s most bankable star at the helm? It’ll probably make a billion worldwide post-DVD. Unfortunately for the stupido studio it would’ve made 1.5 billion or more had it been good, fun, or both.
Hollywood is part of the great conspiracy to keep life as boring and limited as possible. The elites have all the fun shit in plenteous supply: whores, fast cars/yachts/jets, mountains of booze, pills and cocaine. They buy their way out of serving time for most crimes as if life was an anarchic Monopoly game.
The only thing the Hollyturds can’t do is make their mediocre product interesting by comparison, and so for the average dolt, everything in life remains forbidden, expensive or illegal. Out of reach.
On the (Supreme Court’s) bad decision to rule out death for child rapists–
This one really troubles me because the real justice is generally accomplished by other prisoners killing or attempting to kill child molesters and rapists as they are considered the lowest form of life by the criminal fraternity. So how come the supremes don’t see this? If criminals who have the least respect for law can see the merits in killing them, how come the dudes and dudettes of supreme justice cannot see this? I do wonder…
The senile Supremes claim that “evolving standards of decency that mark the progress of a maturing society” are what prohibits the death penalty for child rapists. Bullshit. If your baby daughter was brutally raped, would you deal with her rapist less severely then if he’d murdered her?
Even if the one Kennedy said the other Kennedy’s unspeakable crime did deserve the death penalty, the convicted would still earn a gentle death compared to the harm he’s caused. Now we won’t get even that.
And so goes the tale of a child raped by two Kennedys, first Patrick the Monster, then Anthony the Arrogant, who thinks his black robe is a crown, for failing to deliver justice.
Mercy for the guilty is cruelty to the innocent.
As for convicted child rapist Patrick O. Kennedy, Louisiana should kill him anyway. Putting him in the prison yard for about 5 minutes would do it.
After watching her in action I knew that many nerds, semi-nerds, quasi-nerds and lovelorn sci-fi appreciators would soon have an enormous crush on her. Though modestly displayed, lovely Larissa “had a body on her” and that infintely cute face concealed a lethal mind for trivia.
However, the title HOTTEST JEOPARDY! WOMAN (So Far) goes to:
Now obviously this is a matter of opinion, but as mine is law around here I declare Mrs. (sigh) Farrell the sexiest Jeoputante yet.
Hair, glasses, cheekbones, face, figure: everything about Dorothy was/is a delight. She lasted 3 days and played well. All that sexy synergy and her fool husband (<–yes, jealous of) waited 4 years to tie the knot? Must be quite the nerd in his own right.
Some kind soul uploaded her Jeopardy! intros…you don’t get to hear her sexy Brooklyn accent so the red dress will have to do…
(Be patient, the Champ is introduced last…)
I’m not obsessed or anything. Sexy-as-hell women with high levels of smartosity like Larissa and Dorothy offer rays of big-breasted hope to cellar dwellers and misfits alike.
After over a year of being there, one of the ugliest broads at work has started hitting on me. I don’t know what brought it on but it’s annoying and unpleasant.
Earlier the same day Ugly Broad started her doomed crusade I was eyeing the hottest blonde at work, a divorcée with mousy voice, thinning hair, great tits and a weak chin. Even if I had somehow gotten with Blondie, she would be a piss-poor consolation prize to the One I really wanted who I’ll never see again (a blessing like being stabbed with a pencil instead of a bayonet).
I’m not cruel, I wouldn’t tell any ugly broad she’s ugly (believe me, they know) but fellows, even for the shallowest piece of shit among us who’ll screw a fencepost, with Ugly Broad there’s just nothing to work with. Well, she has a fair personality and is not vicious, unlike so many women. But that’s it.
While employed, Roids the Hunk, who banged a different blonde upon his arrival and is now purportedly tagging the big-butted girl with a face like Harold Ramis, also had his share of unwanted attention from the beautily-challenged. It makes my own ineptness feel more natural that a guy like Roids, who all but forced his will on the hotties, had zero skillz in handling the uggos who went after him. An uggo he gave his number to innocently enough when he started working there ended up calling him every single night and harassing him nonstop. His sole defense was avoiding her whenever possible.
I pray to Blind Jesus or whoever the fuck will listen that Ugly Broad by now has taken the hint and won’t bother me again. As bad as I’ve had it, I’ve never harrassed any female. I’ve only been too nice and prefer rejection to doing the rejecting.
Doof, 19, barrel-chested with a football-shaped head. Graduated high school 2 weeks ago.
I ask him: “Did you look up what ‘brothel’ means?”
“No.”
(Another guy on the stocking crew, 19, who also didn’t know what ‘brothel’ meant wrote it on his hand and still forgot to look it up).
Cole, 33, asks Doof, “Do you know what a ‘bidet’ is?”
“No. I got a ‘B’ in Honors English.”
“So?”
“So I don’t need to know any more English.”
I pray he’s joking so I laugh.
Just then Vance the home-schooled kid walks past. Not even 21 and he’s battled
skin cancer.
His face looks like
Mars
with acne.
I begin: “Vance, what’s a brothel?”
“A bordello.”
“What’s a bordello?”
“A whorehouse.”
“What’s a whorehouse?”
Everyone laughs.
I’m the oldest among these young and younger people and a bent butterknife,
but when they laugh
I am a joyous sword.
I’m not gonna worry that Doof is the future. Vance will be there and Cole will be there and I will be there
as a butterknife under the hot breath of failure,
prelude to the
wiping away
that shows
polish.
Today died and became yesterday a half-hour ago. I should be asleep but wanted to see that fucker off forever.
Yesterday was rotten. The one good aspect about it was the toilet didn’t clog or overflow (but hasn’t in over a year). Otherwise I’d've been happy to commit mass murder and still would be, which doesn’t count as real happiness.
You may have noticed most people are able to function by ignoring the shambles of their lives for long stretches. It’s more than simple denial, it’s a survival mechanism, tested at all times.
Having to work will ruin anyone’s day; yesterday was the typical one-thing-after-another bullshit, only each blow was a little too precisely delivered to vulnerable areas. By mid-morning the metaphorical fan of good or at least neutral spirits was covered in splattered shit. I wanted to hang it up and just walk off the fucking job, leave the country and finally the globe.
There is no limit to suffering, no expiration date. The brain regulates involuntarily functions to keep you alive while the backstabbing mind works to makes life as miserable as possible. I’ll never understand why the mind is such a defective turd and enemy of the brain and body.
There are some people that kill themselves and those around them say, “I can see why.” The invitation to this level of suffering is offered by the world every day. RSVP and come alone.
He was more to be envied than pitied, for his sleep was not a lull or an interval but sleep itself which is the deep and hence sleeping ever deepening, deeper and deeper in sleep sleeping, the sleep of the deep in deepest sleep, at the nethermost depth full slept, the deepest and sleepest sleep of sleep’s sweet sleep. He was asleep. He is asleep. He will be asleep. Sleep. Sleep. Father, sleep, I beg you, for we who are awake are boiling in horror…
