(Contributions from Jane Lane)
There has been a “controversy” rampaging the shit out of various segments of the media. The wool was pulled over your eyes, people. We’re talking cover-up you easily fooled sacks. A sham! Flim-flam! Even a semi-syndicated talk show exposed this farce. I can’t think of any synonyms for sham, flim-flam, and cover-up, so let’s get to the point.
Ren is not real.
Depend on your personal choice of media outlet, you heard it hear first. The little blonde Irish elf does not exist. Sorry, people. It was bound to be discovered sometime. FWTC did its level best backstopping a cover story for “Ren” and build a solid base for our house of lies. But, you were too smart. The Geraldo Riveras in podcast and Internet land Sherlock Holmes-ed themselves to uncover the truth. Hats off to everyone who has a degree in criminology. Degrees from un-accredited schools from Indonesia on a distance learning program. But, who am I to judge. Apparently, nobody. You can’t make judgements when you don’t exist.
No, friends, Ren does not exist. I… I mean, “SHE” is just a practical joke. A combination of industry logos and urban legend. You’ve all been duped. I am….. shit, I mean, “SHE” is a scam. No one can agree on what kind of scam or who the hell “she” really is. It could be some sort of Irish pyramid scheme. Perhaps, some twisted person or persons came up with the idea to josh an entire nation just to create a publicity stunt to sell prophylactics made of bison scrotum.
Just like Roswell and Bigfoot, there are a few leading theories about who I… fuck! Who “she” really is. Here are just a few:
1. “She’s” a fat guy
This is, probably, the most obvious I mean, come on! We all know the vast majority of the “women” on the interwebs are fat, sweaty fucks with a tiny dicks. Christ, 90% of the “women” on Facebook are guys. It’s completely conceivable that this “Ren” character is really just some fat slob desperate for attention. Come on! This “girl” likes to drink, bang her “husband,” and loves the meat. Get it? Loves the meat?
There’s NO WAY a “woman” like that in the world. Check that. NO FUCKING WAY! That shit is like turning lead into gold. It’s all a myth. Hearsay. It’s just not possible that a “female” can actually enjoy meat and meat byproducts along with alcohol and and steady stream of fucking the husband.
So, yeah. That’s got to be it. Unless…
2. “She’s” a
Bots are annoying. Bots are cunning. Bots are fucking sneaky. How many times have you gotten a message from “Eliza Dushku” or “Avril Lavigne” or.. I don’t know… “God?” Well, we all sure as hell know it’s really some sweaty programer with more body odor than appeal.
This makes sense. First, you just scour the Net, and find a random girl on Facebook and second, pirate the fuck out of any pics set to “public.” Throw in a dash of spyware and a sprinkle of rerouting virus then, fucking viola! You got yourself insta-Ren!
The main issue with these bots is that many of them are programmed to adjust to new perimeters. To adapt to new spam filters. To… evolve. If this, “Ren” is a spam bot, it’s more than just your basic con to worm its way into your hard drive. Come on, people! That’s one more fucking step towards sentience! Christ, we’re all focused on the wrong issue!
3. “She’s” a fat chick
Dude, just re-read #1 and replace all the “guys” with “chicks.” You can leave the “tiny dick” part. Depending on the fat chick.
4. “She’s” is really a government conspiracy
It’s not unusual to suspect the government, any government (except Canada, I guess) in a shit ton of covert operations and secret programs that inject nanobots into unsuspecting children’s flu shots to build a perfect combination of man and machine.
5. “She’s” a celestial or atmospheric phenomenon
The less plausible theory being proposed by the most plausible stalkers (and their sad sad lives). This “Ren” is closer to the aurora borealis or some sort of Helix Nebula… The Eye of God, if you will.
It has been proven or, at the very least, conceptually kicked around that celestial physics can theoretically influence a person’s consciousness. Don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t. I don’t fucking care. See it for yourself. Pony up the dough to attend the “Toward the Science of Consciousness “at the University of Arizona‘s Center for Consciousness. Take the kids and come on down to God’s misshapen ash can. Takes pictures of an honest-to-god astrophysicist! But what’s fun without some learning? It’s bullshit… that’s what it is. Included in this dream package you will have your choice of murderously boring lectures. Oooooooo will it be the on discussing quantum influences on the brain. No wait! The lecture about electromagnetic flares hurdling to Earth like New Jersey Governor Chris Christie warp speeding to the Buffet King. We’re onto you, “science.”
6. “She’s” a incorporeal essence within us all
How do we know God exists? How about Allah, Buddha, or whatever the fuck the Vikings worshiped?
When annoying push comes to asinine shove, you don’t. As a “modern” society, we tend to incredulously cast looks toward our ancestors and remark on how “quaint” their beliefs were.
Every society does that to the society that came before theirs. We’re not running around worshiping the sun or offering our children to Yahweh on a funeral pyre. Not often these days, anyway. However, we cling on to our “enlightened” (enough with the fucking quotations, already) religious philosophies. Jews KNOW God exists. Muslims KNOW Allah is watching over them. Christians KNOW Jesus was the Son of God. Throw the Dali Lama in there while we’re at it. His followers KNOW he is the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the first… um… Lama?
OK, so what’s the fucking point? Each and every follower of every religion can’t produce concrete proof that their god(s) exist. Shiva isn’t in the directory and Thor doesn’t have a Facebook page.
Even atheists believe that there is no higher power to the point where that disbelief turns into their beliefs. So, is it possible that this fictitious “Ren” actually exists in the hearts of man? Does “she” exist in our actions? Our thoughts? Our dreams? Is it possible that there is a little bit of “Ren” in all of us? How the fuck should I know? I don’t exist. Ask someone who isn’t a figment of your imagination.
*When not writing for the Fuse Was Too Cold, “Ren” exists only in the world of imagination.
*When not contributing, Jane Lane exists to make you miserable to the point of embracing the sweet release of death..
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.