A running commentary on things that I don't like.

Also, you know, about why I'm a lot cooler than you.

Seriously. Much cooler. And smarter.

Which is why you should read my site.

That way when I tell you that Napoleon Dynamite was stupid crap, you won't make a fool of yourself by continuing to tell people to watch it.

God, it Sucks
the place to go for all things that suck


.:[Thursday, January 12, 2006]:.
Hostel: Tarantino, have you no shame?

So I went and saw the movie Hostel the other day, with a group of about 25 18-21 year olds. Those two facts should serve as confirmation, if any were needed, for my masochistic tendencies. Now going into the movie, I knew absolutely nothing about it except that Quentin Tarantino was somehow involved and the director had previously directed Cabin Fever. Silly me, I thought Cabin Fever was some sort of silly, stuck-in-the-wilderness buddy comedy or family-style romp, probably involving someone comically fat stuck out in the woods 100 miles from the nearest Krispy Kreme, or maybe someone comically urban trying to bait a hook with a double decaf mocha latte and then almost getting mauled by a grizzly because they'd forgotten to put their duck l'orange in a bear bag.

Silly me.

Cabin Fever is actually a monster movie about a bunch of people stranded in the woods getting killed by a demon from the netherworld. Ha ha, not really, because that would actually make sense. It's really a monster movie where everybody gets killed by a flesh-eating virus. What is the world coming to? Why not make a horror movie about innocent teens at an all-night party being stalked by an awful case of irritable bowel syndrome? Or premature ejaculation?

Oh, by the way, the previous paragraph may contain spoilers.

So what the fuck is Hostel about, anyway? Well, the answer to that is pretty simple: it's not really about anything. These three dudes (2 are Americans and 1 is from Iceland... and how realistic is that anyway? Isn't Iceland where Santa Claus lives or the Lilliputians or something?) are wandering around Europe getting high and trying to get laid. As a matter of fact, the first lines of the movie: "Did we come all the way to Europe just to get high?" - American dude; "Nah, I came from Iceland." - dude from Iceland... now if that's not brilliant writing, tell me what is! So the three dudes meet this guy with an open herpes sore on his lip who shows them some photographs of himself having relations with hot chicks and tells them how this one particular hostel in Slovakia is a hedonistic paradise, and that the girls there love Americans. The problems I had with this are:
1. The pictures he shows them aren't particularly wild and crazy. They are the same pictures that any guy could convince girls to take if they'd had a couple of drinks in them (yeah, Sara, now act like you're going to lick Chrissie's ass... no, you don't really have to do it... I'll delete it right after, don't worry...).
2. While the herpes guy is showing them the pictures, there is a couple fucking not two feet away. The three of them had just fucked at least one (and, we're led to believe, probably more than one) hooker not 15 minutes earlier. And the Icelandic guy had photomessaged the other two a picture of himself screwing a chick in a bathroom. So, truth be told, even in the first ten minutes of the movie we're not led to believe that the main characters are not going through such a gynecological drought as to justify traveling over a thousand miles to fucking Slovakia.
3. I don't know about you, but if a guy with an open herpes sore on his lip gives me a "poon tip," I don't think visiting his last recreational area would be on the very top of my "to do" list. Granted, I would very much listen and take note, but only so I'd know what to avoid.
4. I've met lots of Europeans online. They are a varied group, with many, many different opinions about the world. But, the thing is, if Europeans have a single unifying characteristic it's that they fucking hate Americans. Which is another problem with realism in this movie... if two Americans were traveling in Europe trying to get laid, they'd tell everyone that they were Canadian.

So that covers the first 15 minutes or so. I don't want you to think that there weren't any redeeming features to the movie so far. There were some decent titty shots. But it didn't help any.

So they go to Slovakia, and on the way there they have the obligatory "ominous interaction with pivotal character that foreshadows the horror to come in an understated way." Ho hum. Once at the hostel, they are roomed with some hot chicks, who are naked. The hot chicks are appropriately seductive (in the context of the movie, I mean... or, say, in the context of Penthouse Letters; the "hostel" part of the movie would have made a lot more sense if it had been prefaced with "You'll never believe this, but.."), they go out partying, end up fucking, and the Icelandic guy disappears mysteriously. He does send a photomessage to his buddies with the caption "I go home," but the photo is of his obviously decapitated head. Does that alarm the two Americans? Fuck no, chumpy! If there's one thing Americans are used to it's decaptitated heads. The Americans are so unfazed, they decide the Icelandic guy is still alive and hiding from them somewhere in the city. Shit, yeah, that makes sense! Don't look at me like that!

Oh, uh, the previous paragraph may contain spoilers.

Okay, so the dorky American then goes missing. Oh, no! And he gets dismembered by the sinister man from the train who foreshadowed all of this evil! Talk about having a shitty day, huh, dorky American? We see the chicks from the hostel again, and they're obviously locals, and they look like shit. Strangely, the cool American (his name is "Paxton," by the way... why didn't they name him "Hunter" or "Asher?") is unfazed by the hot chicks from the hostel suddenly becoming skanky. He doesn't even say, "let's not mention the fact that I went down on you to anyone, okay?" Blah, blah, blah... one of the formerly hot chicks takes him to an abandoned factory, he's tied up in a chair, and has his fingers cut off by a German with a chainsaw. He effects a miraculous escape, killing the German and finds out...! Well, I added that exclamation point in the futile hope that it would add some excitement to the revelation. But it doesn't. Anyway... he finds out that the abandoned factory is "Ultimate Hunting," where people pay to kill human beings (Ultimate Hunting being a bit of a misnomer, since the "hunted" are handcuffed into chairs and can't even try to get away). Cool American executes a brilliant escape, freeing a Japanese girl while he's at it, kills the two formerly hot hostel chicks, along with the herpes sore guy, who all happen to be standing together in the street, and finally flees the town after the Japanese girl kills herself so he can get away.

Whoops... those are spoilers up there. Be warned.

Anyway, suckage. There were titty shots, but thanks to the internet you don't have to go to the movie theater for that. There was lots of violence, but that in and of itself does not make a movie. And it wasn't scary.

Here are some comments I've found on IMDB about the movie:

Kujo1 (http://www.imdb.com/user/ur2137420/comments) says:
"When things begin to turn towards horror, you truly feel the sense of terror the characters are going through. The build up to the climax is just done so well. I loved the fact the story is very believable."
Benjamin says:
"Whatever blotter Kujo's got, I'd like to get ahold of some, because it's got to be a kickass trip. The only terror I felt was when I temporarily thought that I'd spent my night's beer money on my ticket. And believable? I guess Kujo's right about that... every hot chick that's hit on me since I saw the movie I've punched in the mouth."

markjesus (http://www.imdb.com/user/ur4074936/comments) says:
"The gore effects were great (and should be improved once everything is colour corrected). I found some scenes to be way too darkly shot and you couldn't some of the neat stuff that was on display... PS. I'd definitely not recommend this as a date movie"
Benjamin says:
"Yeah, if the lighting had been better we could have seen some actual tendon and muscle tissue. And I was kind of disappointed when, during the scene where the dorky American was disemboweled, I couldn't identify whether or not it was his spleen or his pancreas laying across his abdomen. He's right about it not being a date movie... when you see how easy the girls in this movie give it up, you'll be pretty pissed about having to pay for dinner and a movie (especially this one)."

pguardiola (http://www.imdb.com/user/ur7229299/comments) says:
"I went to the midnight showing and when the movie was finished I've got to say, I was a little anxious going home."
Benjamin says:
"... because my friend Herbert was at my apartment and I was afraid he'd taken my Star Wars action figures out of their original packaging."

So there you have it. My thoughts about this execrable heap of steaming Clooney.

Oh, there's spoilers in this review. Heads up, people!

| a BEN production by me at 10:52 PM

.:[Wednesday, January 11, 2006]:.
Holidays in Hell

Where the fuck have I been for the past two months? What have I been doing? Why haven't I updated and what's this burning situation when I urinate?

Well, the above listed can mean only one thing: Merry Fucking Christmas (belated) to your sorry asses. Seeing how yesterday was also my birthday, it's been like, I don't know, 6 straight months of merry-making and holidaying and hanging out with relatives until it feels like somebody's speedbagging on your nutsack.

And, as if that's not enough, ever since I quit smoking my lungs have quit functioning and my sinuses are full of cement. Now I have no idea how people can claim that quitting smoking is supposed to make you healthier when apparently all it does is make your pulmonary system go all union on your ass. And by "go union," I mean give insulting, desultory performance, when it functions at all, which is only in 6 1/2 hour shifts with mandatory breaktimes. I've been having to keep a defibrilator by my bedside, and let me tell you, teaching the dog to use that thing is a bitch, probably because she's secretly hoping that quitting smoking will kill me and she can feast on my corpse and download doggy porn. Or, at least, more doggy porn than I already download.

I started the holiday off with my ex-girlfriend telling me that she's finally started seeing someone else, and I never cope with that well. I am the kind of person who is only truly satisfied if my ex-girlfriend: a) dies, b) turns gay, or c) has their vagina sewn shut. Let me tell you, as soon as I figure out a way around that fucking restraining order, I'm taking the biggest crap ever... in her purse. Preferably on her cell phone and lipstick. And, by the way, if you ever read this D*****. I'm better in bed than you are. The only reason she's with you is because I'm terribly irresponsible, hopelessly unmotivated, smell like Budweiser and Marlboros (even after quitting) all the time, poor, and unsettlingly prone to having manic fits where I write long, rambling blog posts blaming all of my problems on someone that hasn't been a part of my life in 6 months. In summation: you may be employable, but I have the better cock. It's just every other aspect of my life, appearance, and personality that comes up short.

God, where's my fucking booze...?

Something I decided over the holiday: I am no longer going to feel any remnants of shame from using any racial epithets that refer to black people. My great-grandfather, according to photos, was part black. My grandmother claims that he was actually part Indian because his hair wasn't "kinky," but we all know that's bullshit. Black people who are really light-skinned also claim that they are not part white, but part Indian. It seems to me that there were a whole lot more people fucking Indians than there were Indians to be fucked (seeing as how we, you know, killed them all). In addition, every year there's this black dude at my family Christmas. I have no clue who he is, what his name is, what's the story, or why he would want to hang out with some of the trashiest and weirdest white people on earth, but I've decided that my family either has a pet black dude or some black blood pumping through our veins. And either way, that means every time I say the word "nigger" I'm striking a blow for black pride. Umgawa!

Other notable events over the holidays included the possible revelation that Jack Abramoff may be under investigation because his ex-fiancee turned him into the feds. Advice to Jack Abramoff: never, ever break up with somebody who has dirt on you unless you have worse dirt on them. So, for instance, I have a felonious past, but was never arrested and the statute of limitations has passed. If I break up with someone who knows about it, I can simply make sure and have multiple photos of any run of the mill sexual act (NOTE TO JACK: she must be identifiable in the pics!!) that may "accidentally" get emailed to, say, her parents. See? She'll keep her mouth shut.
However, your situation is a bit more problematic. You, apparently, were essentially bribing public officials, in clear violation of present law, and ran a network of influence and corruption that reached its greasy tentacles throughout the halls of power, all the while fleecing some innocent redskins who Americans have a misty-eyed sentimentality for because, well, we killed them all. So, of course, you would need to have a lot more dirt on your girlfriend before breaking up with her. For example, you'd need for your girlfriend to be Osama bin Laden and for you to know her undisclosed location (preferably in JDAM compatible GPS). So next time you're running a corruption and bribery scheme, Jack, don't break up with your girlfriend until you meet at least one of the following requirements:
1. You're dead.
2. She's dead.
3. The statute of limitations has passed (consult your attorney, Jack, that's what they're for!), and you've signed a multi-million dollar book deal detailing your treacherous past (consult your agent, Jack, that's what they're for!).
4. You've retired. To an island without extradition. With a hot chick.
5. Your girlfriend passes nuclear secrets to the Iranians or North Koreans. The Israelis don't count, Jack!

I should have a review of the movie Hostel up tomorrow, but I'm going to a birthday dinner and may not have time, depending on the quality of the hookers.

| a BEN production by me at 1:02 AM