Whatever happened to all this season’s
Losers of the year
Every time I got to thinking
Where’d they disappear
Tag Archives: breasts
So. As an adult, you have a problem with a movie that you loved as a child. I see on social media that this is a common grievance. I don’t need to name a film. There are dozens, maybe hundreds, of motion pictures that don’t stand up to the intense scrutiny and overthinking of 2017.
It’s not them. It’s you. You are the problem.
I’ll begin with a contemporary example: any current superhero movie. Marvel, DC, independent degeneracy like Deadpool and Kick-Ass; it’s all the same. Permit me to make another assumption- you got all worked-up over seeing the latest hero flick, and you left the theater three hours later feeling empty and disappointed, without knowing why.
If it were up to me, this entire website would be nothing but pictures of womens’ tits. Oh, except in the sidebar, there’d be a link to all the reviews I’ve written about Transformers toys. If it were up to me.
Wait a second… it is up to me. It’s my site. So why don’t I?
Good question. I could probably make a tidy income doing it. So why not?
Everything used to be way better. I found evidence.
It was at a yard sale for two dollars, and it’s actual proof, unlike my hazy memories. A motherfucking forty-year-old issue of Playboy.
Do you know what a “cold open” is? Sure you do. Every current sitcom you watch uses it. It’s when the show just begins, no fanfare, no opening titles. Right into the action, because the producers know you’ll change the channel if you have to sit through 30 seconds of the same music every week.
“Cold opens” are like “cold sores”. They spread easily. Saturday Night Live has done cold opens since before you were born. You’re used to it in sitcoms. Hell, you were getting tired of the “typical sitcom theme”, anyway.
That’s why they suck now.
Last year, all I wanted to do was crack jokes about Hillary Clinton’s ever-smug face. Her daughter Chelsea, too. Throw in that awful Debbie Wasserman Shultz, and you’ve got a trifecta of ghoulish visages I was literally salivating to goof on. Caricature unflatteringly, at the least.
And I didn’t.
While the entire media industry decided to make fun of Donald Trump’s face, like a bus full of second-graders, I didn’t stoop to their level. And oh, they had a field day. They’re still doodling him as an anus, or a Cheeto. I’ve seen that illustration of Trump as a shit-spattered baby so many times I could forge it from memory.
WARNING! WARNING! WEIRD AREA AHEAD!
The closest I ever got to molested was when I was eighteen.
I was walking to Fair Lawn late at night, to cause trouble. I was thinking about Rorschach, the masked psychopath from Watchmen. An overweight creep with glasses stuck a tiny knife in my back, herded me behind a border of hedges, and tried to force me down on the ground.