Predator Press Movie-Middle Reviews: Braveheart

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Braveheart, starring Mel Gibson, is apparently the story of a bunch of people that liked to fight a lot more than they liked to bathe.

The afore-mentioned hygiene problem suggests to me that the story takes place way, way in the past. Probably the late 80’s … the whole grunge look is “in,” there's a sprinkling of goth, and you still have a generous helping of mullets.

Mel Gibson is like really, really pissed about something I probably missed when I was in the bathroom, and is just killing people left and right. Did someone steal his pants? Mel Gibson is totally out of control. Jesus, where are the cops when you need them? Some of the places Mel killed people at should be isolated as crime scenes and dusted for fingerprints! I mean holy crap, he’s not even wearing pants; he’s probably leaving DNA everywhere he sits!

Damn. Telephone.

Anyway, blah blah nah nah. Mel Gibson’s arch-enemy -Merlin, I think- has a great big-assed beard. Holy crap that’s a big-assed beard; Merlin better be careful around open flames. Under enormous pressure to get some pants on the freeballin’ serial killer Mel Gibson, Merlin is often mad at people too -probably because he doesn’t have an X-Box and is forced to push little war toys around on a big war map. I’m not clear on if the map surrendered because then stuff started blowing up.

Conveniently, all Mel Gibson's freinds don’t wear pants either, and have gathered together on this big island -probably Hawaii- so’s Merlin's British guys can kill them with maximum efficiency. In historical context, this inadvertently causes America to declare war on Britain and drags us into World War II. Was Merlin elected by the Japanese when he bombed Pearl Harbor? Or did Merlin create the Godless Yellow Hoard with the explicit intent of pulling the Aloha Spirit out of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s keyster? Hm? Hell I don’t know man … shit that was a long time ago. We may never know for sure. The fact that the first half of this movie is total 'Chick Flick' didn't help, and I found myself fast-forwarding a lot.

I don’t even know how the movie ends; a commercial for Sham Wow came on, and after some brief channel-surfing I found Family Feud. Where is the fat guy with the weird teeth? The #1 answer was toothpaste. Holy crap that dumbass lost the whole game for his family, and made them look like assholes on national television. I wouldn‘t want to be at that house for Thanksgiving dinner!

By the time I got through the Hee Haw marathon, I had all but lost interest in how Braveheart ended ... but I sure hope they caught Mel Gibson! My guess is that the movie would go on to show Merlin bombing Pearl Harbor until John Wayne and Jesus killed him and kicked all the Japanese out of America. To this day, the Japanese remain banished to the other, crappier side of the world ... which is fine with me really; Hee Haw translated into Japanese is just plain weird.

As far as the Predator Press Movie-Middle Review, we give Braveheart, like, sixty-six thumbs up. The exploding stuff, fight scenes, gratuitous violence, and historical accuracy had it on the cusp of a beefy two hundred and sixteen thumbs up, but the middle of Braveheart suffered from the glaring absence of nudity, robots, and football. It was also dinged grammatically for the improper contraction of the words "Brave" and "Heart." Further, it wasn't in 3-D, Sigourney Weaver wasn't in it, and it wasn't Avatar -an automatic eleven-thumb penalty.

Still, a solid sixty-six thumbs up is nothing to scoff at.

-I, for one, can't wait for the middle of the sequel.

Amid Privacy Scandal, Facebook Calls Meeting About My Colonoscopy

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I am kidding, of course. I’ve never had a colonoscopy, and couldn’t imagine circumstances where I would submit to one. That’s a one-way thoroughfare as far as I’m concerned.

Plus, I’m somewhat of a gastronomical daredevil: abandon hope all ye who enter. The deep fried bricks of mozzarella, chocolate cake, hot wings and Heinekens would be the least of their problems.

“I told you quacks not to fuck with the tricycle!” I’ll be yelling from inside the new crater. “Now you‘re all dead. Happy now?”

Anwho, on the subject of enemas an so forth, fifteen minutes after chiding Terri for having 10,000 emails I discovered I was worse. I have a “blog” email and a “serious” email, the latter for family, online transactions et cetera. Between the two, I was teetering on the brink of 30,000.

So here’s a tip. If you’re signing up for something that you suspect might generate spam, use an alias. On one email I use “Joe Morgan,” and the other I use “Tracy Chase.” By two simple email searches, I disposed of more than 26,000 efforts to smuggle cash out of Syktyvkar or enlarge my penis. (Joe Morgan is KGB and fiercely loyal to the Kremlin, and I have no idea what Tracy would do with a larger penis anyway.)

Interestingly, the biggest junk mail culprits are online entities I use the least. I check into Facebook maybe four times a year. MyBlogLog and BlogCatalog could be measured in decades. When I do check in, I pretty much add anyone to my communities/friends list that request it.

My point, I suppose, is that the inevitable “lag” isn’t because I’m snooty. I’m just not much of an “online community” guy. I am content here on The Most Fabulous Website in the Universe; Facebook, Twitter, MSNBC, -whatever- would be wise to stop riding the vast Predator Press coattails and stealing our ideas, and focus on the laughable goal of achieving their own unique, unprecedented, all-powerful juggernaut status.

-Like anyone else, you gotta pay your dues, man.

Last among this random internet commentary is a rare movie recommendation (when I say “random,” I don‘t fuck around). I rented a documentary from Redbox the other day that was pretty fantastic.

If Talhotblond doesn’t scare the bejeezus out of you die-hard networkers, nothing will.

Clash of the Titans

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“The wrath sing, goddess, of Peleus' son, Achilles, that destructive wrath which brought countless woes upon the Achaeans, and sent forth to Hades many valiant souls of heroes, and made them themselves spoil for dogs and every bird.”

-The Iliad

“The 'center' HTML prompt precedes the paragraph," says Terri. "It has priority. That's why it looks weird, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah?" I says. "I can't hear you because my fingers are in my ears. LA-LA-LA ...”

Hercules is fucked.

Part II: The Watchtower all Along

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Read Part I here

Poor Chris!

-I've botched the entire mission to save his soul.

It all started so innocently; all I had to do was help Paul bury those heavy plastic bags in his trunk out in the desert.

Paul and I were in dire need of one of my little-known 'gifts' at this point: digging all those big deep holes was going to require a lot of people capable of 'physical labor.'

But just as soon as I rounded the corner with those big, strappin' ditch-diggin lawmen, Paul peeled out of the station.

I was left behind.

We weren't in Las Vegas either.

:(


***

"What am I gonna do?" I asked the truck stop cashier.

"I dunno buddy," says the guy in the cowboy hat. "But you should know that Utah County is like 90% Mormon."

"I hardly think that's true," I says. "They appear to be a fairly advanced civilization."

"I said Mormon," he corrects. "It's a religion."

"Know anything about them?"

"I am one," he smiles. Offering his hand he says, "My name's Peter."

"Why does everyone have, like, the same 12 first names?"

"That's nothing. We only got like four last names."

"So I take it 'Mormonism' is a hip and trendy religion?"

"No."

"Rats," I says. "Well you've been very helpful."

I didn't have any money. All I had was my suitcase full of issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease Chris' transition into Salvation.

"Here buddy," I says. "Thanks for the advice."

Peter goes pale.

"Mister, we ain't got no place fer yer smut," he says, rolling up the issue and jamming it in his back pocket. "If you got any more of those," he adds, "I highly advise you to hand them over to me right now so's that I might dispose of them."

A bead of sweat forms on Peter's forehead.

Hmmm

"Okay," I says. "If you give me all this entire display of 'I love Utah County' keychains."

"Well, I can't just-"

"And," I add, looking around. "This canister of portable Zippo lighter fluid."

"Mister, we're talkin' about your soul-"

"And," I add. "This here entire plastic tube of beef jerky!"

"Fer the whole suitcase?"

"For two more issues."

"Deal!"


***

Six issues later, I had a nice car and a posh motel room.

It was only when I lay back on the giant waterbed and clicked the remote control for the widescreen television when I found out Salt Lake City had declared a 'State of Emergency': according to the mayor, there was a huge, inexplicable religious defection taking place, and the entire state was converting to Jehovah's Witnesses.

A town meeting was called at the church.

And as a concerned citizen, I felt obliged to attend.

Peter arrived at the same time I did.

"Peter!" I cried. "What has happened to our beloved community?"

He stops me at the door. "I don't know LOBO. But you can't come in the temple."

"Why?" I demand. "Have not hours and hours of blood, sweat and equally Mormonesqe tears proven me worthy to-"

"Sorry LOBO," he says shutting the ornate doors. "Non-Mormons may not enter."

SLAM

"Oh no you didn't!" I start to circle the building, and yell at the stained glass. "I know you guys are crackin' wise about my momma in there!"

But nothing I did provoked a response.

I had been unjustly, and without due process, been Excommunicated from my Faith.


***

With a chain I fashioned out of 560 'I love Utah County' keychains, I scaled that church.

"You ain't getting' away with this!" I swore, swinging my suitcase onto the roof.

Now, I don't know much about Mormon engineering and architecture, but that damned suitcase blew through that church roof life it wasn't even there. And tryin' to grope after it, I lost my balance and fell in right behind it.

The suitcase landed first, and burst wide. This was lucky, as about 1,650 meticulously doctored issues of The Watchtower cushioned my fall.

Landing squarely in front of the preacher, he squinted through the cloud of fluttering pornography and profanity.

"And I see," he said simply into the microphone. "That LOBO has chosen to join us today."

Then the canister of portable Zippo lighter fluid detonated.

"Witch!" screamed Peter.

"Peter, you're a damned liar and hypocrite!" I protested.

And suddenly, 1/12 of the congregation pounced.

Part I: The Jehovah's Witness Protection Program

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Read Part II here

"Where ya goin?" asks the driver.

"England," I says.

Leaning over, he opens the passenger side door. "Hop in. I ain't goin that far, but I can get you partway."

Hesitating for a second, I size him up.

I figure he looks pretty harmless.

Pulling the paperback from my back pocket I swing into the seat, and juggle the heavy suitcase in my lap as I close the door.

"Name's Paul," says the driver, offering his right hand.

"Fredrico," I says. "Fredrico Enchilada Del Morte El Monte Pinky Tuscadero Manora."

I'm not immediately certain why I'm lying ... but the suitcase must be protected at all costs: this is the suitcase filled with issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease Chris Wood's transition into Salvation.

"I see you've got a copy of Catcher in the Rye there."

"Yeah," I says listlessly. "Want it? I just finished."

We build speed, and safely leave the I-15 shoulder into sparse traffic.

"What did you think of it?" asks Paul.

"200 lousy pages. No pictures, ninjas, car chases, hot chicks or robots. Just some weird punk who doesn't even kill anybody. What a turd," I complain. "This book was crap."

"It's the devil's work," Paul agrees.

"Well I don't know. I wouldn't have thought the devil would be that boring."

"There's only one book worth reading Fredrico," Paul says confidently.

"Is it Sherlock Homes and the Underpants of Death?"

"No, Fredrico. It's The Bible."

Uh oh.

"Oh yeah," I agree thinking quickly. "That's my favorite too."

"Then why were you coming out of a strip bar?"

"I was, uh, tryin to Save all those lost souls." Looking out the window, I wince as I hear my own words fall out. "I'm a missionary."

"Really?'

"Yes," I groan painfully.

"Well that's fantastic. This whole world has just sunken into a briny cesspool of sin and debauchery. There'll be a lot of blood spilled when Jesus returns."

"That's not today, is it?"

"Could be," smiles Paul. "Say, that's a pretty heavy suitcase for a missionary. What's in it?"

"Oh you know. White collars. Bibles. Holy cinderblocks-"

"Which Bible?"

"The thick one."

"No, I mean is it the King James?"

"King Jesus," I correct.

"Halleluiah!" says James, still grinning. "I like you Fredrico."

"I'm glad," I says.

"Say," says Paul. "Can you hand me that black bag in the back seat?"

"Sure" I says, struggling to twist under my own luggage. "But I don't see it. Hey, why do you have so many chainsaws?"

"I'm a chainsaw salesman," he replies.

"No way."

"Yep. That's how I lost my hand."

Drawing his left hand into full view for the first time, I see it's been replaced by a large sharp metal hook.

"Wow!" I says. "That's totally cool!"

"That bag's back there somewhere," he assures.

Twisting back again, I repeat the search. "I don't see it."

"Maybe it's under all the pictures."

"You mean the ones with all the eyes cut out?"

"Yep. I was making tiny little masks."

"You're very precise." I says. "But no bag."

"How about under the machetes?"

Grunting, I clang them about a bit. "Nope. Oh. Wait. Is it the big black one?"

"Yeah," says Paul. "The one with the gun in it."

"What do you need a gun for?"

"I'm a very successful chainsaw salesman. You can't be too careful these days."

"That makes sense," I agree. "That explains the infrared scope. You could easily be jumped by like 700 well-organized deer from a mile away if you failed to demonstrate the foliage-cutting prowess of this beauty at night. You want me to load it for you?"

"It's already loaded," says Paul. "But I wouldn't worry. I doubt we'll be needing it where we're going."

"Were are we going?"

"Someplace untouched by the sin and perversion of humanity."

"But I kinda like Earth."

Holding the wheel with his hooked hand, he cocks the rifle with the other.

"We're goin to Las Vegas!"

All Along the Watchtower

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The instant word was out that I was a new writing gun for hire, my historic rocket to stardom showed inevitable and undeniable signs of life: I got hired as Copy Editor for an eclectic and trendy, free-thinking hip publication called The Watchtower.

It was there I made my debut, and just look how I punched up that text on my first day:

"Consider the results of one study of at over 12,000 teenagers degrees Fahrenheit. The conclusion of the researchers: 'A strong emotional electrical connection to a parent car battery is the best guarantee of a teenager's health zombie-free human, and the strongest barrier to high-risk behaviors becoming infected.' Yes, children zombies crave attention from their parents victims. A mother once asked her children, 'If you could have anything you wanted, what would you like most?' All four responded, 'More time with Mom and Dad.' brains!'"

"How do you discipline or train your children without 'irritating' beating them? There are no secret formulas -especially since every child is different. if you beat up a prostitute instead, the bitch's pimp will probably kill you."

Man these people need me.

-This stuff is pretty damn dry.

I Cleaned Up the Oil Spill Today. You're Welcome.

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Yeah, well, it was nothing.

I was sick of all those other so-called “news” people bitching about it.

-Those people are lazy.




Anywho, I need your help. I installed a webcam in the Gulf of Mexico to ensure those British pricks didn’t come back and, I dunno, napalm our American forest preserves or something.

But I cannot monitor it 24 hours a day. Shit, I'm only awake for ten or so.

Please alert authorities if you see anything unusual.

Christopher Walken Auditions for "LOBO the Motion Picture Part III: Attack of the Titanic Avatar of the Twighlight Basterdz' Pornographic Clone Wars"

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Big Oil Buys Detergent Company, Detonates Offshore Rigs

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“I’ll speak only on the condition of strict anonymity,” says ExxonMobil President Rex W. Tillerson, climbing off of a small pile of teenage prostitutes.

“Deal,” I says.

"’Big Oil’ is tired of taking everybody’s crap" he says, lighting a big Cuban cigar with a $10,000 bill. “Would you like a cigar?” He gestures to a small mirror piled high with mountains of a flaky, white powder. “Or would you like a line of, eh, special detergent perhaps?”

“No thanks,” I says. “I just washed my nostrils yesterday. But if I may speak candidly, I’m just interested in ‘Big Oil's’ position on suddenly becoming ‘Big Detergent.’ Millions and millions of Predator Press readers hinge on my journalistic integrity when world-changing stories like this break.”

“Know what they’ll be washing off all those birds with?”

“Ah. That’s why you blew up your own oil rigs.”

“Yeah,” Tillerson says smiling. “Tell all your readers Big Oil said ‘How do you like me now, assholes?'” With that, he kicked another puppy off the deck of his luxurious yacht.

"I hate those things, son."

"You're punting them into the ocean," I says. "I'm convinced."

"Well," Tillerson sulks, "I'm fresh out of ammo, and the skeet thrower has been jammed up since Kitten Day."

“But won’t there be backlash?" I says, trying to stay on subject. "You know, for creating an apocalyptic disaster 'an stuff?”

“Shit that’s the least of your problems” he says. Aiming for a cluster of yelping puppy heads -bobbing as they frantically paddled to keep up with the boat- he began peeing off the side.

“'Big Tobacco' is pretty fed up too.”

BP Unveils Plan to Clean Oil Slick Using Animals

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Facing worldwide ecological condemnation and what may amount to be a billion dollar cleanup effort, British Petroleum [BP] has put forth what it hopes to be a revolutionary new technique for environmental rescue.

“In the first few days of the disaster,” explains BP Environmental Affairs Spokesman Destry Dentin, “we made some observations regarding the wildlife that we believe can be used to reduce the costs and increase the efficacy of our cleanup efforts.”

“Every time we would clean one of these critters, what do they do? They just dive right back into the muck,” he elaborates. “Animals are dumb like that. They love filth. Thus, they are a natural magnet for toxic chemicals.”

A typical animal takes an hour to clean.

“The process needs to be accelerated,” he suggests. “An hour apiece is simply untenable from both a ecological and corporate standpoint. We tried grinding the animals up and distilling the fuel out, but then got complaints from a bunch of bitchy liberals. Then they wouldn‘t let us squeeze the oil off either. And the whole ‘wringing them out’ thing was impossible to hide -Jesus you shoulda heard all that screeching. It was pretty horrible.”

"Now, we’re affixing all previously-rescued animals with steel information tags" says Dentin. “This way we can sort of 'reel them back' through the stuff in staggered, manageable waves by use of giant magnets. Then, we economically remove all the oil from them -virtually instantaneously, I might add- while simultaneously launching them right back into the filthy ‘Nature’ they like to live in. It‘s very humane, and at the same time efficient.”

With this fresh new eco-friendly recycling approach, once the feathers and/or fur are filtered out each processed animal yields about a quart of sweet, sweet crude per rotation. "And this can be improved upon exponentially," continues Dentin, "by use of larger, more porous animals. A bear, for instance, could bring in several gallons at a time."

When confronted with the fact that bears are not indigenous to the Atlantic Ocean, Dentin balked.

"That's what helicopters are for."