My Computer is Pregnant

Hello, internet.

I'm now bumming you off the rehearsal hall, and desperately resisting the urge to download porn at work, because that's never really worked out well for anyone, and if I'm going to be fired for doing something involving pornography at work, I'd rather be in a participatory rather than observational role, but I digress.

My little Macbook is pregnant. Again, probably all the porn. There are many, many, many people who could be the father. I wouldn't even know where to begin to start.

Basically, my little computer has been chugging along fine since 2006 when I got a new one because my house got broken into (thought process: fuck! 3 years of work from college, toil, growth, all go...oh sweet, a webcam) without issue.

Then my svelt the battery went the way of Axel Rose.

Welcome to the Jungle

Who, as it turns out, may or may not Also be pregnant, also because of porn. Although were I you, internet, I wouldn't go looking for any videos of his impregnation. It's a little like that scene from the second Ghostbusters where Egon falls into the sewer. Here:

It's at around 5:00 in. You'll get the idea.

Anyway, my battery started swelling, maybe because of heat, or humidity, or pregnancy, now I must order a new one. Fine.

Couple of issues. While in Jackson, MI, I don't really have a mailing address, so everything is forwarded through an office, which is then usually forwarded to the actors. Not too big of a deal.

The only problem with this is I don't know how big my computer is. I'm pretty sure it's 15 inches (that's what she said) but unlike a lot of people, I don't keep a ruler sitting around near my computer.

It's just a great picture

So ordering online makes me nervous, because I can't try it out first to make sure it works, and they're not like, UBER cheap either.

My other option is to drive to Ann Arbor (which is not altogether a bad thing), and shop at one of 2, count em 2, Mac stores there.

The only problem with buying anything directly from a Mac retail location is that Mac will literally take your money, roll it up into a phallus, then RAPE YOU WITH THAT SAME MONEY.

Like this, but not in the mouth

Seriously. The batteries there cost a week's salary AND a left testicle. It's awful.

So here I sit, DESPERATELY not downloading porn, at the crux of a decision that could cause a fair amount of aggravation for at least a week or so.

But this is why we blog. To me, this is painful. To you, it's trite, and therefor funny. That's right internet, pain = humor.

Bam.

Amazon, here I come.

Cheers.

To My Loyal Fan

Hello, one dude from germany who reads my blog and keeps sending me naked pictures of himself wearing a Lion mask (you've lost weight, by the way, good work.)

I haven't been blogging a hell of a lot the past two weeks, simply because I've left the comfort of the nest and trekked to a land far north of home to do some Shakespeare for the summer.

Benefits to summerstock

A) Paid housing
B) Little responsibility other than acting
C) Lots of breweries in the area.

Detriments:

NO FUCKING INTERNET.

Right now I'm in a coffee shop downtown, and there's a dude reading this over my shoulder. Yes, I'm talking to you. Stop. It's obnoxious. Visit the fucking site. You can see the address at the top okay he left.

I fully intend to, as soon as the aforementioned internet is installed (I'm told it should be today or tomorrow, but much like Unicorns and a second term for Barack, I'll believe it when I fucking see it).

So internet, in all your sweaty, creepy, lion-faced goodness, you'll have to wait for the following topics (you can consider this my promise to you):

- The Viking Funeral / Corporate Excorcism that took place when I quit my job to do Shakespeare
- Living in Jackson, MI
- How I almost died at a travelodge
- Being without porn for 2 weeks


And many other gems, so stay tuned. I'm sorry baby, I do love you i just, i just, needs some space sometimes, that's all.

Also: FUCK COMCAST. IN THE FUCKING EAR.

Cheers,

On Cleaning

Oh, do I hate cleaning. I'm pretty sure there are 7 circles of hell:

1) You're trying to go to sleep and there's a dog barking
2) Driving behind old people
3) I'm not feeling that creative

....


7) Fucking cleaning

Now, I live alone (and I own a blog. I'm a true statistical anomaly) so I've run a swiffer over the floors once every couple of months, more often when I'm having a new lady friend over.

Now, you may be saying to yourself: once every couple of months? That's gross! I would never sleep with a guy who had such a dirty kitchen!

Yes you would. Many of you have. You don't check the kitchen until the next morning. Ha.

I'm subletting though, and don't really want to give the wrong impression to my new subletter, lest she destroy my couch, bed, and desk in my absence, so I'm truly making an effort.

And the people who do this for a living are fucking saints. I should come and have them do this, so as to further their sanctification.

I just did the kitchen, and my God, let me tell you, I am disgusting. I didn't even realize. If I had checked the kitchen last night, I might not have masturbated for fear I was hooking up with someone untoward, but, I digress.

My swiffer wasn't doing it. Because fuck me, apparently, the wet things didn't want to stick to the bottom of the stick thing, so I did it the old fashion way:

This is something I swore I'd never do, and it's the lamest thing to cross of that particular list.

I cleaned the kitchen on my hands and fucking knees.

Not at all like this, unfortunately

I remember I once was rooming with a group of people for a summer, and one day I came home and Kathleen, a roommate, was cleaning the kitchen floors on her hands and knees.

Like this, but with more "Mommy" issues

I remember stopping in the doorway, afraid she might have fallen and was trying to push herself up with a sponge, or something.

Apparently, I was staring.

"What?" quothe she, wiping her brow the back of her wrist.

I shrugged, afraid to a) question the madness, lest she turn it as a weapon against me or b) step over the now immaculate half of the floor near the doorway.

"Nothing," I managed after a moment.

We stared at one another for a long while, sizing one another up like two rival lions, facing off over the psychological kitchen-cleaning territory. She knew me fairly well, and was just DARING me to say something.

She smirked, the fire of battle in her eyes. I, for fear of it, did nothing.

Sensing triumph, she said, "I'll bet no one has ever done THIS before!" and resumed her scrubbing with vigor.

I might have pointed out that unless you're on the verge of a scientific breakthrough, how often other people gauge in whatever activity you are currently engaging in is a pretty good meter of cette activity's general sanity....but, I suppose you have to pick your battles.

And now, after all these years, you've beaten me, Kathleen. Now at least 2 people have done that. Guess you're only sorta crazy after all.

Cheers.

Sparticus: Blood and Sand Review

A little late, but I just discovered this on netflix. I recently tried to write for http://www.cracked.com a humor website I both read AND enjoy, but turns out they pre-screen their topics, and you can't just write what the fuck you want, and fuck that. So, here's my review:

So, I just watched the new Starz show “Sparticus: Blood and Sand.” And, just like a grieving process, there a seven stages to the experience. Stage one is where I realize how much the fight style is suspiciously like “300”. The second stage is where we realize how much the plot is suspiciously like “Gladiator”. The third stage involves a lot of  getting fairly angry. The fourth stage involves HOLY SHIT THAT’S A LOT OF FUCKING TITS LIKE 30 FREAKING PAIRS OUR TITS CUP FLOETH OVER. The fourth stage involves lots of grunting and eventual shame.

The fifth stage is eating some hummus on the couch in our underwear. There are no sixth or seventh stages.

However, given that Sparticus is just a mixture of 300 and Gladiator with a sprinkle of boobs, we still intend to prove that, like Mac & Cheese and midget pornography, the whole may be greater than the sum of the parts.

Pictured: Synergy

Part 1:

Yah, so here’s just a couple of randomly chosen screen shots from 300 and Sparticus.

All black people with whips aside, Total. Fucking. Coincidence. Like, for SERIOUS guys.

Only difference is in Spartacus, the main dude totally looks like burly Jesus.

Yippie Christ Yay Motherfucker.

Now, one of the ONLY strengths of 300 was it's awesome stylized fight sequences.

Also the leather diapers

The whole movie was basically one big slow-mo surgery lesson with videos of a junior college freshman year acting class’s classics quarter spliced in.

Which worked. And was kind of awesome. No one knows why that guy we think might be Sean Bean talked like a pirate, but you know what? We forgave him.

Yar. I want that fucking ring.

We spent the entire 2ish hours in a boyish, blood fueled daze. Which frankly, we were fine with.

Problem was, there was not a whole lot of plot to speak of. To be fair, a good 45 % of the movie was in slow motion, so you only really had about thirty-five minutes of story to work with.

A good synopsis: Leonidas wants fight Persians. Council says no. He goes anyway. Wife gets boned. Leonidas dies. This is known as the first p0wnage in history.

Besides, Leonidas sounds like a disease where your balls turn into lions. Which is maybe the reason for the diapers.

For your protection.

So along comes:

PART 2

You know who wrote this shit?

Us neither. But we totes IMDB’d it. And it’s David Franzoni. (Still not ringin’ a bell here either.)

Well FYI: he wrote freaking Amistad. Also King Arthur.

We'll just call it even.

And do you know who directed Gladiator? Do You?

Ridley. Shitting. Scott.

That's Who.

So Gladiator has story coming out the freaking BALLS.

That's right. Right there out the balls.

Which is maybe why the plot summaries of Gladiator and Sparticus are about as distinguishable as Mary Kate and Ashely Olsen (though we’d totally be down for a three-way).

However, where the Gladiator fight scenes were awesome at the time… nowadays, with everything augmented digitally, they don’t stand out in a crowd.

Cluster-fuck fu.

On a related note:

Fact: Russell Crowe once straight punched a Bengal tiger in the face because it resembled a paparazzi holding a camera.

Pictured: I totally see it.

So you gotta imagine the Producers’ conversation went something like this:

Bob: Hey, know what made a lot of money? Gladiator.

Steve: Yeah. That’d be nice if we’d made it. We’d have so much Coke.

Bob: Coke out the BALLS.

Steve: Right out the Balls.

Bob: Hey, know what was cool? 300’s fights.

Steve: Hell yeah! I’m wearing my replica leather diaper right now!

Bob: I’m wearing one too, for totally unrelated reasons!

Steve: Hell yeah!

Bob: Hell FUCK yeah!

(They high five. There’s a pause)

Steve: HEY!!! I Know what would be awesome!!!!

Bob: HELL YEAH!! Let’s MIX IT UP BITCHES! It just needs one extra thing!!!!

Jesus, bitches.

Steve: Yeah! Well, maybe two things…

Which brings us to:

Part Three: 

It's not like this is my desktop or anything.

Seriously: There are like a good forty boobs in the first hour of this show. The Show should be called Sparticus: Blood and Tits. Actually no. That sounds like everyone ran a marathon without Vaseline.

Pictured: Health

So, the verdict:

Plot: +8 for awesomeness, -10 for the ripoff: overall, -2

Visuals: +9 for awesomeness, -10 for more leather diapers: overall, -1

Tits: +like, a billion, -1 for lack of more tits.

The verdict: Watchable (for the tits).

Cheers.

Beer Grenades and The Hangover Part II

So I went with my good friend Liz to see The Hangover II, because Liz is awesome, and I'm trying to squeeze in lots of time with people before leaving for the summer to act in Michigan.

Liz is great. She's smart, she's funny, she's the director of a theater company I'm a part of. She's kind of like this:

http://www.thebodyplanner.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/batgirl.jpg


But an actress, with less confidence in herself than she fully deserves.

I also have confidence issues, just the other direction. For instance, when I look in the mirror, I see this:

http://fastcache.gawkerassets.com/assets/images/8/2010/03/bats

but just oozing sex appeal as well.

The primary difference between Liz and I, and part of the reason we compliment one another well as friends, is how we deal with risk.

Liz likes to plan things. There is a mental model in the way things will play out, and if things adhere to that model, the endeavor is a success. It's what makes her good at running a theater company.

I, on the other hand, need things to go off track on a pretty regular basis so I have stories to tell.

I like to think without friends like Me, Liz wouldn't have any fun. Or it would just be subdued, and boring, and she would eventually end up being fairly unhappy.

Liz likes to think with her and friends like her, I would be dead. Which is fair, in a way.

So, when I suggested bringing our second successful homebrew batch into the theater, she was, as Liz usually is with me, apprehensive but willing.

The second batch is called "The Bastard Prince," modeled on Samaels by Avery of Colorado, it's a Sour Red Ale with cherries, oak, and maple syrup. I can humbly say it pretty much tastes like this:

http://media.techeblog.com/images/batman_lightsaber_2.jpg

but just oozing with sex appeal.

Anyway, we sneak a couple in, settle down for a couple of somewhat promising green lantern previews in a very full theater.

I decided to open the beer on the armrest of the seat. Then this happened:

http://courses.ulisesmejias.com/videogames09/img/wiki_up/mk_fatality.png


Now, I should explain.

What makes beer beer, or rather any type of alchohol alchohol is the triumvirate of yeast, sugar (or starch) and water. If you crumble up crackers in water, douse it with table sugar, and add yeast, it will create

A) Alchohol
B) Carbon Dioxide
C) Never actually do this, as it would be disgusting.

So, in the initial fermentation, you use the yeast to make sugar into booze. Carbon Dioxide is a waste product, which escapes via a little airlock type of thing. It looks like this:

http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/assets/0002/5801/homebrewing.jpg?1279043272

Now, after the beer is nice and alchoholiscious after a week or two, you put it in bottles.

You put more sugar in first, so the yeast start up again though. Again, yeast plus sugar makes

A) alchohol
B) carbon dioxide.

When in a sealed bottle, the carbon dioxide has nowhere to go, dissolves into the beer, and carbonates the beverage.

http://www.smalldoggiesmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/thumbs_up.jpg

Nifty, right?

Now, Beau, who is a friend a brew with, is a bit like me when it comes to doing anything: Leap first, look later. If we were to go bungee jumping together, we would both die, having forgotten the bungee part.

So, after tasting our awesomesauce beer before bottling, we put in the priming sugar, we forgot to properly stir it into the beer, which means it settled at the bottom of the carboy in a very concentrated fashion, which means some bottles received alot more of it than others.

Remember, sugar turns into carbonation. So we ended up with some beer like this:

http://nickshell1983.files.wordpress.com/2010/03/calories-in-a-banana-jpg.jpeg

And some like this:

http://www.wanderinggoblin.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/hand-grenade.jpg

AND NO FUNCTIONAL WAY TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEM.

I should also mention: We'd only opened three of the bottles. One had been just right, one had been flat, one almost overflowed. We figured that was as bad as it would ever get.

So, imagine Liz and I, nestled in a crowded theater space, laps covered in popcorn and sweets, getting ready to watch Hangover Part II, which I'm excited about because it's gotten mixed reviews, and all my favorite films do.

Lacking the foresight to bring any type of beer-opening-tool, I was attempting to open our little time bomb very subtly on the edge of the arm rest between us.

This is a fairly accurate representation of what ensued:

http://www.geographicguide.net/europe/scandinavia/geiser-iceland.jpg

I'm sorry, I'm prone to exaggeration. It was actually a bit more like this:

http://www.delvedigger.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/atom_blast.jpg

Liz was not impressed. She was even less impressed when I offered her the last third of the beer left in the bottle which was, strangely enough, fairly flat at that point. Very not impressed.

She was, in fact, quite angry. For like, the whole movie. She did eventually forgive me, but we had to cut short the evening so she could go home and do laundry, as she was traveling tommorrow, and I'm a giant asshole.

Her: "Why would you possibly bring that thing into the theater? What can you possibly say for yourself?"

Me: "None of the other ones did that."

Lesson learned. Stir the Priming Sugar.  Also, risks can have unforeseen consequences.

Which brings me to: Then Hangover Part II

http://planetill.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/the-hangover-part-ii-sequel-580x331.jpg

First off, and I don't say this a lot: Good Movie. Even more rare: Good Sequel. Stuck with the tropes established by the first film without copy-pasting anything. It was just more of the same, it was MORE than the first as well.

It's pretty dark, which is a great way to go for a sequel. The structure is the same: Everyone drinks, ends up somewhere crazy, no recollection of how, has to peice night back together.

During the course, though:

Someone Gets Shot
Someone loses a finger
Someone starts a riot with thaiwanese police
A monkey performs felatio on no less than 2 cast members.
Ed Helms gets butt-sexed by a thaiwanese lady/boy.

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3470/5752446138_de202cdbe1.jpg


Yeah, so, like a lot darker. And still, somehow, hilarious. I would argue more so because it's not afraid to go almost over the edge.

The whole movie, the audience is kept on the edge of being just too grossed out / uncomfortable to stay engaged. The line is even crossed several times, and then the laughter that ensues is a cathardic release of tension. It's brilliant, and incredibly engaging.

Also, Ed Helms gets butt-sexed by a lady boy.

http://www.onlineusanews.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Transvestite-Meanings.jpg

I would argue that it's in fact, even better than the original. Here's why:

At the beginning of the film, Ed Helms starts out trying to walk the straight and narrow. Through circumstances beyond his control, he ends up in a world he's not used to (Bankok) where he experiences several trials and tribulations, all of them VERY CHALLENGING (this is key) to him personally. He in fact, has to accept several new things about himself, and if you don't know what that means, click on the link above one more time.

Through this he gains a new understanding of himself that allows him to go back to the world he knew and live in it in a better way. Before the adventure he is quite the milktoast, and afterward he's able to stand up to and thereby gain the implicit approval of his bride-to-be's father.

He accepts the dark side inherent in him, and is better for it, as opposed to trying to oppress it. He shows real, actual growth that won't be undone.

And that's cool. The first one did all of those things but less so, and everything at the end is pretty much the same as the beginning, which is actually classical comedic structure: the world is circular.

Now it's not a perfect film by any means. Zach Galifinfuckthisspelling's lines usually cap the scenes, and after some time the whole "crazy guy is funny cuz he's crazy" thing gets old, but that's the writers' fault, not his. He ends up being a little like the crazy guy on the subway: funny for 20 minutes, annoying for 40, although it doesn't really ruin the film in any way.

http://homelessmanspeaks.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/tonys-thumbs-up-feb-23-2008.jpg

Also, Ed Helms's bride to be is a very (hot asian) set piece, and has all the emotional complexity of, oh I don't know, this:

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQ7gMHwtuFOG-kVvE8rhxzwQ3_1-D6KFnrKJNlGhJDcgOF4EeAwO6gdTV8okg9dzFnrS5BwHCkQjZNhdDsMRc7d69PWhAtGBIPvWY9dku-MVn2x1MYCdJHbBuX_yvKptCgAxPUpaPg7Y/s320/Plank+of+wood.jpg

Admitedly a hot, asian version of that, but still. A missed opportunity, to be sure, and frankly a bit unfair to the ladies, in a movie where even the ladies have dongs. Women are surprisingly and suspiciously absent throughout the whole affair, but whatever. It might have been nice to see the wolf-pack interact with a she-wolf or two, but that's another movie entirely.

But still, these things don't spoil it. It's quite good. Better than the first, in fact.

http://www.buddyhead.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/home-alone1243399120.png

Why I would argue Part II is the better film, actually, is because it has dramatic structure: through a fair amount of torment, things actually change by the end for the better, irrevocabely, and that's satisfying to watch. You have to work for the emotional release at the end, and therefor value it more.

It's the quality that, you might say, makes a story very compelling in the first place.

http://www.smalldoggiesmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/thumbs_up.jpg

So, to recap:

A) Mix your priming sugar
B) Risks have consequences
C) The Hangover part II is a better film than the first, go see it.
D) Liz still thinks I'm an asshole, but good friends forgive.

It think the best way to draw all this to a close is this:

Liz's reaction to the film: That was awesome! But I'm NEVER going to Bankok!

My reaction: Totally! (While looking up the price of flights there on my smartphone)

http://www.onlineusanews.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Transvestite-Meanings.jpg

Cheers.

Old people on the Internet / An open letter to the Dude on Lincoln Ave

I was recently on Digg.com, which is kind of like the Mos Eisley of the internet, if you catch my dorky drift, but without the cool music or lightsabers. Seriously, it's 2011 people. Fucking lightsabers, it can't be that hard.

Anyway, I got into a pitched comment debate with an old man over the new ObamaCare thing, and entitelments in this country.

At least, he said he was an old man. Here's a sample:

From "Harry Fox" which is totally not a euphamism.
"I'm a great-grandfather of one, and a grandfather of five, and I think these entitlements suck. We need to be free of all these entitlements."

First off, I don't beleive you're a great grandfather and also are on Digg.com. I think you're a stupid middle aged person trying to prove a point.

If you are, in fact, a great grandfather on the internet, I offer to, if you promise to stop spouting Fox News bullet points, come over and A) Program your VCR B) Use it to tape matlock and C)warm you some milk. In return for this, all I ask is your social security, since you seem to despise it so much.


Secondly: If you are actually the same person who cut me off on Lincoln Avenue (because I like to think there are far less stupid people than there seem to be, they all just have multiple identities) on the way to work this morning REPEATEDLY, to prove you were, in fact, master of the road, I have this to say:

A) I didn't intentionally cut you off the first time. I was pulling out from behind someone turning left, and didn't see you, because it was raining and your lights were off.

B) You had plenty of time to slow down in any case; it wasn't even close.

C) You seemed to assume that I didn't merely accidently cut someone off, I INTENTIONALLY CUT YOU PERSONALLY OFF, which is funny to me. It must be difficult, having everyone out to get you personally, and the government listening through the radios and things. This point was exacerbated by when you pulled up beside me in a school zone, rolled down your window at 30 miles an hour, and shouted for several minutes, soaking the inside of your car in the rain.

D) I, having given you both the finger and ample space to pull ahead, then turned my brights on, because fuck you.

E) Your sudden stopping in the middle of the road didn't really catch me off gaurd, neither did your swerving into my lane within a few feet of me once, but twice.

And finally:

F) I wasn't terribly surprised to see you pulled over a few blocks ahead, because I was the one who called the cops and said there was a drunk driver with the vanity plate "Slap Hpy" (true fucking story) on Lincoln. Ah, we live in a wonderful age.

The moral: Fuck you.

The second moral: Don't be a dick. The offer still stands about the social security though.

So I saw Thor with my stupid friends

My friends aren't actually all that stupid. They can walk around and talk and things, dress themselves, exist and not get hit by cars (yet, knock on wood), and that makes them more intelligent than most labrador retreivers.

So, when the call came to see "Thor," I, considering myself to be a fairly decently well cultured and discerning labrador retreiver when it comes to my time, energy, and the much more hard to come by "money" as it is known among the riff-raff, I politely declined.

Then they said "But it's saturday, and you don't have other plans."  And I sulked a bit, like I'd just brought in a dead bird as a gift only to be chided about it, licked myself for a while, then drove northward to witness the power of the mighty "Thor."

I think I'm dropping the "dog" metaphor because it has ceased to amuse me. Here's a breif list of other things that have recently ceased to amuse me within a few minutes:

People who use "bunny ears" to emphasize, rather than indicate a quotation
Life, generally,
Thor, God of Thunder (the movie. he's quite nice personally)

So, I arrive, high as a kite, because fuck if I'm going to go see Thor sober. I, of course, as a high person, tend to share things.

Not personal things like daddy issues or herpes, but rather my weed. So, as I arrived at my friend Beau's house, (Yes, his name is Beau. Yes, I tell him all the time it means "pretty" in french. Not handsome, specifically "pretty." Yes, that's incorrect, but he hasn't figured that out yet, so it continues to be amusing.)

I began to proffer my weed around like a be-candied parent on halloween, offering my friends the chance to focus on just how nice the popcorn tasted at the theater, rather than having to subject their entire psyches un-sheilded to the soul-fuck that would be "Thor, God of Thunder." They, however, being mostly 30, and also being quite lame, declined, which set a bit of an awkward tone for the rest of the evening.

Now, internet, you may be wondering exactly why I'm so down on "Thor, God of Thunder." Couple of things:

I had no idea Thor was even a comic book until the TV started rubbing a large blond man's pectorals in my face repeatedly, and therefor didn't have the childhood nostalgia factor to get my naughty bits all good and wet for it. Ha. It was fun to put those 2 things next to each other.

Given that, my perspective of the story became something along the lines of a 2011 pectoral-centric bastardization of an old religious figure, which is what "Thor" was to the vikings. It would kind of be like if in about 300 years, somebody made "Jesus: Zombie of Jerusalem" which, now that I think about it, I would totally pay to see. Please contact me for liscencing rights at sacreligion@gmail.com. Actually don't, I'm pretty sure that's the contact email for a Gay Club in Philadelphia. In which case, email if you wish.

Lastly, it's directed by Kenneth Branaughughugh, who is a classically trained actor. I, technically, am also a classically trained actor, albiet a much less prodigious one, and am fairly familiar with the works of Mr. Branmuffin. He likes to get a whole bunch of money together, and use it to masturbate right in your face. Which is all well and good, especially if you tend to be the type of person who likes to watch Shakespeare AND attend Sack-Religion, of Philadelphia, PA, but I'm only one of those things, and even then, only on thursdays when it's rainy and I'm feeling blue.

So, I expected Thor: Wad of Blunder to be technically impressive, as Mr. Br;alksdkfagoh (okay, joke dead) usually is, but fairly trite, shiny, and soulless. It's like...oh, what's it like? It's like getting a blowjob from a wife who no longer loves you. The steps are all there to bring the issue (which I'm heretoforth referring to my manparts as) to completion, however, because there's not HEART in it, it somehow becomes a sad mockery of what once was, or perhaps what could be.

That's the problem. Thor is not of the popular consciousness, so you could, say, do a very original story that is innovative, heart-felt, and moving (if you were Christopher Nolan, you could do it DESPITE the lead figure being iconic). Or you could try your damndest to make it look like that while giggling atop your giant pile of money. And we're back where we started.

So, the movie begins:

Thor, who I will hitherto refer to as Pectorals, is an arrogant asshole, mainly because he has a kickass hammer that can...apparently do whatever we could think of and fit within the special effects budget. Great. Favored son of Pirate Hannibal Lector, older brother to Emo Dead Fish.

Through an accident of fate, Pectorals is ejected from heaven-analog-if-heaven-were-designed-by-a-gay-world-of-warcraft-player onto "Urth" where he is hit by a bus by Nevernude, i. e. Natalie Portman.

I take special issue with Natalie Portman never being nude, because this is pre-poor-life-choices Natalie Portman, who was still VERY hot, and having Pectorals more shirtless than her generally is just a waste of a good couple of million dollars, cuz if you've ever seen Closer, or, fuck, Your Highness, she'll totally strip down. Again, I blame Mr. Branmuffin for another glorious missed opportunity.

Anyway, Pectorals is the equivalent of hit by a bus several times for the next fifteen minutes, just to show how human and relatable he's suddenly become, despite still being Hitler's version of the perfect man, and therefor terrifying to, well, Jews like me. I guess the arguement goes like this: Well, shit! I suppose I could get hit by a bus as well! Look at us, being almost the same! My God, I feel such a deep investment in this person's developement, and shall hold my pee/cellphone calls/google searching "natalie portman butt" on my smartphone until AFTER the film has concluded.

So, Pectorals cooks dinner with some people, and fights some government people, and is generally humbled over the course of three or four relatively unchallenging segments and about thirty minutes, which makes you think his Hubris wasn't terribly well rooted in the first place, and might not have been that big a problem if Pirate Hannibal Lector had just made him pick up around the house a few times as a child.

Emo Dead Fish does some things with CGI ice monkeys- again, was still pretty high at this point, not terribly clear what, exactly, but it turns out Emo Dead Fish is also an ice monkey, and I'm fairly sure it involved waffles as well, though I could be pretty wrong on that point. That's how interesting the whole thing was.

Anyway,  Dead Fish sends a big robot to kill Pectorals, mainly because he's afraid of the whole "Master Race" thing, presumabely, and after half an hour or so of housework, Pectorals sacrifices himself to save his friends in a way that would in no way prevent big robot from turning around and killing the shit out of his friends, but still, it was nice. In doing this, he regains control of his penis metaphor, and re-ascends to gay-Wow-heaven. He there ousts Emo Dead Fish, wakes Pirate Hannibal Lector, and breaks the rainbow bridge that they totally should have changed to something else so we wouldn't have another reason to laugh at them.

Also, there's a black guy with a sword who seems pretty baddass, but apparently it's a problem that he's black, because people are TRUE FANS of the comic books, and TOTALLY NOT RACIST or anything. To be fair, they're really just worried about the Asgaurd property values (ooh, I apologize.)

Anywho, for some reason at the end Nevernude and Pectorals stare up at the sky at each other, although both of them could be totally looking in the wrong direction, and probabaly are, considering that planets rotate not only on an axis but also around stars, and galactic centers and things, and then Sammy Jackson talks to Emo-Dead-Fish in disguise about a Cosmic Cube after the credits.

My stupid friends explained a "Cosmic Cube" to me on the walk home, and I shant repeat it here, because it is SO dorky, that should you read it, internet, your sexual organs will immediately consume themselves so you don't pollute the gene pool. I had to spend several hours talking mine down off the ledge with a nice girl who lives two floors down in my building later that evening just to balance things out.

So, what makes Thor: Rod of Under (not very good, I know, but there aren't many "Thunder" rhymes) truly an AWFUL experience rather than just a mediocre one, is that it has all the makings of a great film.

A likeable, but flawed lead, who is stripped of his power for his flaws, learns, grows, and ultimately becomes the man that both he and the Universe require him to be. Classic Joseph Campbell, heroes' journey goodness.

It even has some decent family drama, and interesting side characters.

The problem is that it phones it in. It dances the steps prettily enough, but the heart's not there. It's just going through the motions. And the fact that it KNOWS THE STEPS makes the dance even worse: it could have been a great film, it KNEW WHAT IT WAS DOING, but just decided the audience didn't deserve or couldn't grok the full monty.

This makes me want to shoot Mr. Branmuffin in the back of the head. With a supersoaker. Full of ink. Because FUCK YOU I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT RIGHT, YOU JUST SHOWED ME YOU KNOW HOW, AND ITS ALMOST LIKE YOUR MOCKING THE PROCESS YOU STUPID BRITISH GIT. Also, NAKED NATALIE PORTMAN! WE DONT HAVE THAT MUCH TIME LEFT!!!!!!

So in conclusion, the whole experience was a bit like watching the Patriots Play:

Technically impressive, slightly homoerotic, and lacking in soul.

To the Pats fans out there who just got mad at me: you know exactly what I'm talking about.