But coming back...was dangerous.

It was actually a fairly packed house. No young people, which makes sense. A few old people (like, really old), which doesn't. As things wound down - if you can call it that - you could legit sense it in the theater: what in the actual f--k is going on? But no one said anything.

But outside? In the hallway? It happened. Me and a few other dudes kind of collectively shrugged our shoulders...

...and laughed our f--king asses off.

I honestly don't even know where to begin with Rambo: Last Blood. The best I can do is to quote a text I sent my Hoffman when he asked my thoughts on Sly's latest:

Imagine Home Alone, but Kevin is an ex-soldier and the Wet Bandits killed Fuller. And instead of a few hours, Kevin has been planning his traps for a lifetime.

Whether or not that plot summary constitutes a recommendation, I really couldn't say. I told my brother more or less those exact words and he immediately grabbed his keys. I say that to my wife and she also immediately grabs her keys (but also the kids too).

Seriously, this movie, perhaps more than anything I've seen recently defies all logic and/or reason. Like those fake rubber nutsacs that divorced dudes hang from the bumpers of their pickups, Rambo: Last Blood shouldn't exist, but does - proudly. And in a weird way, you kind of have to congratulate everyone on making it past concept.

Look, I will never not love Sly, and I sure as shit will always love Rambo, but the reasons for the latter are getting harder and harder to justify. First Blood is an outright masterpiece, and I'll f--king publicly flog anyone who suggests otherwise. 

Goodbye, old friend. Oh, and could you try not to kill anyone between here and the truck? Thanks.

But since then, well, it's the law of diminishing returns in full-effect. Yeah, coming out of the mud in Part 2 changed my life as a little kid. As did all the glow-stick related mayhem of the third flick (cause of death: glow-stick curiosity is peak late-80s deliciousness). Oh, and let us never forget the absolute carnage of Rambo, where John wiped out an entire f--king army with a mounted machine gun. All badass moments, no doubt...but each flick gets progressively more...absurd? 

Maybe the films are a reflection of the increasingly violent society - a real sign of the times, or maybe, just maybe, Rambo is getting exponentially more agitated as Hollywood squeezes every last nickel out of his old grizzled ass. He's pretty much the Giving Tree, but instead of letting you swing from his branches...he brutally murders anyone that ever f--ked with you and that boat you made out of his trunk.

Speaking of things that don't quite add up, here are the Yays and Boos. Hate to toot my own horn (apparently you can lose an eye that way?), but, uh...we're at four days in a row around here. It's like the old saying goes, it's not the quality that counts, it's the quantity. 

I'm sure it was just time to sharpen these anyway.

Yaaaaaaaaaay!

• Uh, it's Sly. In a movie. What else do you really need, you selfish jerk?
• I don't know guys, two, maybe three minutes in, John's checking on the incredibly vast and cavernous tunnel system he's created at his house and you kind of instantly know ohhhh...it's this kind of party.
• I'll get to Gizelle in a minute, but know that it brought me so much joy when John threatened her. Like, borderline too much.
• As did this exchange between John and her: Gizelle: We cool, right? John: F--k off.
• Oh, I loved me some Usher in the club in Hustlers, I did. But that was before I had seen John Rambo in the club. I didn't even know that option was on the table.
• Still got that jab, champ. 
• I noted that John Hammers that one guy in the dick. Clearly, that's a Yay. But what's eluding me...is if he literally hammered a guy in the dick, or maybe just punched him super hard below the belt. My money's on yes, yes he totally did it with a hammer but I honestly don't really remember a hammer. Or a dick.
• Macaulay Culkin had Micro Machines and Christmas ornaments. Rambo? He's got nails. Lots and lots of nails.
• Okay, let's cut the shit. The violence is over the top (hi-five, anyone? Anyone at all?). John cuts a dude's head off, another dude's foot off, stabs a f--king guy in the eye with a ten-foot pole, and that ain't even the half of it. Hell, you name it, he f--king does it. This one poor f--ker gets his entire face smashed in - in two different sections. Everyone in the theater recoiled as if a f--king cobra had been let loose (low-five this time). And not only all that, but even the regular kills he super-sizes, too. Like, sorry my guy, a pitchfork just sprung from out of nowhere and killed you, guess I need to shoot you in the face to be sure. Trust me, it's f--king insanity.
• And finally, that credits sequence knocked me on my ass. Not to sound like too much of an dickhead (too late, I realize), but seeing John's life highlighted on the screen...kind of felt personal in a weird way. Obviously, I haven't lived for decades as this lonely drifter turned straight-up killing machine, but f--k me, I was an accessory to all of it. 1982,1985, 1988, 2008 and 2019?  I was with you, John. And I guess I always will be...

Narrator: Everyone, this is Gloria. She f--king sucks.
ALL: Hi, Gloria!

Boo!

• Hey, Pretty Niece That Means The World To Me, why don't you stay home instead of going to that dangerous party somewhere else? You could bring your friends here...and show them my tunnels (this is basically verbatim)
• Speaking of the niece, her name is Gabrielle, and she's precious. Her dad that she's dying to meet? Yeah, not so much. (the revealing of his true nature has to be seen to be believed)
• So...it was kind of cool, sure...but I think I actually looked away when it happened. Hint: it rhymes with bollarcone. 
• Holy shit, there's a bit where our boy John gets jumped by like seventy-five thousand angry Mexican dudes (I might be off by a uno or dos pendejos). While that's a pretty major Boo in it's own right, one of them ultimately makes the decision to let him live. Yeah, cause that'll end well.
• Sorry, Journalist Lady. I don't care about your story. Or your sweet haircut.
• WAIT! Honestly...I got kind of choked up here...which I was not at all prepared for.
• Obviously, I kind of went on and on about the violence in the Yays, suggesting that I was really, really enjoying it. I wasn't. Yeah, in the moment, it's kind of awkwardly hilarious (/gnarly as f--k), but looking back, I kid you not...I kind of felt embarrassed. For Stallone. Is that really what you think we wanted? *looks around* Is that what you think of...us?
• And finally, there's something that kind of caps off the violence that further escalated something that was already at peak f--king ridiculous. When it starts, you're kind of thinking, even when they cut away and imply what's about to happen, it will be too much. But then they just f--king show it. And it's kind of like what the f--k are we even doing here anymore? That wasn't the bad guy you were doing that to. *dramatic pause* It was me, John. It...was...me *dies, shits pants*

In the bathroom before the movie started, I would have sworn to you that someone gently ran their finger up my leg mid-f--king STREAM. Not exaggerating in the least.

Did I freak out? Did I piss everywhere? No. 

I handled that shit like John f--king Rambo would. I stayed calm. Finished what I was doing. Didn't want or ask for any trouble. I could have killed whoever did it with a giant knife or an explosive-tipped arrow. But I just turned around and walked away.

(it was only toilet paper gently going up and down my calf, but still)