He slammed into something he shouldn't have slammed into.

Being that it's late August, and having completed ten glorious weeks of basically being nineteen again, regrettably, I have to go back. To work. 

Back to the classroom. 
The one with kids in it.

And as I sleepily drive to school every morning, I start to (once again [this is an annual event]) fantasize about all the other jobs I'd rather be doing. At my lowest moments, it's essentially anything else, but there's been a steady top 3 for years.

1. UPS Guy: the shorts! the truck! the solitude!  
2. Landscaper: listening to music! driving a small car with blades on it!
3. Garbage man: um, when you're not hanging on the back of a moving truck, your jumping off of it, lifting something heavy, and throwing it into a hole where it gets smashed to Hell. *squeals*

Deep down, I know I'm not ever going to be any of those things, but it doesn't hurt to dream does it? But maybe I need to step a little outside the box, you know? Maybe fantasize about doing something so crazy...it might just work. Something like...

...butter sculptor? Or, better yet, used car salesman.

One of my best imaginary friends (we've never actually met, but still) has a thing for a certain actor, and there is, at this point, no way I can disassociate the two. I think of her, I think of the the actor. I think of the actor, I think of her. And when I stumbled onto a little film called Butter (barely) starring said actor, there was simply nothing I could do. I had to watch it. 

Especially when I was pretty f--king sure that she hadn't seen it. 

I say all this, because I'm thinking an elaborate and /or nonsensical story is the only way one ends up watching director Jim Field Smith's 2011 goofball comedy. Like, it was the only DVD Grandma had...or, after visiting the World's Largest Rocking Chair, we needed to wind down with a movie...

Set in the world of competitive butter carving, this flick tells the the story of Laura Pickler, the domineering wife of a newly retired state champion named Bob. Despite the nice house and affable husband, ol' Laura ain't really got all that much. Except a flaming stick up her ass, frankly, as Bob's glory was what she hung her hat on. Now that he's bowed out, she's Hell-bent on taking the title herself. Unfortunately, Laura will not go unopposed in the run up to the big show. She's going to have to beat a trio of upstart competitors: a kooky cat-lady, an angry stripper, and of course, a talented orphan.

Hmm. I wonder who's going to win? Here's a hint: not us.

Let the pain run through you.

She comes in, and you can just tell, something isn't right. On many fronts.

She's talking to everyone in the theater, and though I can't hear what they're saying, it's obvious that she's asking them to check their tickets. Eventually, she clamors up into my section, and stares down at the good folks also seated in Row D. Through the glasses clinging to the tip of her nose (I'm assuming that prior to the movie, she had been reviewing ingredients for stew), she eyeballs everyone, before noisily demanding that the people to my left are in her seats. She keeps saying, I have 7 and 8. I have 7 and 8. But she's talking to 5 and 6 (after already badgering 2 and 3). 

Finally, she's next to me, 9, and she's trying to put her drink she brought from home in the cup holder to my right, and it's not fitting, because, you know, it's holding my phone. But she ain't giving up. I eventually intervene and unearth my Galaxy, and after collapsing into her seat, she looks up at me and says, why's it so dark in here? It's at this point I see the little boy she's towing behind her. I kind of shrug to myself, thinking, it's usually pretty f--king dark in the middle of the goddamn movie.

And when she finally looks at the screen, she notices Idris Elba is shooting everyone in his path, and she asks 5 and 6, what movie is this? Their response contains only three words, but their tone suggests many more.

Ohhhhhhhhhh, she bellows. We must be in the wrong theater!

I'm assuming that crazy lady was trying to take her grandson to see The Nut Job 2: Nutty by Nature, but somehow ended up tits deep into The Dark Tower. And while I truly commend anyone taking a little kid to the movies on a hot summer day, her noble attempt was nothing short of calamitous. See, even if you mean well, you can still f--k up a good thing.

Despite having read a shit-ton of Stephen King books when I was a kid, I don't recall reading any of The Dark Tower series. When the film was announced, the general consensus seemed to be a combination of it's about f--king time and don't f--king bother. Apparently, these books were so good, there was simply no way one film could do them proper justice. Especially if it was only ninety-five minutes long...

...and f--king terrible.

About that...

Honestly, as I've said countless times before, expectations are everything. If you're like me and head into this one not knowing the books and knowing that its currently just getting its drivers license over at Rotten Tomatoes , you're not going to expect all that much. Which might work in the film's favor, oddly enough. Clearly, it's not the worst f--king movie ever, which would have been pretty cool, but instead? It's the one thing a film starring Idris Elba and Matthew McConaughey shouldn't be: inexplicably boring. 

I look for pleasure in the details.

I'm not sure if other dads do this, but I tend to say lots of ridiculous and untrue things to my children.

I invent countless fictional characters, give them horrible accents, and try to make my kids laugh by detailing the horribly unfortunate lives these accident-prone individuals lead. This summer was dominated early by the unholy trio of Trixie Biscuits, Skooch MacGillicuddy, and Pumpkinspice Malone.

But when my son came home from camp one day and told me that there was a pair of German siblings in attendance, everything changed. Otto and Gunther, two young and very serious German boys became my go-to characters.

And it turns out, perhaps surprisingly, lots of crazy shit happens in Germany.

If I had to take a test concerning the finer plot details of Atomic Blonde, I'd probably be rolling the dice on at least half of the questions. That's not to say that I didn't enjoy the movie (um, as someone who appreciates beautiful women, that would be f--king impossible), it just gets to a point where who's working for who and for what reason becomes about as relevant as anything in this post that's not a giant picture of Charlize Theron.

Basically, this flick plays out like most spy films (at least in premise), with a coveted item unfortunately ending up in the wrong hands. Shocking no one, this hugely important thing is likely to be sold off to the highest bidder, a.k.a the guy with the thickest accent and/or deepest voice, so we're going to need an agent in there yesterday to recover that sumbitch. Like, a secret one, right? Like...someone that will just blend in. Not a nine-foot tall goddess made out of equal parts porcelain and adamantium. Because, you know, no one would notice her.

Turns out, buried deep within a wrist watch that I imagine, at some point, was up the ass of Christopher Walken, just so happens to be a list with the true identity of every single undercover agent in the Cold War. And being that no one knows who the f--k is who (including me, the viewer) or who the Hell they work for, heads are certainly going to roll in the process of securing this timepiece. Well, I guess they're not going to roll, exactly, more like cave in or explode. The Berlin Wall came down on a Thursday, but trust me, leading up to that? It's quite the Blue Monday.

Against the Crowd '17: Blogathon

Dell and KG are at it again, so my advice is we check it to wreck it. Let's begin.

In terms of blogathons, these two dudes drop probably the biggest event that I know of (or, uh, am loosely invited to), and it can be summed up in three lovely words: f--k you, everyone! Wait, what?

Here are the rules:

1) Pick a film that everybody thinks is a wonderful achievement in the arts, and let them in on the little secret that it's no better than a massive turd, rolled up in wet newspaper and microwaved on high.

2) Pick a film that everybody thinks is a raging dumpster fire, and let them know that if they ever say anything else bad about said movie again, the only thing burning out of control will be their toothless, withered corpse.

3) Make sure, after reading your entry, no one ever talks to you again.

Welp, here goes...everything. 

It's preventable, that's the worst part.

It's late summer of 2017, and when I turned on the news this weekend, the flickering headline said three dead at white nationalist rally. Being that my kids were already asleep, I was able to watch the footage for a few minutes, and all I could think to myself was how f--ked up this godforsaken country is. How I absolutely dread where we're headed...

...moments after kissing the cheek of my precious four-year old girl. Seriously, where am I supposed to find comfort in this world, when I'm the father of such a little kid? Where's my solace?

Oh, right. This level of awfulness?

It's nothing new.

I wasn't super excited to see Detroit this past Tuesday, but I'm increasingly glad I did. It's rare that my wife and I get a night to ourselves, and I knew she wanted to see something light and fun. Yeah, about that. See, shocking no one, Kathryn Bigelow's latest? It's the direct f--king opposite. 

It's late summer of 1967, and after the police raid an unlicensed club in downtown Detroit, hauling out many African American veterans in the process, tensions between the police and the people on the street escalate exponentially. Despite being encouraged to chill the f--k out by community leadership, the crowd turns violent and rioting and looting erupts.

The next day, as local police and national guardsmen patrol the city, the film's action picks up with an officer named Krauss pursuing a looter. The dude flees on foot, and instead of letting him go, Krauss shoots him in the back. Multiple times. By the time Krauss gets back to the station, he is informed that murder will be indeed, the case they give him. Inexplicably, however, he's allowed to finish his shift.

Well, at least he'll probably play it cool, right? Being that his ass is most definitely grass, right?

Right? *crickets*

That was beneath you.

I don't have a job that keeps me staying late at work. No out-of-town conferences. No sexy co-workers putting their hand on my toned shoulder, laughing and turning in slow-motion.

I've been with my wife for so long, I wouldn't even recognize any ex that could show up on a rainy evening, with a broken high heel, scraped knee and a bottle of wine. Not that I have a lot of them any way. [Seriously, I might have more buttholes than legit ex-girlfriends.]

I don't own any sleeveless shirts. And I wouldn't ever cut wood on a hot day, never would wipe my brow with the aforementioned sleeveless t-shirt, revealing the rock-hard abs that I don't have.

The lady next door is pretty old, and if I was ever caught sleeping with her, jealous is the last thing my wife would feel. I'd lean more toward nervous. Or nauseous.

My point? If things ever go south between me and my wife, she has nothing at all to be jealous about. The only place I ever go is...uh...here. The only person I talk to late at night?

Is you.

When I saw the preview for Unforgettable earlier this year, I knew I was going to absolutely Redbox the shit out of it. I knew I would happily pay my two dollars and twelve cents (uh, gotta go with the blu ray, right?), and knew that I would unequivocally love hating it. But what I didn't know, and totally should have, was that my wife would fall asleep before the f--king thing even started.

*dramatic pause*

That. Bitch.

Actually, I'm not really mad at my wife, as she busted her ass yesterday and deserved the early snooze. No my fire and fury is solely reserved for everyone involved in this smoldering garbage can. See, I wanted a glorious dumpster fire to roast delicious f--king s'mores on using only my bad-movie boner as a skewer. But instead, what I got? A lame flick and a limp dick. Here's why...

Julia (Rosario Dawson, hot as ever) has met some dreamy guy and is headed by car in some direction (West, one could only assume) to spend the rest of her life with him. She loses her luggage on the way, but get this, not her baggage. Oh, f--k me. Anyway, it turns out that said dreamy guy is David, owner/operator of a successful brewery, Crazy Slut Ale House. Okay, that's not the name - you got me. Anyhow, detective, David's got a scarily hot ex-wife Tessa (Katherine Heigl, still with a great set of personalities), who, shocking no one, ain't all that stoked to be replaced. But instead of stepping aside like a regular person, Tessa cranks the crazy up to eleven...million... and makes Julia's life a living Hell by always walking around topless and unnecessarily washing really dirty cars.

Okay, that also didn't happen.

I'm not dead. I'm just...regrouping.

I don't know what the Hell is wrong with my house, but if you step outside for more than a minute, there's a good chance you're coming in with at least one mosquito bite. If not eleven.

Outside of the time I got very, very sick from a bite a couple of years ago, these little annoying f--kers don't even phase me any more. But my wife and kids? Goodness. They come in the house holding their arms and legs like they got shot.

And while I used to think they were being dramatic, I'm starting to think they're underselling the pain. Cause a bullet? Shoot.

That ain't nothing. 

Quite the circle jerk, no?

I started to lose track near the thirty-minute mark, but I'm pretty sure that every character in Ben Wheatley's Free Fire takes at least one bullet, if not eleven. And for the most part, even after getting shot, this gang of motley scumbags, keeps on keepin' on. It might be admirable...if it were altogether decipherable.

Set in damn near real-time, the setup is both simple and entirely convoluted. The initial gang we meet, led by that handsomely terrifying bastard Cillian Murphy, is gearing up for a late-night meeting in some abandoned factory. On the agenda? A pretty epic arms deal. Brie Larson and Armie Hammer are helping to broker the deal, in addition to some low-level grunts tagging along to do the heavy lifting. Literally.

On the other side of the table, is the consistently charming Sharlto Copley. He and his crew haven't exactly brought the right weapons, but as far as he's concerned, a gun's a gun. And after a tense moment or two (and a shit ton of shit-talking), it appears the deal is a go. The money is counted, the van pulled 'round. Pleasure doing business, ya know?

Oooh, about that....