I had a dream last night. That you were dead.

The privacy fence out back with the missing strips.
The bedroom light that still doesn't have a fixture.
That bare spot in the top corner that my paintbrush simply couldn't reach. Eight years ago.

I wish I could tell you it's because I like to see things through, but ask my wife, that's total bullshit.

Wish I missed the resolution.

There really is no excuse to rent Fifty Shades Freed with actual currency (you shouldn't even use Kohl's cash), and even less of an excuse to stand up, walk across the room and place it in the blu ray player after doing so. Sadly, I'm guilty of both offenses. Look, I enjoy bad movies as much as anyone (uh, maybe more so), but let me be quite clear with you: this movie is f--king horrendous. 

Right, Wolf Blitzer can sit the f--k down because clearly that ain't BREAKING NEWS, I realize. But after being mystified by the first one [review] and delighted by the idiocy of the second [here and here], I actually found myself foolishly/ridiculously/morbidly looking forward to seeing how this whole nonsensical phenomenon wrapped up. I know...I also can't believe I just said that.

Please, please don't think I give anything resembling a hard f--k about Anna, Kristoff and their 'relationship', because I don't. At all. This is car-crash cinema at its finest, dammit, but I'm way more curious about the people looking at the accident than the accident itself. At least that's what I tell myself.

Oh, and there's the small bonus of wholly relishing the fact that Jamie Dornan delivers each ridiculous line like he's just been pulled from a wreck that should've killed him. Like, he convinces everyone he's fine, only to discover that two days later, while washing his luxurious mane, the emergency brake from his Audi is still lodged in his skull.

You shouldn't have come back here. You're too good for this place.

After tooling around looking at deer and cows, yes, cows, our incredibly overzealous tour guide willed yet another bus up a fairly steep hill into a wooded enclosure. She demanded silence, then gingerly plopped out of the bus and damn near struck a superhero pose upon hitting the ground. Gently, she called out.... [insert embarrassing animal name for a majestic wolf]. Chino? Schlomo? I've got no clue, really.

Anyway, the majestic beast emerges, and quietly comes over to the fence. It paws the ground twice. She nods, and flips him a treat. Awww. Chewing, he looks up at her. And does it again. 

It was amazing. This animal that could probably rip this lady's face off (then mine), played by rules it had no business knowing.

But it still wasn't the most eye-opening thing I saw a wolf do this week.

I spent five hours on a bus filled with thirty eight eleven year-olds last Wednesday, and despite their (relatively) decent behavior [we left behind seventy five of them], it was, by all accounts, straight-up torture. But seeing that wolf do something amazing for thirty seconds? Made it all worthwhile.

And pretty much everything bad that had/would happen was immediately and totally forgiven.

Wolves, from writer/director David Hayter, was also a tortuous experience - but its mama raised it right, clocking in at just over eighty-something minutes. And like the aforementioned field trip, the entire experience was saved by a singular moment. Shockingly, it wasn't a wolf that produced it. Nope.

It was a fox.

Giddyup.

Not that any of this matters, but since I'm pretty much a Jedi in pointless endeavors, here's what you/no one needs to understand about the plot of Wolves, you know, before rushing off to watch it. Cayden is a high school senior, who after freaking out on some a-hole during a football game, gets his first boner and almost kills his girlfriend in the process. Apparently, he either has never had such feelings or desires before AS A HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL PLAYER, or the 1,000th time's the charm, and his sexual arousal turns him into something resembling a werewolf. And not the groovy, Michael J. Fox-kind, either. Like, the gross kind, that you'd expect to f--k your chickens before actually eating them.

I can't believe we survived that.

Look, it was a bad game. Let's be honest with ourselves.

The graphics weren't even that good (for the era), and any time a neon sign is the reason you're dead, well, f--k that noise. Same goes for that f--king tank they'd trot out when you'd just about wrapped up a level. That was some ending up naked and afraid when you'd just destroyed Cleveland.

But, and there's always a but, if you were ever lucky enough to eat the guy on the toilet, or even better, punch a commuter train over to your friend, only to have him or her immediately punch it back to you - well, that shit's basically heaven, right there, you know?

Because sometimes, it really is the little things in life. Especially when those little things turn into big things...

...and f--king eat and destroy everything.

Discerning adult, lover of time, you really have no business being on this website at this hour, just like motherf--king Rampage has absolutely no business being so f--king good. Read it again, I'll wait.

Based off of the Midway arcade game from the mid-eighties, Brad Peyton's latest action flick is not only a helluva ride, it's also further proof that The Rock can make just about anything must-see cinema.

Some nefarious coroporation is running some sketchy ass operation in space, when things go decidedly tits up. The result? Not everything burns up upon reentry and toxic debris cascades all over the f--king planet. While bad shit raining down from the heavens is a general cause for concern, multiply that by eleven when it tuns out that the aforementioned sketchines is actually some gene-tinkering tomfoolery.  Seems this bad corporation has been mutating (space?) animals for, you guessed it, in order to weaponize beasts.

The rabbit is correct.

Ten years is a long time to do anything. Especially considering many people have an attention span measured in syllabl-...and I've lost you.

Even more impressive than a decade of doing anything people still care about - is doing it well. Maybe the competition, after defecating on it and setting it ablaze, has set the bar impossibly low, but the winning formula, rote as it may be, is damn near undefeated.

Hell, even if you only like half of the films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and would be all for the rest of them quietly fading away from existence, you still need all your damn fingers to count the good ones. 

Half. Half. 

Half is a lot to love. And it's even more to lose.

I liked more than half of Avengers: Infinity War, shit, I pretty much enjoyed the whole damn thing. As the (current) culmination of a decade-long endeavor, Marvel's latest cash-cow is everything you could hope for in a two-and-a-half hour who's-who of the MCU.

Now that we've established a few dozen characters, a handful of allegiances and locales, it's time to unleash the Kraken. But instead of a tentacled anus monster, we're talking Thanos - a huge purple dude with a nutsac chin. Thanos has been looming large in the background for awhile, but apparently, the time has come. According to Gamora's step-dad...

...the world must end. So that it can survive.

Wait, what?

Actually, I'm a big fan of Agent Smith's Thanos' plan, as it calls for an indiscriminate swiping left of the entire universe. Turns out, half of you bitches gotsta go, or else eventually, we're all gonna die. So...yay, Angry Grimace, right?

Not exactly, as Tony Stark and his crew ain't exactly too keen on this whole kill half the population agenda, even if the last time we saw the whole gang...they were splitting into even sides and fighting to the f--king death. Well, fine no one actually died in Civil War... unless you count Rhody's ability to play hopscotch as an actually fatality. Which I do.

Did I tell you about my birthday?

The Magnificent. 

Pounds. 

Years (both Itch and In Tibet)

Days in Entebbe.

The number seven has been celebrated in many things cinematic, and as of this evening, Two Dollar Cinema joins the party. Happy birthday to... we?

And while I haven't seen a single film mentioned in the above list, in the last three hundred and sixty five days, I did to see (and 'review') seventy six films. Yes, that's likely an all-time low for a calendar year, but remember, it's not quantity that matters....it's quality.

Oooh...about that.

Why is sex even bad?

My prom night was the worst. Full-on golden sombrero.

1) I took my best friend's girlfriend. K looking.
2) I was named prom king, but didn't even dance with the queen, who was essentially the girl of my dreams/the girl I was no longer...dating? [super vague was how we rolled] Swinging on high heat.
3) I bailed on the all the post-prom parties, and instead went to the f--king movies like an asshole. I won't even make it worse and tell you what I saw. Down looking on a knee-buckling curve.
4) The fact that I'm willing to admit any of this, let alone compare it to my wife's own prom story (more on that never)? Strike three. Bases loaded. Get the f--k outta here.

Typically, teen sex romps (if that's a thing) are about a couple of horny guys trying to get laid (see: Porky's, American Pie, Revenge of the Nerds, etc.). Blockers, from director Kay Cannon, punches those traditions square in the dick, as it not only focuses on three young ladies trying to get lucky, but also the parents' quest to intervene. Sometimes sweet and routinely funny, this little R-rated comedy had me and my wife rolling.

But it also had me thinking. A lot.
And crying.

A little.

Julie, Kayla and Sam have been friends for, like, forever. As senior prom approaches (and college looms), it's clear that this night may be their final big blowout together. And what better way to never forget one another...by all losing their virginity on the same night. Um, okay. Sign me up. Er, the 1997 version of me, that is.

Anyway, Julie (the blonde) has a super-sweet boyfriend and a Walgreen's candle, meaning getting boned should be easy-peasy, lemon-booty squeezy. Kayla (the jock) just kind of picked some rando named Connor, and he seems down for...well, for just about anything. Book this one, too. Just do it pencil, as Connor's a bit into herbs and spices, so who knows what condition he'll be in, come Hammer Time. But young Sam? Well, she kind of reluctantly entered the pact to begin with, and her date Chad? Well, he ain't exactly wetting her whistle, despite rocking such a killer fedora. Sam looks to be a long shot on the deal-sealing side of things.