Star Trek: Discovery?

My new rule is never to put more effort into reviews of things than the creators did creating it. So here are some notes on Star Trek: Discovery.

* Decent effects and acting. Not as politically correct as I thought but still problems.

* The lead is a human Black woman who was raised on Vulcan by–wait for it–Spock’s parents.

* Vulblack is sent out alone in a spacesuit, copying Spock in the first Star Trek movie. They send the show’s lead–second in command–when they have a ROBOT crewmember wearing a Daft Punk helmet on the bridge.

* The Chinese Womancaptain failed to heed Vulblack’s valuable tactical advice for defeating Klingons, advice which should have been readily available to anyone in Starfleet.

* Chinese Womancaptain is killed for being an idiot. Vulblack gets the blame.

* The #1 in Command of the Federation Fleet shows up at the disastrous battle. An arrogant White Guy, his ship is rammed and destroyed.

* In the latest episode, another woman is killed for making a rash decision to bully a massive alien lifeform. Women are bad luck on ships.

* The show’s creators explained the Klingons are “Trump supporters.” For that to be true, the Klingon government would have open orders and be flooding Klingon territory with foreigners.

* The Klingons who yell, “REMAIN KLINGON!” are written by writers who IRL yell,”REMAIN JEWISH!” In other words, only Jews and Asians are allowed to preserve their unique cultures. Everyone else must suffer DIVERSITY, including Klingons.

* Klingons are warriors who find meaning in battle. They don’t need a PC excuse to do anything.

* The writers boasted Discovery would have a Gay in the regular cast. In the first episode they killed of The Gay’s partner. In other words, Gay & Switch.

* For The Record: I am against any non-Vulcan being able to deliver the Vulcan nerve pinch, so Data and Vulblack can cram it. I always assumed the Pinch works like a Taser and only Vulcans could do it due to telepathy.

* There’s so much shit out there it’s not worth getting mad over a single TV show.

* I love this song.  Beautiful for lovers and serial killers alike.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love poetry, or Trying to Turn Shit into Chocolate Cake

You can write love poems—even good ones—for specific women as long as you don’t expect the words to work. Because they don’t.

I have a friend who already has self-published one small book of love poems. The cover looks cool, it looks like a real book, but the poems within are the opposite of good: riddled with clichés and trite expressions like dead bats hung on a clothesline of pretension.

Worst of all, they beg.

A wise woman already knows a man who confesses to love her is completely vulnerable, no matter how tough he acts. Supplicating makes a man seem weak. Really, if you want to do well with women, remember they are Klingons at heart. The few that have hearts, ha ha.

Sad to say the woman my poor friend Can’t Live Without™ whom he’s known for years, is an Asshole, a sanctimonious, “spiritual” cruella who hates him for some reason he’s never quite explained. Judging from the fury of her words, you’d think he raped her and left her for dead; I think he deceived her about something, but nothing close to cheating on her.

I’d offered to edit his first manu, but halfway through he up and self-published it, full of spelling errors and all.

I suicidally offered to edit the 2nd one and heard nothing more about it. Then out of nowhere, last week he asked if I’d looked at it. When I told him I never got the file he flipped, then sent it.

Now I’ve flipped.

Love Manuscript #2, aka More of the Same, almost 140 pages of short-yet-hard-to-stomach poems. I don’t even envy the prodigious output, it’s all terrible.  I’m trying like hell to make his stuff work, but secretly I hope he ignores my editing. I love my friend and hate his needless suffering, and not because I have to suffer his poopoetry. If I could magically erase the cruella’s horrible personality and reprogram her or create a magical fuckbot in her image, I would. I’ve already dared tell him in a 500-words-or-less essay why I think this woman is a disaster, that even if she saned-up he still has no future with her and should be glad for it. But he can’t listen to reason any more than his poems can un-suck: the poor SOB is in love.

Some people are just fucking machochists, I guess. Like me, trying to turn shit into chocolate cake.

(If you ever find this blog, my friend, you’ll have to forgive me. You’ve suffered enough).