Category Archives: Entertainment
If you’re a regular or semi-regular reader of mine, you’ll know that I have a profound dislike for most everything. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things I like.
Perhaps, television is both my favourite and most hated of life’s little staples. It’s a harsh mistress; dressing up for you all pretty like one moment, then pissing all over you the next. God knows I hate television networks. These wonder-tards are responsible for some of the worst decisions in entertainment history. Fuck it. I’m talking about FOX. FOX has been anally raping its viewership since the dawn of Married: With Children. Let’s check the score:
- Arrested Development: CANCELLED
- Terminator- The Sarah Connor Chronicles: CANCELLED
- Lie to Me: CANCELLED
- Futurama: CANCELLED
- Family Guy: CANCELLED
- Dollhouse: CANCELLED
- Firefly: CANCELLED
Then, there are the shows that FOX execs gave a collective, “fuck it” and greenlit baffling shit like:
- Who’s Your Daddy: Fatherless child + paternity tests + slut mother + a group of guys who couldn’t keep it in their pants + TV audience + cash reward = eventual suicide
- Married by America: The viewing audience could now get involved with helping young couples fuck up their futures
- The Littlest Groom: He’s a midget! Get it? [It actually pained me to type “littlest”]
- Babes: Fat chicks. That’s it. There’s nothing else.
- House of Buggin’: John Leguizamo’s latest tragically unfunny attempt at replacing “In Living Color”
Even more ball-smashingly painful are the shows FOX, not only keeps on the air, but seem to have an L. Ron Hubbard type following. Again, let’s go to the board:
- American Idol: Definition of beating a dead horse and making it sing.
- X Factor: What they’re calling “American Idol,” but with Simon Cowell and Pepsi.
- House: Look, he’s a cranky ass, drug addicted, pompous, douchebag doctor. We get it.
- Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader: Short answer: No
- Glee: Fucking Glee
Although I can shake my fist and send human waste to FOX for the first two lists, there is no one to blame but the American people for the last. What the fuck is wrong with society? “But, Roode,” some of you are no doubt saying to your monitors like I give two shits, “if you don’t like these shows, don’t watch them.” If you’re one of the people who just said that, punch yourself in the kidneys as hard as you can. I’ll wait.
The excruciatingly painful root canal of a problem is that these entertainment equivalents to eyeball AIDS don’t just stay on TV. They’re everywhere. They spill over into every other aspect of life: water cooler chat, trite morning show coverage, bullshit marketing shenanigans, and a host of other methods designed to shove this camel piss down your throat. For fuck’s sake, you half expect the doctor to give you a rectal exam with an official “GLEE” probe.
Glee. Fucking Glee. Outside of “reality” shows, Glee has to be the prickliest cactus that has ever been shoved up my ass [figuratively, sickos]. It combines all the things I hate in life: singing, high school drama bullshit, singing about high school drama bullshit, hair styles from the 80’s, poser-hipster-geekdom, a Barbara Streisand wannabe, and all the douchebaggery contained therein.
Impossibly aggravating twirling paraplegic aside, I’m completely baffled as to how in the fuck this show became the runaway success it is. I guess it has all the ingredients of an asinine network TV show popular with the toothless public:
Unrealistically pretty high school “teenagers” + mismatched couples + painfully dubbed singing + forced and contrived gay character(s)
Alright, maybe most of that is superficial for a list of reasons why I hate this show more than a punch to the yam bag. But, it’s a goddamn TV show. What else do I need? It’s television cancer! The background music, itself, is enough to drive one into a murderous rage.
I tried to watch the show once [read: woke up on the couch while wife was watching it]. I timed myself. It was exactly one minute until I was filled with homicidal rage. It’s like fingers on a chalkboard. It’s not any ONE thing. It’s EVERYTHING. Individually, I’m pretty sure I could stomach each vomit inducing annoyance for an hour-long show. I hate singing in a television show, but I managed to put up with episodes of The Simpsons that shoe-horned musical sketches into the show. High school drama on TV makes me want to set fire to an orphanage, but I was able to sit through Veronica Mars.
But, all those little annoyances in concert is like being hit with a bag of oranges. It’s a constant left-hook, right-hook combination. It’s one of the few situations when running headlong into a wall is the better of two evils. Take the hits too long and you’ll end up like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky V. No, not the Rocky character. I really mean Sylvester Stallone.
Glee has become oh so fashionable! Why, everyone who’s ANYONE wants to have their songs shit on, ham-fisted into a “plot” then have the very essence changed to discuss the problems of kids in wheelchairs not being able to get enough blond poontang.
Ah, that’s what FOX wants you to think. Every now and then an artist is able to withstand the evil and money to protect his work from being shat out the prime time sphincter. Who? Who dared defy the FOX gods and deny them their power and inefficient hybrids?
Back in March of 2011, Dave declined to give the rights to his song, “Everlong.” [Read: Go fuck yourselves] Grohl feels that musicians shouldn’t feel pressured to bow down to Glee’s awesomeness and beg to give them any song out of their catalogue the studio wants. Check this:
“It’s every band’s right, you shouldn’t have to do fucking Glee,” Grohl, 42, told The Hollywood Reporter. “Dude, maybe not everyone loves Glee. Me included. I watched 10 minutes and it wasn’t my thing. “
Translation: Fuck you, Ryan Murphy, creator of Glee. Your shit absolutely DOES stink. Not only that, but we can see what you ate for lunch.
But, I suppose Dave Grohl’s story isn’t indicative of the norm. Well, that would be true if Slash and Kings of Leon didn’t do the same damn thing and FLAT OUT REFUSED to let their music be a part of that bile gargling sing-com. I can only hope this becomes some sort of movement within the music industry that has musicians actually KNOW what their songs are being used for when they accept a fat check. Just say NO, Alice in Chains. JUST SAY NO!
The ONLY redeemable decision this holocaust of a show ever made was just chance. Heather Morris was hired, originally, to work out the coreography for the mind numbing dance scenes. She worked with Beyoncé and knew a thing or two about choreography. It was her job to teach the cast of mouth breathers how to dance well enough for prime time television. I guess she did pretty well, because they ended up hiring her to play Brittany Pierce in a recurring role. In the second season she was made a full cast member. I wish I understood why.
Oh, yeah. I see why. Excellent job!
I enjoy the Terminator franchise. Alright, “Rise of the Machines” left a bad taste in my mouth, but I could stand it. Many a person via comments section, blog, or pointless water cooler discussion wax philosophical about the Terminator Universe. How many possible timelines are there? What was the Catherine Weaver T-1000 planning? If Kyle Reese dies after Judgement Day would it really matter? Would John Connor cease to exist or would that timeline just play out? I don’t care a bloody bit about any of these questions. I just want to know why the bloody hell John Connor insists on making the same shit mistakes. Isn’t he paying attention?
I am not really complaining about the versions of John Connor in the first three movies or in the television series. Those incarnations seem to have their collective shit together. Well, the John Connor of T3 was a whiny little bitch. I would embrace genocide if he were the only hope for mankind.
The worse offender is the John Connor of “Terminator Salvation.” Wait. Stop right there. Don’t complain that I’m late to the party with this one. Yes, the film came out an eon ago. It’s been playing non-stop on the premium channels. So keep your smart ass comments about my timeliness to yourselves.
Seeing it so many times got me to thinking that this John Connor is not a man groomed his entire life to lead the human resistance against the holocaust-happy machines. This bloke has seen, fought, and been pursued by these rampaging killbots before. So why the screaming fuck does he act like this is his first rodeo? Things like:
If one thing has been hammered into our heads repeatedly, it’s that the terminators don’t sweat small arms fire. Shotgun blasts? Sure, it will damage their pretty faces, but it won’t really phase them. What about rifles or machine guns? It depends on the calibre. It’s painfully obvious that your basic beer can shooting rifle isn’t going to do a damn thing but piss the metal harbinger of death off. Something attached to the side of a military-grade aircraft will do the trick. We know this. The terminators know it. Why does JC keep forgetting?
In the first few scenes of T4 we see John-John crawling out of an over-turned Huey. Then, WHAMO; a T-600 (or T-700; it’s all a little dodgy) with its legs blown off starts throwing him around. What’s the first thing Johnny does? He shoots it in the bloody head with a wimpy pistol. Seriously? You essentially grew up with virtually indestructible man-shaped machines and you still pull this bollocks? Someone didn’t pay attention during terminator school.
The Savior of Mankind tries it again toward the end of the film. He kicks his firearm up a notch to a relatively small calibre automatic rifle… expecting different results? Or, did he just say “sod it,” and figure he needed to use the ammunition anyway. Waste not want not. The little woman back home may be cross if Johnny Cakes comes home with leftovers.
2. He keeps trying to hit, smack, and punch the terminators
Right, then. This makes even less sense than #1. Toward the end of the film, after the prototype T-800 bursts from the cell and wreaks all sorts of havoc upon Connor’s person, an unbelievable thing occurs. He bitch slaps the CGI Arnold with the butt of his rifle. Isn’t this the equivalent of punching your concrete floor? At what point during his life did he learn that the Achilles Heal of the murder-death-kill bot was a stiff slap to the face? Was that a deleted scene in the second film?
With all that God-like knowledge J-to-the-C has about… well… everything, you would think he would remember this basic principle. Sissy-slapping the machines only makes your inevitable beat-down more pathetic. I’m not saying that he should just lie there and accept that his skull is about to be crushed like a peanut shell underneath Herman Goering’s patent leather jackboot, mind you. It’s just that this method of defense is slightly less effective than launching a barrage of “Yo Mama” jokes.
3. EVERYTHING is a trap
Is your young-adult father on a SkyNet kill list? Has a bloke who’s really a prototype infiltration unit shown up out of nowhere to help? Resistance Command hand you a foolproof plan to turn off the machines? Congratulations! You’re about to be buggered. You don’t need to be Admiral Akbar to realize it’s a trap.
Everything‘s a trap. JC knows this. Mama Connor told him via outdated audio cassette tape. The machines are cold, calculating sods. Come on, Johnny Appleseed! You’ve been fooled a few times before. Remember your injured mom calling out for your help in the smelting plant? TRAP. Remember the T-850 in “Rise of the Machines” telling you it was able to get close and kill you because of your emotional attachment to the model? TRAP. This isn’t news, John-a-ling-a-ling. What are the odds of a SkyNet built and programmed machine practically delivered to your door is going to help you rescue your pop without it being a trap? So what are you supposed to do? “He has to save his father or he’ll never be.” Firstly we don’t really know that. That’s using “Back to the Future” temporal math. If you use Star Trek Mirror Universe math, killing off dada while Connor is an adult may not effect things at all. JC already exists. There’s nothing written in stone that he HAS to send pops repeatedly back in time to protect and bump uglies with mother. For fuck’s sake, he already knows all the bloody moves the machines are going to make.
But, I suppose if you want to play it safe Connor-mania could launch an all out search mission for daddy, then lock him in a closet for ten years. Here’s an idea, call for him during one of your fireside chats. Tell him to meet you at the burned out Starbucks. Too risky? Well you know he lives in Los Angeles. There are three people left in that burned out husk of a city. Kyle isn’t going to be hard to find.
4. If you can’t blow the bloody thing up, just run
As I covered in #1, anything short of a 80 calibre or a Howitzer isn’t really going to do jack. Sure, it may make you feel like you’re accomplishing something, but in the grand scheme of things it’s just wasting everyone’s time.
Here comes mechanized death. You have an axe, lead pipe, and nunchucks. What do you do?
A: Break out your finest Bruce Lee moves.
B: Smack its head around with the lead pipe and hope it gets dizzy and has to lie down.
C: Use the axe to smash your way through the door and get the hell out of there.
If you chose anything but C, you are destined to die a horrible, painful death. It makes as much sense as starting a fight with a motorcycle club armed with a juice box and fuzzy dice while wearing ONLY a speedo.
Run! Don’t think. Just run. Unless you have a portable rocket launcher and/or a small thermonuclear device, just beat cheeks out of there. There’s no shame in it. You’re a pansy if you run away from a bee. You’re just being realistic when running away from a soulless killing machine that wants to rip out your spine.
Running away from this = PUSSY
Running away from this = SENSIBLE
IF there’s a sequel to “Salvation” I do hope they put together some sort of Idiot’s Guide for fighting terminators and other machines that want you dead. These little facts are like the laws of physics. They do not change. They cannot be changed. You look like an asshole attempting to change them.
Lest we forget:
FWTC Amnesia Lane: A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday
P.S. We are obliged to publish Ren’s emergency article in case we don’t see her again after this year’s Saint Patrick Day’s shenanigans.
By Abby K.
If I were to tell you Len Lesser died yesterday you would give me a blank stare. Then, if I told Uncle Leo died you would immediately open palm slap your forehead and say, “No! Uncle Leo? Say it ain’t so.” OK, maybe you wouldn’t say it exactly that way, but you know what I mean.
Len Less… ah screw it… Uncle Leo had a long and storied acting career. He was in Clint Eastwood flicks like, The Outlaw Josey Wales and Kelly’s Heroes. Remember? Come on! I can let Kelly’s Heroes slide, but if you never heard of The Outlaw Josey Wales , you’re either a particularly dainty woman or a castrated man.
Don’t feel bad. The majority of the Free World really only know Lesser as Uncle Leo. To tell you the truth, that’s good enough. No, he didn’t get Orson Wells spherical nor was he well known for his penchant for hookers and rock cocaine. He just, I don’t know, COMPLETELY BECAME ONE OF THE 20TH CENTURY’S BIGGEST PRIME TIME TELEVISION POP ICONS. Don’t agree? You’re lying. Quick, which one of these characters from Lesser’s career do you remember?
Or Uncle Friggin Leo?
That’s what I thought.
Uncle Leo was a character that stuck out in a sitcom that already had tons of quirky goofy ass one-dimensional circus clowns. That’s no small feat. Sure, he wasn’t in the main cast, having just appeared in 15 episodes. 15 out of 180 episodes. That’s nothing, it’s a speck of corn in the cow pie of life. But, those 15 episodes are among the ones we best remember. Why? Uncle Leo had it all; dashing good looks, a wardrobe to die for, and one of the best catch phrases of 90’s television. “Jerry! Hello!”
But, why did we take notice of our dear, precious Uncle Leo within the sea of Neumans, Kramers, Mickeys, and close-talkers? Was it talent? Gravitas? Yes. But, it was more than that. Only one word can sum it all up accurately. Genius. Uncle Leo was the Macbeth of our time. He was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern all wrapped up into one hunk of a thrift store sweater wearing man.
The real tragedy is that Uncle Leo never had his own spin-off series. Think about it. Episode after episode of “HELLO!” We would finally get to see Uncle Leo’s personal side. His sensitive side. His studly side. Hey, don’t be so quick to judge. That description was already more than Jersey Shore gives you and those hosers make millions for being stupid and VD ridden.
Look, all I’m saying is that growing up in Alberta didn’t exactly provide a girl with an ample supply of man candy. We had Eugene Levy while the US had David Hasselhoff (in his pre- cheeseburger/bathroom floor stage).
How was this fair? You tell me!
Maybe I was a traumatized child. I did see my father in a speedo once. I guess that pushed me into the strong, slightly mothball smelling arms of Uncle Leo. Look, don’t judge me. Funny is sexy.
Apparently, I’m not alone in my Uncle Leo worship.
That’s right, a tribute to Uncle Leo set to “Hello” by Lionel Ritcie. And you thought I had issues.
Safe home, Uncle Leo. Without you, life is meaningless and dark. We no longer have the bright light of your “hello” to warm ourselves by. I guess I’ll just nurse my crush on James Earl Jones.
Oh, yeah. That eases the pain.
It’s time to re-visit Roode’s complete and utter hatred of marketing mascots.
Step in the way-back machine for this classic that actually tells you more about us than it does about the Weather Channel.
So, the other day, How the Grinch Stole Christmas was on tele. Per usual, I watched it. It’s hard to ignore things like that from your childhood. My son loves the program, but seems to root for the Grinch. He makes me so proud.
The clever boy that he is, he pointed out that the Grinch didn’t really steal Christmas. He just stole “things.” As long as the Whoos were still around, they would keep Christmas alive in their hearts. I sat there and pondered his observation for a bit. He was completely right. It’s not possible to steal an entire day, let alone one with such reverence and centuries of religious ideology. The little furry buggers would still sing, wish each other a “Merry Christmas,” and be as annoying as ever. No, sir. It wasn’t the day that was the problem. It was the Whoos. They were the problem. In order to effectively end his torment, the Grinch has to dispatch of them. ALL of them.
But how? How could the Grinch take care of his Whoo problem in one, efficient moment? Well, building a bloody sled, making a Santa costume, and dressing up your little dog sure as hell won’t help. He has to get creative. Luckily, human history is riddled with pointers for the person who wants to wipe out an entire people.
1. Nuclear explosion
Perhaps the most obvious way to take care of the Whoo menace is to detonate a nuclear warhead in the center of town. It’s fast, thorough, and (if done correctly) will leave the area completely uninhabitable for decades. The Grinch lives far away on a mountain top. There’s a good chance that the trade winds will blow the fallout away from his cave. However, just to be safe, he will want to invest in the proper safety equipment. Hey, to solve the problem, one must make sacrifices. The bastard is already green and covered with fur. How much more damage can radiation do?
Alright, some of you may wonder how the Grinch could get his green hands on such a device. Apparently, it’s not too difficult. With thousands of surplus Soviet nuclear weapons out there, every half assed wanker with enough cash and a certain level of insanity can start his own collection.
2. Blankets infected with small pox
This method of extermination is nothing new. Conspiracy theories tell us the US Army perfected this little ditty in the 19th century when it wanted to get rid of those pesky Plains Indians. Well, that’s what wannabe Indian and political controversy whore Ward Churchill would have you believe. This story is, more than likely, a complete fabrication and a poor attempt to shoehorn douche bag behaviour into history.
Regardless of whether the US Army actually did this or not, it’s a viable option for our grinchy fellow. Under the guise of making peace, he can have crates of infected blankets sent to every Whoo in Whooville. He just wants to make sure they are all warm and snuggly throughout the winter. But, wait. Something is wrong. One Whoo gets sick. Then another. Then another. They’re dropping like flies now! I guess the Grinch kept the small pox vaccine all to himself.
3. Fuel-Air Bomb
A Fuel-Air bomb is a thermobaric weapon that, quite literally, sucks in all the available oxygen and sets the surround atmosphere on fire. This gives you all the horrific face melting punch of a nuke, without those pesky radiation side effects. The only issue is that this Satan-spawn engine of destruction must be dropped on its target. I’ve watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas many times. I don’t recall ever seeing an airplane hangar carved into the mountain side, so it’s safe to say he doesn’t have adequate air transportation. He could have a helicopter sitting on a pad somewhere, but the topography of his mountain makes it terribly unlikely.
Given the Grinch’s knack for building, I have no doubt he is fully capable of constructing some sort of rudimentary catapult on his mountain top in order to sling that bad boy to its target.
If Zombiland has taught me anything, it’s that the walking dead are dumber than a bag of hammers and easily killed. An assortment of other zombie movies show that, once the human food supply runs out, they start to feed on each other. It’s a win-win for the Grinch.
I’m going to skip over how, exactly, our green genocide machine can acquire the needed mutant gene/bio-weapon/magic spell. It’s the bloody Dr. Suess world. If those little hairy tossers in Whooville can invent completely ridiculous contraptions to play with (and they work), then the Grinch can be just as resourceful and get his hateful hands on some zombie-making fuel.
Once the plan is in motion, that yellow eyed engine of hate can sit back and watch the fun. What he chooses to do is completely up to him. For a little sport, he can set up shop on a rocky outcrop of his mountain fortress and pick off the zombie Whoos one by one with a high-powered rifle. Or, if he’s in the mood for something more passive, simply watch the Whoos turn on each other and feast, feast, feast.
5. Poison the Town’s Food and Water Supply
If the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan taught us anything it was that the fastest way of eradicating an entire town is by poisoning their food and water supply. Well, that and the historical precedent of easily invading Afghanistan, but being unable to leave it once you’ve finished. That’s another story, entirely.
Chances are Whooville’s water comes from a source in the high mountain tops surrounding them. Perhaps a cold mountain stream like the one shown in the Coors commercials. Yes. Just like that, but without the horrible, tasteless moose piss that is Coors Light.
As with old Cold War nuclear weapons, there are multiple caches of unused biological weapons dating back to the First World War. He doesn’t even have to break into the Deseret Chemical Depot in Utah and pinch a few pounds from their stockpile of over 6000 short tons. That’s a good thing, because 1. He will, more than likely, be killed trying to break in and 2. He won’t have to set foot inside Utah. If given the choice between the two, choose death.
Luckily, our Grinchy Grinch doesn’t have to make that decision. No, sir. This green embodiment of Whoo hate can wait for the shells of World War I mustard gas to come to him! A clamming vessel off the shores of Long Island is hauling this stuff in like there’s no tomorrow. There won’t be a tomorrow if someone drops one of those bad boys.
These are just a few ideas off the top of my head. No doubt the Grinch could come up with a dozen more ideas; all equally effective and horrific. Then, he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking into every Whoo house in Whooville, stealing all their decorations and gifts, and avoid the mind games of Cindi Lou Whoo.
It seems like only yesterday we flat-out refused to let Ren write for us. Now, we don’t have a choice.
Amnesia Lane→ Facebook: The Slum Lords of Social Media
September 3, 2009