Every morning, my train into the city briefly travels across the bay near my house. Many times I'll see small fishing boats looking to reel in the early morning catch. Often, like today, I'll notice that boat owners name their boat after a women, presumably a wife or daughter. I find this curious, seeing as how there are many unflattering connections and connotations that can be drawn. Let's use today's boat, "MY JOANNE," as an example.
"How can I get that fishy smell off of My Joanne."
"I wonder how many sailors can fit in My Joanne?"
"I once crammed 8 rods in the back of My Joanne."
"I hired an expert to plug the hole in My Joanne."
"Before a long day of fishing, I frequently take a shit on My Joanne."
"My Joanne has plenty of gas."
and, of course, "I let three friends come on My Joanne with me last week."
So, seafaring men of the world, I ask you to pause and give thought the next time you name your new boat. That way, when you say "My Joanne went down last night," you can say it happily.
A few weeks ago, TML featured a post about Mob Taint. Well, it's seems that the forces of good are fighting fire with fire. This week I stumbled upon this vintage ad featuring Spider-Man. It appears he has a secret weapon against taint.
(actual advertisement from 1977)
That's right evil-doers. If you bring your malevolent taint into our city, Spidey will...well, the picture says it all.
Now, how exactly Spidey plans to do this is a mystery, but we here at TML have hypothesized that it involves some combination of web-fluid, pickle brine and an unnamed substance culled from the Hulk's septic tank.
Anyway Spidey, keep up the good work!
(click to enlarge and read what the original ad SHOULD have said.)
When Patrick Swayze (I like to call him, "The Swaze." No, wait, no I don't) passed away earlier this week, all I could think was that a semi-celebrity cheezy actor has died. But when I actually thought about it, I realized he was a pretty legit star who made a serious imprint on pop culture for over two decades. If for no other reason than the SNL Chippendale's skit with Chris Farley, Swayze will be warmly remembered by men and women alike. I also think that Swayze helped usher in the very notion of the chick flick. Sure, there were other movies before him, but the one-two punch of "Dirty Dancing" in 1987 and "Ghost" in 1990 pretty much cemented the genre. Then it occurred to me that you could categorize almost all of Swayze's work into genres like this, so I did.
(NOTE: I didn't overlook "Next of Kin," I just think that's a movie no one should admit to having seen and it was an embarrassment for everyone involved. At least as I remember it. Shit...I just admitted...never mind.)
And lo, there shall be a place where only the pinnacles of doucheism will be able to come and hone their craft, and it shall be called...
Tonight's feature: "D-Bags at K-Mart"
OPEN on a seemingly innocuous checkout counter at a local K-Mart. On line is SERENA WILLIAMS with a canister of Planter's Cheese Balls.
CHECKOUT GIRL: That'll be $4.99.
SERENA: (after very long pause) You know what, fuck you. They are only $3.99. I swear to God, I'm going to open this can and cram these balls down your fucking throat. I'm serious.
The checkout girl proceeds to consult her Manager.
MANAGER: I'm sorry ma'am, but it's right here in our circular. It's in print and 100% verifiably true that they're $4.99. Only an ignorant, disrespectful, self-aggrandizing good-for-nothing dick who refused to actually read what he was angry about would make a scene in complete defiance of empirical printed evidence.
JOE: You're right. I'm sorry-ish. Now give me the contents of your register.
CHECKOUT GIRL: (looks back at SERENA) I feel threatened.
SERENA: I didn't threaten you. I thought maybe you liked cheese balls and would find it pleasurable to have 5 or 6 dozen of them forcably rammed into your cake-hole.
MANAGER: (holds up can of cheese balls) Ma'am, the price is $4.99.
Enter KANYE WEST, taking all others by surprise and grabbing the cheese balls from the Manager.
KANYE: Yo, it's all cool and whatnot, and Planter's Cheese Balls are so talented, but Jax Cheese Balls are like the best cheese balls ever. Oh, and George Bush hates black people. I'm cool! Pay attention to me! PEACE OUT!
KANYE drops the can of cheese balls like a microphone he's done with and walks off, stumbling as if possibly drunk off his fucking ass.
Close curtain.
Aaaaaaaaaand, Scene!
Thank you for watching this episode of Masterdouche Theater. Because if there's one thing we're all sure of, it's that there are a lot of douches out there who can't help but constantly prove their d-baggery.
First, let me start by once again apologizing for the lengthy time between posts. I didn't post a single thing in the month of August, and for that I am ashamed. But I promise to pick up the pace, starting right now.
This morning as I walked to work, the cover of today's New York Post caught my eye. You can see why...
Seriously, of all the despicable, low-down, underhanded, illegal, violent, mean, dastardly things the mob has done, I never thought they'd resort to "torture by taint." I've seen all the Godfather films, Goodfellas, Casino - hell, even My Blue Heaven - and I don't remember anything like that. Horse's head is one things. Mobster's ABC (ass-ball connection) is another.
Maybe it's a good thing The Sopranos when off the air when--.
I know there are a million blogs and Internet postings dedicated to people who spell shit wrong, but when you see a wondrous sight like this on the lamppost immediately outside the door to your own building, it MUST be posted. I found this truly dumbfounding. Just, well...wow.
I tried to translate, but I'd need Indiana Jones and top secret decryption software to make a dent. Here's what I think is being said...
Reals = Reels W.W.II Ideam = ???? Jewlery = Jewelry ac air condistoner = air conditioner (making the letters "ac" redundant) nic, nacs = knickknacks
They could have used this letter in A Clockwork Orange instead of ludovico. Hold someone's eyes open and make them read this. Instant mushbrain.
11 days between posts is completely unacceptable. I apologize to all the people (person? torture victim? guy who reads all blogs for the CIA?) out there who read (stumble upon? are forcibly subjected to?) The Missing Link. To help make amends for posting so infrequently, here is a brand spanking new edition of Sublime Nonsense. Enjoy!
Apparently people (i.e. men) that watch Major League Baseball games are the exact demographic being targeted for ED Medication, also known as Boner Pills. Viagara, Enzyte, Cialis, Coxafloppin*, you name it. When I watch a ballgame, I see nothing but ads for an entirely different ballgame. The latest one from Cialis features their now famous couple in matching outdoor bathtubs. In fact, it shows multiple couples in various outdoor bathtubs in different settings.
So, I think I've found a fundamental flaw in all of this. Cialis is recommended for guys with erectile dysfunction, but what if none of these guys has ED and is simply having trouble pitching wood because, well, THEY'RE OUTSIDE IN THE EVENING IN THE MOUNTAINS IN A FUCKING BATHTUB! Have these people never seen Seinfeld? Some things just simply don't, uh, work properly when cold and wet. Seriously, try a fireplace and a terrycloth robe before popping a pill to juice your junk. Just saying.
*NOTE: Coxafloppin not a real "dead head med" but should be.
So it appears the modest folks over at Calvin Klein jeans have once again decided to put up another boring billboard in downtown Manhattan. The billboard depicts a topless woman in short jean shorts lying on top of one man while making out with another. Innocently enough, there is another man lying on the floor below them all with his shirt and his pants unbuttoned. If I had to guess, I would say they are in various states of undress because they are rushing to get dressed for a church social.
Anyway, there has been something of an uproar over the decency or indecency of this billboard, which is pretty much exactly what the folks at CK wanted. Newspapers, radio stations and Internet articles have been abuzz with commentary, but here at The Missing LiNK, we wanted to get insight from the person who occupies the billboard directly across the street and has the absolute best view of the faux porn ad: Optimus Prime.
TML: So, Optimus, how do you feel about this new addition to your neighborhood?
OP: Are you kidding? I've been stuck 50 yards away from that fucking SoBe lizard for a few weeks now. I was ready to make that little bastard into roadkill if someone less irritating didn't move into the area and soon. The lizard is still behind me, but he can suck my tailpipe for all I care, I get to stare at a denim orgy all day.
TML: So you like the ad?
OP: Like it? That chick is freaking hot. And that's coming from a guy who's used stealth mode to watch Megan Fox shower.
TML: But what do you say to the people who call it akin to pornography?
OP: Come on. I've spent a lot of time the last few years in L.A. Photographers for TMZ discard shots of Lindsay Lowhan passed out in a dumpster that show more objectionable bits and pieces. Seriously, does she ever wear underwear? Talk about Ironhide.
TML: Even if it isn't overtly pornographic, you have to admit that it's at least objectifying and misogynistic. Three men sharing one woman?
OP: Maybe, but they' selling a product. And it's effective advertising. If I felt that I could get a chick like that to mess around with me, Ratchet and Grimlock all at the same time just by wearing the right jeans, I'd be looking for a pair in size 18-wheeler double wide right now.
TML: So then you believe the expression "sex sells?"
OP: Hmmm...a cartoon and toy line that more or less never included a female presence gets turned into a movie and the planet's hottest female gets more screen time than the Autobots and Decepticons combined. You tell me.
TML: Good point. And they're really aren't too many female Transformers, are there?
OP: Eventually there were a few, but nothing to brag about. I kept pitching the Hasbro guys on new characters like the Sluttobots and the Skankticons, but they refused to listen.
TML: Lastly, what of the families who live in that neighborhood and have to see the CK billboard everyday. What do they tell their kids?
OP: Tell them Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen opens June 24th at a theater near you. Transformer lunchboxes, knapsacks, action figures, underwear, toothbrushes, prosthetic limbs and colonial era apothecary tables available upon request.
As I may have mentioned in the past, my friend (and author of the always enjoyable blog, EADJ) Dave E. and I have a spirited, ongoing Scrabble competition on Facebook. I used to beat him with regularity, but he stepped up his game and beat me a few times in a row. Problem is, I hate to lose. Always have, always will. So I decided it was time to up my game, and that meant serious training. How do you train for Scrabble? Well, see for yourself.
Some evenings you take a crowded train home only to be greeted by a crowded train station as people all pile on to a crowded bus. But other nights you decide to walk because it stopped raining. And you don't even get a a block away before you see this...
(my BlackBerry isn't really idea for shooting these pics, but there was one of the most clearly visible, full-color rainbows I've ever seen directly over Long Beach.)
The huge, over-exposed ass cheeks in Brazil. The roller skating weight-lifters wearing spandex in LA. The freaks (both professional and in the general population) wandering Coney Island. For whatever reason, public beaches and boardwalks have always been places where the oddest swatches of humanity congregate.
Take my hometown, for instance. Long Beach, NY. The City By The Sea. What wonders might one see if they decided to stroll up and down the 2.2 mile boardwalk on a Saturday morning? Well...
It all started, as many beach excursions do, with our friend, Metal Detector Guy.
This modern day 49er looks to find his fortune by mining through Chipwich wrappers and seagull shit hoping to find the gold plated bracelet that some guy named "Avi" dropped while playing Kadima with his hairy-backed cousin.
Like many boardwalks, the Long Beach boardwalk has a lane dedicated for bicyclists. In this lane, you'll see all sorts of sights, like tandem bikes and bikes dragging little wheeled pup tents filed with kids and seated bikes and hand-pedaled bikes and on and on. Maybe even the occasional unicycle. And, most notably, you will always see one or more guy like this: Unnecessarily Tall Bicycle Guy.
That's right. Nothing screams please notice me any louder than riding a bike with a seat 3 feet higher than normal for no practical reason whatsoever. And just because you like to get high doesn't mean your bike has to be that way too. How do I know he likes to get high? Well, he's riding that bike. Barefoot and shirtless. And has a beard that extends from his neck and not his face. And he has a pale, long-haired friend who rides next to him on a similar bike. And then they pull over and meet their other friends and play hackey sack on the boardwalk. The only way I'd be more sure was if he was hanging out with Snoop Dogg and Ricky Williams while licking a shirt worn by Woody Harrelson.
As I progressed further towards the west end of Long Beach, I noticed a fairly professional sporting area set up on the beach. Was it the AVP beach volleyball tour? Nope, that's in July and August. Was it Budweiser Volleyball Invitational? No, that's still a few weeks away. This was a less familiar yet all-too-common site. This was a group of We Act Like We Think This Sport Will Take Off But We Know It Will Never Go Anywhere Guys.
You see, late last summer, the "Beach Tennis USA" folks started loudly hyping their awesome new sport to the Long Beach crowd. They had the biggest names in their sport (I don't even have a joke for this. The biggest names in Beach Tennis? Really? Just think of something clever and chuckle to yourself) appear and hold a big exhibition match. They played music, gave away prizes, demonstrated the sport and gave individual clinics. And after all that, I could still only think of the words of the immortal Homer J. Simpson. "They were the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked"
The last oddity that caught my eye on Saturday was this:
No matter how hard I thought about it, I could not for the life of me figure out how or why a desktop PC monitor would end up in a public trash can on a beachside boardwalk. Someone had to consciously decide to take a non-functioning monitor with them from their apartment, walk or drive to the Long Beach area, climb up an entrance ramp and cross to the seaward side of the boardwalk to deposit said monitor in the trash. WTF?
Anyway, that's just some of the weirdness you might enjoy spending a day in my hood. Unfortunately, I was unable to discreetly photograph the young woman who thought it was best to jog the boardwalk in a jogging bra and tight silver metallic short shorts. Jogger stripper? Stripper jogger? I'm still trying to do the math on how you can slip a twenty into the pants of someone as they run by.
Someday, many, many years from now, when I lie on my deathbed hooked up to tubes and monitors, I will use my last breath to eke out a "Citizen Kane"-esque final phrase. And when everyone is sitting around wondering what the hell "9MPH" means, this blog posting from the year 2009 will be the answer.
I know it's not a big deal, but it's the little things that will ultimately lead me into a haze of alzheimers, schizophrenia and dementia. Things like trying to figure out why in the world this sign ever needed to be made (and in turn, why the rule it enforces is needed as well). Somewhere there's a sign shop where hundreds of "10MPH" signs are already produced and waiting to be sold and hung. But for some reason, the Tropicana Resort and Casino in Atlantic City (home of New Jersey's most mediocre Hooters franchise) feels the need to enforce a 9 mile per hour speed limit in their parking garage, and to place a sign reminding us of it at every possible turn. Really? Would gunning it up to 10 mph suddenly put life and limb in mortal danger? Is 9 scientifically proven to be the safe speed for degenerate gamblers looking to park their Kias and Saturns?
Whatever, it's just a stupid sign. But it bugged the living piss out of me.
People, if you're gonna be the desperate one who brings a love poster to American Idol, at least let someone take a look at it before you leave home. You know, just to make sure your use of hearts as the letter "O" doesn't create an unfortunate mis-read.
First off, allow me to apologize for not posting in a while. Things have been hectic and I got lazy. Then again, things are always hectic and I'm always lazy, so...my bad.
Anyway, why am I back now? Here's why. My boss recently brought to my attention a movie trailer he found online. The movie, based on title and premise alone, seems innocuous enough. Then I watched the trailer. Oh. My. God. Or, better yet, WHAT. THE. FUCK?!?
But before I continue, please watch the following video. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present..."Gooby."
(Please see the receptionist on your way out for a refund on the 1:55 of your life I just sucked away.)
The sheer terribleness of this trailer hurts me in my soul. It makes me weep as I fall asleep each night. It makes my spleen hurt. I'm offended by the very notion that somewhere a script was written, liked, approved, green lit and given a budget. That they hired Eugene Levy offends me (and I actually like him, and even thought he deserved an Oscar nod for A Mighty Wind). That Robbie Coltrane attached himself to this project offends me (forever tarnishing his great work in the Harry Potter series, The Black Adder, and of course, the immortal "Let it Ride"). And the dude from J.A.G.? What, was D.B. Sweeney unavailable? Did French Stewart have a prior commitment? They may as well have googled "D-List Jackoffs" and cast the first few names that came up. To sum up...me = offended.
But simply agreeing that this all looks terrible is not enough. I think we genuinely need to dissect just why this may be the most egregiously noxious trailer ever committed to celluloid (a title previously held by the first "Inspector Gadget.")
Let's start at the top. The first thing we see is the Monterrey Media logo. No one has ever heard of Monterrey Media. The parents of the guys who founded the company probably have no clue who they are. And the art card is awful. It's made out of ripped pieces of paper and a cheesy font. An auspicious start, to say the least.
Next we see a logo for Coneybeare Stories Inc. It's never a good sign when the unknown director of a movie needs his own production company to help release it. In other words, the companies in Hollywood with actual talented people empowered to make decisions all said, "no thanks."
As the actual trailer begins, we hear the voiceover, and now I know what the guy who narrated my 7th grade health videos is doing with his life. I mean, I know Don LaFontaine is dead, but he still could have done better than this hack. Trailers, even ones for sweet family movies, need a voice like Don, or Peter Cullen, or someone who has gravitas. This guy sounds more llike he has a spastic colon. Anyway...moving on.
At this point we get to the heart of the matter, as we meet "the most ferocious monster of all," Gooby. Immediately, we see that Gooby looks like the retarded cousin of John Candy's "Barf" character from Spaceballs. If Fozzy Bear had a baby with Wicket the Ewok, we'd have Gooby. We are also treated to a reaction shot from the lead boy character that will forever go down as proof that you can recognize terrible acting in a single frame.
Congratulations, young man. Your acting career is officially over. If this were the 80's, you'd already be relegated to mysterious sleepovers at Michael Jackson's ranch.
Next, we see that the movie was honored at two film festivals. Obviously, they are prestigious, because they put palm fronds on either side of the award. They reserve those things for Cannes, and Tribeca, and...Worldfest-Houston? Wow. I mean very very very wow. That is weak. Why not put up the "Saskatoon Public Library Medal of Watchability" or "Mrs. Thurston's Second Grade Class' 8th Favorite Movie of 2009."
The next few scenes are the obligatory awful music accompanying generic scenes of the kid and his plushy running and slide and falling and hiding. And Eugene F-ing Levy with an Wolverine haircut and bowtie. Aaaaaaannnnd....speechless. I honestly have no clue what to say to that. (Cue tear rolling down my cheek like an Indian watching someone litter.) When Levy slips at the 1:03 mark and whatever was in his hand flies up into the air, I briefly contemplated suicide.
Then the reviews start to pop up. The first thing you notice os that they are in Comic Sans, a font typically reserved for people who want the most generically playful typeface imaginable. When I was in ad school, and I was a copywriter art directing my own ads, even I knew not to use something so unimaginatively lame. Of course, when you are posting reviews from such reputable sources as "VideoViews.org," "The Dove Foundation" and "NAMBLAonFILM.com," a hack font is appropriate. (P.S. one of those reviewer names is fake, you guess which one.)
And finally, we are greeted with a title card that, as one would expect, is as cloyingly sickly sweet and horrendously unappealing as every second of the trailer that preceded it. All told, it was simply hideous. A travesty of a sham of a mockery of a travesty of a sham.
But I always hate it when people critique my work but offer nothing constructive or helpful. Never let it be said that I am one who criticizes without offering a positive suggestion. Recast the title role. Reshoot the movie. And you don't need a list of potential names to play Gooby. Hell, you don't even need one name. All you need is one letter. "T."
There. Now THAT's a Gooby I'd pay to see.
Well, that's my post. It certainly does feel good to be back blogging again. Nothing makes me feel better than spending 45 minutes writing about how much I regret wasting 2 minutes of my life on a bad trailer. Look out Interwebs, I'm back!
