M.K. Gibson's Blog, page 3
November 7, 2018
Political Picks and Pics -or- Pay Attention to My “Uniqueness!”
The 2018 midterm election is over. And as in all previous voting cycles, Democracy was once again put into action. The people came forth and cast their voices to elect the leaders they wanted. There are cries of rejoicing for some, wails of anguish for others. But through it all, voters across this land made a statement in a clear and united voice. And that statement was:
“Hey world! Look at my fucking ‘I Voted’ selfie!”
Through the entire election process leading up to November 6th, social media feeds and click bait sites were flooded with images of normal people and celebrities proud to share that they took part in their civic duty and voted. News sites asked for pics of humble folk sharing their images with the “I Voted” sticker, and that was cool. But as the time went on, the images became more . . . unique. More . . . artistic.
More insufferable.
I don’t know if it was peer pressure, of FOMO, but post after post, pic after pic, an image-based arms race was conducted. An “I Voted” escalation. Who could be cuter in their selfie? More ingenious? Who could be more quirky? Which filter should be used to express self-satisfaction?
It seemed that the images went from a simple reminder to others to take part in their responsibility and instead became a statement unto itself. A statement which seemed like *gasp* that the picture that was shared was almost more important than the actual vote cast.
Sure, this sounds like a complaint. And in truth, it is and it isn’t. Voting is, as said before, a civic duty. A responsibility. But one that isn’t enforced. And bluntly, it sucks that more people don’t take it seriously. It’s through grassroots movements, peer discussion, and social pressure that we can effect the change we want while also encouraging others to cast their vote.
That being said, with only an estimated 48.1% of eligible voters voting this 2018, perhaps people spent more time selecting the right photo to post than actually encouraging others? (Don’t look at me like that. You know damn well some of you--and definitely several celebrities--took a ton of pics on your phone and scrolled through them to choose the right one. And reposting an article from your favored echo chamber on FB, Twitter, or Instagram doesn’t count as encouragement.)
It’s no secret that voting in America is a contentious issue. We are a polarized people with polarizing “leaders,” which is evident in our recent elections. Voter turnout dipped from 62.3 percent of eligible citizens voting in 2008 to an estimated 57.5 in 2012. Only 36.4 percent of eligible voters turned out in 2014. 138 million Americans voted in the 2016 presidential election, and said voters only made up 58.7% of our voting-eligible population (estimated 235.2M eligible voters).
So, when you look at it that way, the approx 62.9M Americans that voted for Trump represented only approximately 27% of the country. So a little over one quarter of the eligible voters selected our president. (Or if you take in the total population of 2016, 323M Americans, 19.4% of the people chose the president.)
So yes, I’m being a bit of a curmudgeon about people’s “I Voted!” pics. Mostly because I don’t think they do anything other than self-aggrandize while subtly casting shame on others. And the one thing in this socio-political landscape in which we live which I find to be true is that shaming, blaming, and finger pointing does nothing but draw the battle lines deeper and keeps things like tolerance, understanding, and unity from happening.
But hey, what the fuck do I know? I’m just a dumb SFF writer. And this is just my reactionary opinion to a pretty non-issue issue. So forgive my meandering grouchiness.
But I do know there are images like this, which make me nod in approval and have hope.
And pics like this, which make me want to quit voting all together.
September 13, 2018
How to Get into Jedi Heaven - or - Remember that Time Vader Killed Kids?
One of the most difficult thing for a writer to write, is a prequel. When you go back to tell the story before the main story, you are automatically at a disadvantage. Trying to detail how the hero became the hero, or how the villain became the villain, is difficult because we the reader/viewer already know what they become. There are no stakes for the protagonist. Only the illusion of danger. At best, you’ll meet and lose a few secondary characters along the way.
It was . . . okay?
When George Lucas announced the prequel trilogy way back when, I, like most nerds, was excited. When I saw them . . . well, let us say history has not been kind. But, this isn’t a rant about the Star Wars prequels. Well, not exactly.
I recently rewatched all the Star Wars movies and I have to wonder: how did Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader get into Jedi heaven?
Remember in Return of the Jedi, following the destruction of Death Star II, when the rebels are partying with those little furry, little, flesh-eating muppets? Luke looks over and sees Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi and . . . Anakin Skywalker. Depending on which version you’ve seen, it’s either the distinguished older gentleman, or Hayden Christensen. Regardless, it told us the audience, that for saving his son Luke, and killing the evil Emperor Palpatine, The Force absolved Anakin for his sins and allowed him to be a glowing blue ghost. Cool.
But then the prequels came along. We all remember in Revenge of the Sith when Anakin, now turned totally evil, slaughtered all the Jedi in the temple to include “the younglings” (psst . . . that’s totally PG-13 code for child murder). And everyone in the audience said “Oh . . . shit. Kids? Damn! How could he?”
Their hats alone make them targets for bullies . . . with lightsabers
Yes, how could he? Well, let’s rewind back to Attack of the Clones. Where gangly Anakin, in a search for his missing mother, slaughtered an entire tribe of Tuskan Raiders. We remember those folks right? The weird scavenger people we met in A New Hope? The ones who attacked Luke, knocked the snot out of him, and were going to kill him. Then old Ben came along, made a scary Krayyt Dragon shriek and scared them away. Now, we always assumed the Tuskans were evil. I mean, they have Raider right in their name. So, no harm no foul, right?
No. Because thanks to George Lucas, right before Anakin starts the Sand People genocide, we get a clear shot of little Tuskan “younglins” playing with some reptilian-dog pet. You know, like a normal native family.
And, as Anakin said later in his confession to Padme:
“I killed them. I killed them all. They're dead, every single one of them. And not just the men, but the women and the children, too. They're like animals, and I slaughtered them like animals. I HATE THEM.”
But Gibby, remember, they stole his momma! They did some pretty mean things to her. She died! And, that is true. But, according to wookipedia: Tusken Raiders, less formally referred to as Sand People or simply as Tuskens, were a culture of nomadic, primitive sentient indigenous to Tatooine, where they were often hostile to local settlers.
Huh. So, a bunch of space honkeys come to a planet, displaced the local indigenous people, and dared to get cranky when said indigenous people strike back at the space honkeys? That doesn’t seem fair, now does it? #tuskanlivesmatter.
But back to the point, seems that while trying to make Anakin dark and brooding, so we understand why he becomes Vader, the movies show that he does some really horrible things. Lucas tried to slowly show Anakins fall and seduction to the dark side. But, it didn’t seem like he was seduced. It seems like he was already kinda dirty and was just looking for that nudge. The movies also eluded to Palpatine manipulating . . . sigh, Midichlorians, into creating his life, somewhat explaining Anakin’s immaculate conception. But, that would mean he was tainted by the dark side from birth? Through the entire prequel series we were led to believe that Anakin’s fall was to save Padme. He married her and she was carrying his twin children after all.
Hmm . . . he did slaughter indigenous people. But, I think I can fix him.
Oh, speaking of, remember when Anakin became Vader, asked where was Padme and screamed “Nooooo!” when he found out she died? Notice how he didn’t even ask “Well, what about my kids?” You know, the ones he tortured, and tried to kill in the original trilogy?
But, Anakin’s sins obviously weren’t contained solely in the prequels. I recently went to San Fancisco, to help promote my books by going on a YouTube channel, Kinda funny, and their flagship video/podcast, Game Over Greggy (GoG). A topic-based show where we BS and talk nerd crap. While pimping my books, I mentioned that Author, Screenwriter, and Video Game writer Gary Whitta was an inspiration of mine. And that after a 2015 appearance of his on GoG to promote his new book, Abomination, it pushed me to keep trying to get my own material out there. Well, he lives in San Fran. They called him, and he came over. It was . . . awesome!
Damn it Greg Miller, quit photo bombing my meeting Gary Whitta!
You see, among Gary’s accolades, he wrote an initial script for Star Wars: Rogue One. After the main show was over and we were doing a post show, BS session, I had to ask if the Darth Vader hallway scene was his. He said no, that he had a scene written where Vader stormed a beach and waylaid some rebels. But everyone agreed that the hallway scene, with Vader going full murder-bot in order to get the Death Star plans, was the best scene in the movie.
(Psst . . . that last guy, the one on the ceiling, he was only three more payments away from paying off his student loans. )
And I said, “Yeah, it was cool. But, that scene always troubled me. I get why its there, to move the plot and raise the stakes. But, all it did was make the audience cheer . . . for the cool villain who was committing multiple, horrible murders.”
And they all looked at me like I was an idiot. I repeated that the best part of the movie wasn’t the rebels who died giving the galaxy a chance. It was the villain, murdering innocent men. Again, I was looked at like I was crazy.
Many villains get redemption in books and movies. And some of them earned it. Remember how we hated the Hound and Jamie Lannister in Game of Thrones? Now fan favorites. Redeemed for some. And to others, still guilty of many crimes to include child murder, and attempted child murder. They may be going to Westeros Hell, but at least they’ll sell some swag along the way.
Maybe I’m wrong, but with all the films, showcasing all his sins, was Anakin worth redemption? In A New Hope, he was Tarkin’s attack dog, and stood by Tarkin’s side when Alderan, and its billions of peaceful citizens, went boom-boom in a Death Star demonstration. In Empire, he gave zero fucks about torturing Han and not asking any questions. In Jedi he did threaten to turn Leia if Luke wouldn’t give himself over.
Through all seven movies with Vader, for all the child killing, slaughter, torture, manipulation, lies, treachery, and planetary destruction, was one act of redemption enough? One kindness paid to the son he never cared to ask about. One act of self sacrificegranted him blue ghost status?
Man. I guess Jedi Heaven is easier to get into than community college.
And that’s why prequels are hard. We know where Vader ended up. But, the story getting there, to me, makes him beyond redemption. Now he gets to kick it, all blue and sparkly. But, to be fair, there is a Dark Side to The Force. And maybe that he was brought back as a practical joke. You know, to torture Luke into being a grumpy, teat milking hermit. How else do you explain The Last Jedi?
I don’t really have an end to this wandering thought exercise. I know in the universe of Star Wars, The Force is mysterious and there are other factors I haven’t addressed. It’s just something as a viewer, and later a writer, that always bothered me.
June 14, 2018
Gym Butt Highlanders - Or - The War of the Rumps
Think of the great rivalries. Cato and Ceaser. Michelangelo and da Vinci. Burr and Hamilton. Edison and Tesla. Kanye West and . . . everyone not Kanye West.
These were nothing compared to what I saw on that fateful early June afternoon. I saw my sleepy little town’s gym turn into thunderdome. I saw . . .
. . . Two 19 year old wannabe Instagram Butt Models girls competing in a B*tch Off.
Laugh if you want. You weren’t there. I was.
The following events are 100% true. The names are changed to protect the innocent . . . or made up. Look, I didn’t know their real names. (Music and sound effects were added in post for dramatic effect :) )
It was 5 minutes to 3pm. After finishing my warm up of the elliptical I made my way to the free weight section. The normal afternoon patrons were there. Older people, a few early 40's folk like me trying like hell to fight off age, and of course the bevvy of young redneck men who believed camouflage was a way of life.
All were familiar faces . . . save one. A young, fit, brunette girl in the tightest, high-waisted, olive green workout leggings. The kind that divided the butt into individual cheeks and left no room for imagination. She wore a matching low cut top that exposed cleavage and a bare mid-rift. In my mind I named this new comer “Thunder Butt.” Why? Because every exercise she did was thigh and butt based.
(The butt and thigh exercises had become something of the latest trend at my gym with the local gals. And I’d take this moment to say this: I am not mocking this girl. You can read THIS POST to see my feelings on such shaming. I say if you have it, flaunt it for as long as you can. Time, gravity, and McNuggets are everyone’s enemy. All I ask is that you temper your confidence with just a touch of humility. Because if you spend your gym time looking down on others, I WILL mock you when you eventually get injured, or lazy, and get flabby. )
- Now, back to the scene -
The single, redneck men watched Thunder Butt with sideways glances. They began picking up heavier and heavier weights as the primate portion of their brains told them to compete for the females attention. The males of the pack failed to notice the two thing that did matter to Thunder Butt: her upward held smart phone and the mirror. Between sets she would stand, legs askance, rump forward, side boob in frame, and camera out. Followers, not suitors, were her target.
It was then that I saw her head snap to the side. Her eyes narrowed. Thunder Butt sniffed the air. Something had her spooked. Like a highlander she knew there was something . . . amiss. I looked back towards the walkway and there I saw it. Or rather, her.
Ruby Rumble Buns. The ginger queen of the afternoon rump regiment.
(Yes . . . I name strangers at the gym. Sue me. I get bored during my elliptical work outs/between sets and giving different people at the gym nick-names is kind of my thing. In another post I can tell you all about Eminem McChicken Legs, Joey-Beard-Fashion, Captain Tans-Too-Much, Sad-Sally Trophy Tits, Roid Rage Roger, Bench-Press Mario, and Methusala’s Corpse.)
Thunder Butt scowled at the newcomer. Sadly, ole TB didn’t know that 330pm was when Ruby Rumble Buns liked to make her entrance. On this day, Ruby was sporting low-rise, dark gray leggings, with a light gray swirl pattern that circled her equally dominant backside. Ruby Rumble Buns tossed her strawberry-blonde pigtails back and pulled out her own phone. But . . . oops, she dropped it.
Instead of picking it up like a regular human, RRB bent over at the waist, without bending her knees, to retrieve her device and to give the now frenzied young folk of the gym a show. But her real target was obvious. Ruby Rumble Buns stared right at Thunder Butt . . . and smirked.
Oh . . . SNAP!
If there was a mic, it would have been dropped. The room grew cold. Both women glared at one another. I could hear Clancy Brown’s gravely voice clear as day declare:
“THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!”
Over the gym stereo, Queen’s “Princes of the Universe” played (ok, it didn’t. But for the sake of the story just go with it.)
What transpired next was an epic war of one-upsmanship as the two titans of the tush began their war. Ruby Rumble Butt began with single dumbbell squats. She looked over ever-so-slightly at Thunder Butt with a smile that said “Go home little girl”.
Thunder Butt’s lips thinned. Her glare hardened. Thunder Butt stormed over to the assisted chin-up machine. But instead of working her upper body as designed, she placed one foot on the knee pad, and executed multiple sets of single-leg presses. Bringing her knee to her chest, she ensured the glutes would be maximized. Once done, and a picture taken, she threw a catty glance over to Ruby.
But Ruby was having none of Thunder Butt’s shade. Instead she was performing deep, side lunges with a 45lb plate in front of two young men. Once she completed her set, Ruby Rumble Buns snapped a few pics of herself, then looked up at Thunder Butt in a “Oh . . . are you still here?” look.
Oh no she didn’t!
More exercises were done. Poses made. Pictures were taken. I give credit to Thunder Butt, she tried. She fought valiantly. But, she’d been at the gym longer, and it was clear she was tired. Ruby Rumble Buns was fresher. Determined. To Ruby Rumble Buns, it wasn’t just posing and snapping selfies. No no no. Each move she made, every step she took, ensured that the butt came first. A drink of water? Knees together, butt out. Picking up of weights? Drop it like it's hot. Even standing and checking her phone was an exercise in modeling, with one hip canted ridiculously high.
Outmatched and defeated, Thunder Butt lowered her head in shame and left the gym.
There can be only one . . . butt. And on that day, Ruby Rumble Butt won “the prize”.
GIMMIE THE PRIZE!
June 5, 2018
Let’s Get Back to Scaring Children -or- Meh . . . a Little Therapy is Good for You
― Frank Herbert, Dune
Despite the title of this post, I’m not advocating that we should traumatize kids. Nor am I saying that we should lie in wait and spring out from the darkness with a clown mask and roaring chainsaw . . .
. . . But that being said, that would be a moment they’d never forget. Heh, good times.
This thought’s been rattling around my head for a while, scaring kids that is. As a part time writer, I’m constantly pondering new, and horrible, scenarios to put my protagonists through. In order for a story to be "good", the hero has to go through a crucible. What good is a story if there is no challenge, no stakes, and . . . no fear?
Because that’s the rub of heroism isn’t? What is courage, or bravery, if not doing what needs to be done in the face of fear?
Of course kids face fear all the time. My own son, by the time of this post, is 6 and a half. When he’s scared, I tell him that it’s okay. But, just because your scared, doesn’t mean you get to quit doing what what we’re doing.
He gets it, mostly. And in time, he’ll understand it better. But as I look at my son, I ponder: what “scary” things I should expose him to? Where are the new primers to teach a little fear? The movies, the shows, the books?
Who remembers Choose Your Own Adventure and being too scared to turn to page 26 to find out your fate? (Pro tip: If you keep your finger at the decision page, it doesn’t count.) Doing a little bit of research, I’m happy to see that scary books, like Goosebumps and others, still exist for kids. But, what about the scary movies?
A quick Google search of popular scary movies for kids came up with a list that is primarily from my childhood and formative years, with a few here and there.
By no means am I saying I’m an expert, or is this meant to come off preachy in the “kids these days aren’t tough enough”. No. Far too many young kids face real fears and horrors that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I’m honestly wondering: Where are the popular, modern versions of The Secret of NIMH, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Neverending Story, Labyrinth, Dark Crystal, Willy Wonka, Something Wicked This Way Comes, Goonies, Gremlins, Star Wars, or Witches? The movies, while entertaining, are also full of dread, consequences, fear . . . hope, perseverance, and ultimately triumph through courage?
I guess Stranger Things, fits part of that, as do the modern sequels of some of those movies. But, is it the same? Are those meant for kids? Maybe I’m wrong, but, it feels like we are missing our modern Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The lessons taught to kids to give them a healthy respect of the unknown, while also thickening the emotional skin. And I’m talking about the actual Grimm’s Tales, the ones with the dark forests, cannibalism, eyeball pecking, grandma killing, toe cutting, abduction, and creepy as F*CK adults who don’t care one whit for the life of the young.
Sure, the old movies I, and many of us, grew up on are still there. But, shouldn’t there be a new generation of film makers actively trying to murder/scare kids like Stephen Spielberg did in E.T., Hook, and Jurassic Park? For God's sake, the man killed Rufio!
I guess all I’m wondering is: are we still willing to scare the young, properly, thus instilling the value of fear? Are we still willing to teach them that The Fratelli’s will chop off your hand in a blender? That to Raptors, you are food? That Mr. Dark's Pandemonium Carnival is most likely operated by an agent of the Devil? That Darth Vader will chop off your hand, even if you are his son? That to Witches, children smell obnoxious and that they, The Witches, are demons in mortal form?
I’d like to think so. Special shout out to Guillermo del Toro and Pan's Labyrinth for keeping fear alive!
A taste of fear is good. A sense of the dark is good. Given a controlled space, it helps the psyche experiment with the macabre, reason with mortality, and cope better in times of real stress.
But not TOO much. If there's too much, well, I think we know where that leads.
For more info on fear, please check out:
The Value of Fear, By Amy Bucher Ph.D
Why Horror is Good For You (and Even Better for Your Kids), Greg Ruth
May 14, 2018
Is there Such a Thing as “Good” Segregation? -or- Death to Movie Theaters
This may seem cruel. This may seem mean. But, I would gladly pay $30 to $50 a pop to not have to sit next to, nor breath the same air, as other people . . .
. . . in the movie theater.
Yeah, I know this type of article has been done to death; the complaining about people who ruin the movie theater experience for others. But with every major website putting up articles, listicles, rankings, and general word of mouth, you’d think people would learn. But they don’t. And . . . I don’t think they ever will.
While this is not an all encompassing list, I think we all know who these people are:
The asshole who doesn’t turn off their phone, texts, or just answers it when it rings.
An actual petition from Change.org
- Dude . . . what’s your problem? Did momma tell you, you were special one too many times? With all the participation trophy’s you have in your closet, is there any room in there to get the hint that you are not the center of the universe?
The parent(s) who bring the inappropriately young kids to the theater.
- Sigh. Okay, aside from the obvious where you chose to have kids, and with that comes certain sacrifices, you . . . you do know they’re kids right? That, maybe they shouldn’t be at the midnight release of the latest movie? Or any theater with other people outside of the latest Dreamworks Animation or Pixar movie? You have heard of Redbox and Amazon rentals, right? Oh. Oh I get it, your FOMO is more important than everyone else’s enjoyment and experience. How dare I.
*A special shout out to the parents who bring the elementary age kids to horror movies and/or anything with excessive guns, guts, sex, and cursing. Just think, you’re guaranteeing future therapists will have patients.
Loudmouth screen talker dude-bro (who then wants to fight anyone who tells them to be quiet).
- Okay, here’s a truth you should have learned by now: You can bark, posture, and fight all you want. It will not make your tiny dick any bigger. Sorry. Now go back to the gym and continue skipping leg day.
Loudmouth girls night group (who may or may not have had too much to drink).
- Sigh . . . your empowering, yet limp-wristed high fives, coupled with that screeching wail you call a voice, is a primary reason that chivalry is dead. I’d say your cats will eat you once you die . . . but even an animal knows better than to eat something that rotten.
Here’s a real life example from my own personal movie going experience: Back in March of 2017, I went to see Logan, opening weekend. I tend to see new releases on the Saturday morning when they come out, around 930 AM while my son is home with the wife. I like the early morning because I can avoid most of the crowds. But what happened at this showing?
Well, 30 minutes into the movie, the guy sitting behind me collapses and stops breathing. Seriously. The people he’s with freak. I hopped the seats and gave him CPR until a paramedic showed up and took over. Blessedly, the guy lived, and they wheeled him out. The movie started back up after a small break. I gave my account to the paramedics and checked with the family to see what happened. Now, why did the man stop breathing? Heroin overdose.
Yup, my man didn’t even wait until lunch for some smack. I imagine he got up that morning and thought to himself. “You know what would be fun today? Watching an R-rated, Hugh Jackman say “Fuck” a lot instead of delivering meaningful dialogue. Now, what pares well with a movie that beats the audience over the head with how important it is instead of having a cogent plot. OH! . . . heroin! Definitely heroin. Sure it’s not noon yet, but screw it. It’s Saturday and I deserve a ‘me day’ . . . with heroin.”
Recently I saw Avengers Infinity War with my buddy and his middle school aged son. We three were very quiet and respectful, laughing when appropriate, and keeping any comments to soft whispers and quiet nods. You know . . . like NORMAL people.
There was a mom in front of us with her 6 yr old and 15 yr old sons. She was wearing an off the shoulder shirt so everyone could see her ivy leaves/vines tattoos. Well, she was not missing a moment of the Russo Brother latest Marvel installment. But little Calen was kind of bored.
How do I know his name? Because every 17 seconds she scolded, or threatened to beat, little Calen. But, she couldn’t be bothered to remove him, no no. She made the older brother take Calen out of the theater whenever the 6yr old . . . acted like a 6yr old. And bless ivy leaves momma, she stayed all the way through the credits. Her oldest son? Well, he missed a fair bit.
Now, I know this crap doesn’t apply to every showing of every movie. But it’s prevalent enough that everyone is aware of the negative aspects of public theaters. With that in mind, and knowing that certain people are hell bent on living in their own bubble without giving a rat’s ass about others, what are we “normal” people to do?
We could demand that the theaters enforce public decency practices. But, let’s be honest, what minimum wage making kid would do that? Plus, we’ve all been on an airplane or seen ‘People of Wal-Mart’, our tolerance has created this problem. So, what’s done is done. I think we can agree that no amount of shushing can fix stupid.
Another option could be: that we designate two theaters types? One for people who just want to see the movie? Those who’ll be quiet AND respectful of others (I know, weird right?) And then there can be the . . . other theater, for all the chucklefucks of this world. Let them have a goddamn party in there for all I care.
But, people do frown on that kind of segregation. Which is why I eagerly await day and date digital release via a streaming platform. I reckon a summer blockbuster would cost what, $40 to $50 per viewing? Perhaps less for prestige pieces or more “middle of the road” movies?
And before you say “that’s too much!”, think about it. Two tickets a couple of drinks on a date night costs you what, over $40 already, right? What’s your time worth when you’re standing in line? How about the option to pause a movie to go pee?
I propose we just let the movie theaters die. Hell, they’re barely hanging on as it is. I’m sure that you can still find sticky floors and overpriced nachos other places if you miss it that much. Sure, some may say that newer movies are breaking box office records. But that’s because ticket prices keep going up due to fewer people going to the movies. And why? Well, there are reasons.
So come on, Netflix and Hulu give us this! Maybe if we all tweet to Amazon, and demand digital releases of new movies for rental they could make it happen?. For God’s sake, Jeff Bezos is only worth $110 billion dollars, how’s he supposed to build an underwater city with such a pittance?
“But Gib,” you may say, “you sound like an angry old man, screaming at the clouds! Theaters are fine, and you’re and idiot!” To which I’d say . . . well, yeah. And an asshole to boot. But clearly, you’re not thinking it through. It isn’t just about me and my foolish desire for people to act decent to one another, that ship’s long since sailed.
This is about the little Calen’s and the Heroin Henry’s of this world. Streaming releases of new movies would allow that boy to just go into another room to be ignored by his mom. And Heroin Henry? Well, he can shoot up at his leisure while watching an overrated X-Men movie that people seem to like. Think of them!
I’m not saying that theaters need to completely go away. Some can stay open for those who enjoy a unique experience like the Alamo draft House. And I suppose some could stay open for those who just need “the theater experience”.
But for those of us who can’t stand the inconsiderate nature, and self-absorbed stupidity, of our fellow man, a day-1 streaming service free us from those fools . . .
. . . until we go to Costco on the weekend, read any comment board on the internet, or go to any ballgame anywhere . . .
April 13, 2018
Ode to the "Tramp Stamp" -Or - Beautiful Butterfly, They Can’t Hurt You Anymore
Beauty and intrigue
Arms raised up in youthful Joy
A turn reveals art
Lower Back Tattoo, where did you go? You were once symbol of joy and exuberance. But suddenly, you were cursed. Shamed. They turned on you. They called you wretched names.
Ass Antlers.
Hoe Tag.
Tart Art.
The California License Plate.
And, or course . . . The Tramp Stamp.
How dare they. How dare they besmirch your beauty? Those vile, base creatures shamed you. They spat on you. Belittled you. They forced you into hiding. They said you were the symbol of the trashy.
Those miserable harridans said things like “Oh, okay Misty. Suuuure you’re going to be a marine biologist one day. Of course you are . . . because you’re so smart.”
Damn it, and damn them. Misty, I believe in you. You will be a marine biologist one day. Or a dental hygienist.
Lower Back Tattoo, you were replaced. Replaced but never forgotten. Not by me.
The Nautical Star can never replace you, no matter how many trendy idiots put them on their elbows.
They implied you were of low intelligence. But do these the quirky pricks who got The Finger Mustache scream academics?
Only god may judge you? No, methinks an actual judge will judge you . . . guilty of shaming the Lower Back Tattoo . . . and most likely B&E, aggravated assault, resisting arrest, possession with the intent to distribute . . .
Long before the Bird Silhouette and/or Dandelion Blowing came along, YOU, dear Lower Back Tattoo, were the badge of honor earned at that one crazy spring break.
Bows on Thighs? Ha! You can never replace the glory that is Lower Back Tattoo!
. . . well, huh. Hmm . . . let’s call you a close second.
Ladies (and gentlemen?), hide your curling tribal marks no longer. Let your butterfly wings soar. Your days in exile are over. Thanks to insanely progressive social justice--and it's crazy that I agree--the words they damned you with are forbidden. No longer can they call your Lower Back Tattoo a “Tramp Stamp,” because that is slut shaming. If you were mocked because of your size and LBT, well, that is body shaming.
That being said, perhaps some of you may want to consider a cover-up. Progressive ideology aside, these are pushing the bounds of tolerance:
But in the end (HA!), it’s your decision. But I ask you, please come back. I remember the first Lower Back Tattoo and it was amazing. Sure it was 1996, but I can still see it. Done right, it’s sweet, sexy, and beautiful. And if nothing else, there are plenty of “No Regerts” out there to take the heat away from you.
Return to us, Lower Back Tattoo. Show the world what you are.
But if you don’t, then I guess we have to fall back on the underboob tattoo. Who knows that they’ll be saying about those in five to eight years.
March 31, 2018
Can The Last Jedi Ruin Other Stories? -or- Nihilism and You! My Review of Episode XIII
Honestly? a 3/5 for me
It’s no secret to anyone in nerd/pop culture that Star Wars, Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (TLJ) has been one of the most talked about, and divisive movies, in years. Love it or hate it, months later, people are still talking about Rian Johnson’s movie.
Now, I made myself a promise for 2018. I would be more positive, even if I was being critical of something, I would still try and acknowledge what was good about something. Instead of just saying something was bad, I would offer areas where it could be better.
So with that being said, TLJ, for some, is a break to the saccharin Disney/Lucas formula. Instead of giving you the fairy tale formula, the movie subverts the tropes. By removing the expected, TLJ is able to deliver stylistic action and humor while also shining a light on war, those who suffer, and those who benefit. In rejecting the power of destiny and faith, one can view the world, or galaxy in this case, as cold and heartless. Through our failure, we learn. In the end, you have a movie which, by removing all you expectations, gives you a visual spectacle, and the promise that the force could be in anyone, not just a famous sky-walking family.
Where the hell was this cool scene from the trailer?
And on the other hand, there are the other people . . . who have a different point of view. Who upon seeing TLJ, who were filled with murderous rage. Witnessing this quasi-nihilistic, irreverent piece of expensive garbage, sent many fans to the internet, setting keyboards on fire with their perceived righteous fury.
It was pretty though! And the sound design? Top notch! No wonder it won several Academy Awards. (see, that’s the compliment sandwich right there.)
For those who liked TLJ, I understand your POV, I truly do. It just was not for me. As someone who grew up with Star Wars, and suffered through the god-awful prequels, this was my time to see my childhood heroes again. And clearly, TLJ didn’t care about that or people like me.
So, with that in mind, I’ve decided to apply the message, themes, and general outlook of TLJ to other movies and potential sequels. Let’s see how that works.
Toy Story 4
The movie opens immediately after Toy Story 3 ends, with Andy waving goodbye to Bonnie as Woody and Buzz watch Andy drive off . . . only for him to immediately die in a car crash because Andy was texting while driving. Bonnie runs in the house screaming, leaving Buzz and Woody outside. Where they stay and get run over by a lawnmower. The movie then follows the adventures of Pricklepants and Trixie as they do . . . whatever.
But, was Andy’s mom the original owner of Jessie you may ask? Who cares! Answers are for simpletons.
Robin Hood 2
As Robin steals from the rich and gives to the poor, the tax collectors come, realizing the poor have more money, and take it. The Rich then hire Saxon mercenaries to clear our Sherwood forest. Marion berates Robin for being a cocky, hotheaded scoundrel and begins a slow carriage chase across England.
Meanwhile, Friar Tuck and Maid Marian’s hand maid . . . Lily(?) go to France, only to learn that French merchants are selling trebuchets, swords, and crossbows to both sides of the conflict! Gasp! War profiteering is bad, did you know that!?
Princess Bride 2
Wesley and Buttercup claimed to have true love, but after defeating Humperdinck their marriage becomes distant and loveless. Sadly, after five years apart while Wesley was on the high seas becoming the Dread Pirate Roberts and Buttercup was . . . I dunno, looking frosty, they learn that their attraction was only physical and theey really are different people. So Buttercup and Wesley separate. Wesley leaves Florence with Indigo, and the pair take to the high sea. Buttercup however becomes Florence’s first ruling queen with her giant Fezzick by her side. 20 years go by.
The bastard child of Humperdinck, lays siege to Florence. Amid the turmoil, a young pale girl with a black hair, scars on her cheeks, fights against the uprising. The girl, Xandra, displays experts sword work beyond her years which gains her notoriety and the attention of Queen Buttercup.
Buttercup enlists this young rogue, and sends her to find Wesley and Indigo. Xandra teams up with a rag tag bunch of outlaws and set out on a grand adventure. After a slow chase across the sea by Humperdinck Jr’s men, this lady hero finally meets Wesley and Indigo. The two men are now lovers, living as a happy gay couple in Patagonia, selling beachside antiques to tourists. Wesley is fat and bald and Indigo is a pacifist. Xandra comes to Indigo and reveals . . . six fingers on her right hand!
But she is NOT Count Rugen’s daughter. Nope. Just a girl with six fingers. (How DARE you even think of a familial connection?! The force . . . of will, is in us all, not just an elite few bloodlines). Xandra asks Indigo to train her, but the Spaniard refuses, claiming the way of the blade only leads to more pain.
Xandra goes back to Florence to see the city has burned and Buttercup is dead. Fezzik is missing. She finds him in the fire swamp, about to eat an ROUS. He refuses to help, claiming that he loved Buttercup and has no reason to live. He finishes his meal, rhymes about the futility of life, and then steps into the lightning sand.
Xandra leads the rebellion, but amid the fighting, she and Humperdinck Jr begin exchanging letters and they bond. On the horizon, a pirate ship flying the colors of the Dread Pirate Roberts is seen! But it isn’t Wesley or Indigo coming to save the day, no no no. It’s just pirates coming to raid. Humperdinck Jr and Xandra team up to fight them in a badly choreographed high school stage level production scene that fans love for some unknown reason, and live happily ever after.
Fred Savage knocks the book out of grandpa’s hands for reading him such crap. Grandpa dies of a heart attack.
Harry Potter 8
Slender hands pick up an orb from the Ministry of Magic. A new prophecy is spoken. The children of the dual chosen are destined. One to be the new dark lord’s right hand, the other to be the beacon of resistance.
Ron and Hermione are divorced. Their kids live with her, as she is a successful editor for a magic newspaper after her investigative journalist career. Ron’s a drunk, but, he is also the new Headmaster at Hogwarts! (The Ministry of Magic wanted Harry, but he turned his back on magic. He and Ginny moved to Toledo where she sells real estate and he's a certified CPA.)
This story, despite being called Harry Potter, is about Luna and Neville’s kid, a girl named Luella. She is sorted into Slytherin house and her prefect is Harry’s son, Albus Severus.
Ron’s drunken antics as headmaster allow this new secretive Dark Lord to blow up Hogwarts! How inept! (Just like another ginger in TLJ who played a Weasley)
Fleeing into the dark Forest, the students are taught by elves and centaurs there there exists an ancient, hidden school of Magic. Long ago, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin created a school which predated Hogwarts. A place of primal power, but it was deemed unsafe. Albus Severus and Luella surmise that this is what the new Dark Lord wants!
Hints are dropped. Who is this new lord? A relation to Bellatrix? Colin Creevy who’s now addicted to Basalisk blood? WHO??!!
Ron see’s a pattern of brilliance in the new lord’s madness and convinced it’s Hermione. But, Albus suspects there is only one man who could be this new Dark Lord, the last horcrux of Voldemort, his own father . . . Harry Potter.
The students find the original school of magic, the place from whence Britain’s magic flows forth. After a CGI monster fight, the new Dark lord comes forward . . . and is promptly killed by a random student, falling into the magical wellspring before you ever learn who it is.
Upset you don’t know who the villain is? Tough, it was just taking up time anyway. Magic is in all of us . . . or something.
So, how do those ideas sound?
When The Force Awakens was finished, fans had many questions. Questions we wanted answers to be addressed in TLJ. Questions like:
1. What became of Luke?
2. Who are Rey’s parents?
3. How did Maz Kanata come by Luke’s Lightsaber? Wasn’t that lost when Vader cut his hand off?
4. Who was Max Von Sydow in The Force Awakens? Is he important?
5. Are the Knights of Ren a splinter group that Luke trained or allies of Kylo?
6. Who is Snoke?
7. How did Snoke rise to power?
8. After all of the questions JJ presented in The Force Awakens, what can I expect?
9. Will we finally get to see a meaningful moment where the original characters can mourn the icon, Han Solo?
10. Will we get to see Luke wield his lightsaber one more time and/or go out in a heroic way out?
But, as far as TLJ was concerned, the answers to those questions seemed to be:
1) Not much.
2) Who cares?
3) Doesn’t matter . . . yard sale?
4) *Shrug*. . . Nope.
5) The what of what now?
6) A waste of CGI money and not worth exploring.
7) See above answer.
8) Having expectations is stupid.
9) HA! Hahahahaha . . . No! FUCK your icon, we have Porgs! Plus, we have Rose’s PETA side quest to focus on! You know, the one where she saved horses but left those slave kids behind.
10) Sure . . . but not really. He will milk a space walrus and drink hot teat juice! Will that make ya happy, ya fucking nerd?!
How you like my teat milk? Is it warm?
I know some people already have arguments for these Q&A’s. I don’t care.
Like/Love/Hate JJ “Lens Flare” Abrahams and his mystery box mentality, the SOB asked some good questions. Questions I for one really wanted answers to. But, your right. A 36hr slow chase and an overly long, overly ham-fisted life lesson about capitalism via a casino planet scene was much more important than answering any of those.
I, and many others, were waiting 30 years to see Luke the the hero we hoped he’d be. Instead we got a surly, tit suckling, curmudgeon and a shit load of excuses which sounded like: “well, you see, Obi wan was a hermit, and Yoda was a hermit, and Luke felt really bad for almost killing Kylo”.
Fuck that. That is weak, weak story telling. He left a map to be found. Not a map to keep people away.
Losing Han in TFA sucked, but being robbed of the funeral, and the moment of the original cast saying goodbye to their beloved friend, and our beloved character, was nothing short of shitty. As fans, hell as movie watchers, you ride along on the adventures of the heroes. You cheer when they succeed, you suffer when they lose.
And that is the crux of my displeasure with the movie. Overall, I personally gave it a 3/5 review. It had humor, action, and was truly a visual spectacle. And I for one really like Rey and Kylo. And deep down, I like broom kid. There are several points the movie makes with which I agree. I like where it got to, I just loath how it got there.
The disrespect, disservice, and frank dismissal of the original movies and characters it what passes for edgy, but creates a division among the fans. Sure people talk about the movie, but a 50% disapproval isn’t something to be proud of.
So, as I said earlier, if one is to criticize, then one is to offer an alternative. That is why I present this:
Imagine a reworked scene at the end of TLJ, one where Luke really showed up to help the Resistance, and not a projection. Old man Luke pulled his X-wing out of the sea, popped in R2 and came in cannons blazing. He battles countless numbers of enemies from the air, taking down AT-ATs.
Luke ejects and takes up his lightsaber fighting ground troops. Kylo comes in and there is a real lightsaber fight. After wounding Kylo who retreats, Luke is tired, weak, wounded and gets overpowered by the remaining First Order. That is when Leia gives the Falcon to Rey and says “Go!”
Leia runs out the door, blaster in hand, picking off stormtroopers left and right. But also, tossing them aside with Force pushes and pulls. Leia helps Luke up and stands out there, together with her brother. They hold hands. And with their combined Force power, the two children of Vader reach into space and bring a star destroyer crashing into the planet. They know it will kill them, but it will save countless lives and give the Resistance a chance to escape.
And just as the massive, looming ship was about to crash, Luke looks at his sister, says “I love you.” She says, “I know.” He Luke smiles. And as they die, Luke looks up and sees two suns and says “It was all worth it.”
The Star Destroyer crashes in a massive spectacle of beautiful destruction. The sound goes silent as the dust settles. The camera pans back, revealing the devastation. The camera pulls further back, to see Chewie standing over Poe, Rey, Finn. He howls. Finn and Poe ask “What did he say.” C3PO and Rey both say “He said ‘thank you’”.
A tear rolls down Rey’s cheek. The Millennium Falcon jumps to hyperspace, carrying away the remaining resistance fighters. Credits.
Goddamn standing ovation.
You pass the torch, set up the new characters, leave enough of a legacy behind, and move forward.
A Long Time Ago, In a Galaxy Far, Far Away is the same thing as saying “Once Upon a Time.” It’s a fairy tale set in space. Let the hero be the hero. Let the farmboy or farmgirl bee special.
It means any of us could be a king or queen in waiting.
You just have to have hope.
March 15, 2018
Are You Critical or Just an A-Hole? -or- The Rusty Spork Phenomenon
“I would rather gouge out my eye with a rusty spork than read another word of this.”
. . . Ouch.
in March 2016, I became a published author. After many rejections from agents and publishing houses, Amber Cove Publishing found merit in my words, patted me on the head, and helped me publish my first book: To Beat The Devil, A Technomancer Novel.
And that felt AMAZING.
So, naturally, I wanted people to read the book and review it. And after a bit, the reviews start coming in. And, most of the reviews have been pretty positive! And yes, a few reviews have pointed out some rookie mistakes, some skill based issues, and a few continuity problems. I took note of them and tried to fix such things on each subsequent book I’ve written. Because, those are positive criticisms. They highlighted the good, focused on the bad in a way which said “This would be better if XY&Z were fixed”.
But, naturally, the mean reviews started coming in as well. The quote at the beginning of this post, the rusty spork one, came from a friend of a friend whom we’ll call Beth. Now, my friend didn’t care for the book, but at least he finished it. Beth got three pages in and said that line about the rusty spork to the eye. Not to me, but to my friend who relayed it to me after I pried the info out of him.
I laughed. It hurt, a lot, but I laughed. Why? Two reasons. First, because it’s funny. In fact, I plan on starting a blog column called “The Rusty Spork” to highlight negative reviews. But secondly because, well . . . Mel Brooks said it best in History of the World Part I:
“After the birth of The Artist, came the inevitable afterbirth, The Critic.” (Jump to 43 seconds in on the video)
Do you like something, or don’t you? It’s simple as that. And who doesn’t love giving their opinion about the latest movie, episode of their favorite show, or music, while gathered among a group of friends? Sometimes, it’s an exercise in creative thought to express your feelings, both positive and negative.
And let’s be honest, being hypercritical of something you don’t like is fun. I myself, while among friends, have indulged in a few creative rants, doing my best to weave curse laden strings of nonsensical bullshit into a humorous, metaphorical “Ugly Christmas Sweater” of a review. Horrible, but somehow fun. But, I try not to leave those opinions as critical fact when “officially” reviewing something.
So, my question is: at what point during a critique, does the critic stop being critical and just becomes an asshole? Saying mean things is easy. Pointing out flaws is easy. But nonstop bashing isn't criticism.
As I was taught in the military: fine fine, bitch all you want. What would you have done to fix it? If you have nothing to add, then you’re just complaining and wasting time.
It’s been two years now since getting published. I have five books out with a sixth on its way, and my skin is thick enough now to laugh and find amusement in most of the “criticisms”. But once in a while a few back-to-back (to back!) bad reviews roll in, and it does eat at me a bit. How can it not?
If you’re a creative type and you make something, paint something, compose something, or write something, then you know what it feels like to pour yourself into something. The artistic endeavor can take ten minutes, ten weeks, ten months, or even ten years.
But, all it takes is one snarky asshole with a laptop, a vendetta, and five minutes on the internet, dismissing your labor of love as one dismisses a pile of dog feces, to wreck you.
The longer you keep creating, the easier it is to bounce back. But, the overtly cruel ones can linger a bit.
I like to read reviews of various media. But I don’t read the good ones, no I go straight to the 1 and 2-star reviews first. And there in that quagmire of vitriol, is the personification of the afterbirth art critic which Mr. Brooks explained. These “people” take great delight in saying some of the meanest, vilest, and down right cruelest words I’ve ever read.
Often these little mini-rants are written by delusional, self-appointed experts who believe themselves to be tenured collegiate educators, lecturing about . . . whatever. You can always tell when one of these reviews are going to get saucy because they tend to have the same catchphrases like: “The writer clearly . . . ”, “The Director’s lack of . . . ”, so forth and so on . . .
. . . because they’re assholes.
When I get a really bad review, and I know this is weird . . . and perhaps a touch creepy, I like to see if I can look them up on social media. You know, just to get an idea of who they are. After all, they took great glee in shitting on my work.
I did learn a fun fact while doing this. Did you know a LOT of angry 1 & 2 star book reviewers, the ones actually leave their names, leave their Facebook pages, and their photos, set to public? Yup, any ole person (or snooping writer) can see who they are.
Translation: I’ve seen them. I get why they’re so angry.
So, in closing, I’m not telling anyone how to review a piece of art, media, or content. If you do/don’t like something, don’t be afraid to say it. You can even like something AND be critical of it (Just ask me my opinion on the Nolan Batman trilogy). Being critical helps to make better content. It pushes a creators mind and ability. Just remember that someone, most of the time, worked really hard to create/make it.
So, I challenge you (and myself) to not just say something “is the suckiest suck that ever sucked suck” if you don’t like it. Instead, point out what worked, what didn’t work, and then offer a solution. Before too long, you’ll actually develop as a critic, and perhaps as a human being.
. . . Well, except for that one guy who called my third book “Unsuspenseful, predictable villain-fic, with a few laughs but mostly remorse, of the buyer's variety.” Since he was nice enough to say that, I was curious enough to find his Facebook page and discover that he's an early 30’s, smug faced fuckwad who likes to take “cool” photos of himself leaning against his car. Nothing can help that asshole. :)
September 11, 2016
Bringing Down Big Pumpkin -or- Too Much of an Average Thing
Autumn. Fall. My favorite time of year. Football season. The leaves change and the air gets a chill. Time to break out enough jeans and flannel to be confused for a 90’s grunge band. You know, emo music before it was emo...
...seriously, every song is about how step-dad was mean.
However, my joyous time of year is always tainted with the same damn thing. And that dear friends is the dreaded Pumpkin Hysteria. Products and advertisements pumping their pumpkin spice into everything they possible can to sell their sub-par crap.
Every year, I am drowned by my friends’ juvenile jabs of pumpkin related crap flooding my email, social media and home. Yes, they intentionally bring be baskets of pumpkin based bullshits: candies, baked goods, cookies, mixes...you name it.
But it’s time to tell the truth...
...**psst...I don’t hate pumpkin**. I really don’t. Pumpkin Pie? Pretty good. Pumpkin rolls with the cream cheese filling? Pretty damn tasty.
But my aversion to pumpkin stems from the annual slavish worship of a, let’s be honest, C+ student at best. We live in a world where we can get seasonal fruit all year thanks to modern agriculture. Yet, pumpkin is only hauled out during the “traditional” fall season.
Why?
Because the corporate bastards at Big Pumpkin knows know they have only an “OK” product. And if it was out all year (aside from the frozen pumpkin pies you can get), they’d lose business quickly. People would become bored with it. Big Pumpkin knows that scarcity, mixed with absence, brings about fond nostalgia for even a midling flavor like pumpkin spice.
Thus, every year, Big Pumpkin trots out “pumpkin spice”, heralding it like a returning war hero. And we (well, you not me) welcome it (and enough ginger, sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon and allspice to make a horse diabetic) with open arms.
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I lost my leg to "the sugar"...but damn I love me my pumpkin spice latte!
Seriously. A 16oz Pumpkin Spice Latte, on average, is 360 calories (a small meal), 14 grams of fat, 8 grams of saturated fat, 52 grams of carbs and 49 grams of sugar. But that’s the nature of deserts, sweet and bad for you.
But I don’t care about how bad they are for people, we all have out vices. What I care about is how ubiquitous something without talent has become. Like a Kardashian, pick one...it doesn’t matter which. OK in small doses. Stupidly amusing but not threatening. But when left unchecked, it becomes an empire that that every Northface, Ugg booted girl and flip-flop, tank-top, plaid short wearing dude will be wasting their money on. Essentially The Foo Fighters of flavor choices. OK, but not really deserving of their hype.
We're famous for....???
You want to know what pumpkin flavor is? That completely average person, who is neither pretty, nor ugly. Neither big nor small. Pleasant, if mundane. But once you slap an English, Australian or Italian accent on them...an object of desire. Exotic. Something different than baseline products.
And just before you get sick of it, Big Pumpkin takes it away from you. They wait nine months and craps about another “exotic” kid for you to claim as your own. Because absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Pumpkin pie? Like I said, it’s pretty good. But it barely cracks the top 10 of pies. And without Cool Whip, it’s barely in the bottom 20. An apple pie, key lime or cheesecake will kick the piss out of pumpkin any day of the week. Pumpkin bread? Again OK, but a banana bread makes it their bitch. And to the people who sprinkle pumpkin into their cookies (ugh...snickerdoodles), there isn’t a pumpkin cookie on the planet which trumps a classic chocolate chip.
But I know this all falls on deaf ears. To most people I’m just another “hater”, trendily hating on their beloved fall flavor. With cries of “it’s festive!”, no one will listen.
That’s fine. Big Pumpkin knows it as well. I’ll sit knowing that pumpkins are for the occasional pie or baked good, jack-o-lantern carving, and for those sworn to kill Ichabod Crane.
September 4, 2016
Where is My Olympic Porn? -or- Is there Hope for the Next Generation?
The Olympics are over, or so I’m told. I don’t watch. To be completely honest, I’m not a big fan of the Olympics. Nothing against them. I just work during the day, catch the highlights online or at the gym, and most of the events aren’t that interesting to me. I mean, the ribbon twirl thing? Come on.
But, I do have the utmost respect for the Olympics and those who compete. The honor of testing yourself, striving to be the best in the world, to wear your nation’s flag around your shoulders in victory? That has to be a perfect moment in time.
Those people are TRUE athletes. American NFL, NBA, MLB etc could take a lesson from those young people and stop be overpaid crybabies.
...but seriously, what’s with that ribbon twirl thing?
But, every Olympics, winter and summer, I wait with baited breath for the nudes and/or sex tape to leak online. And each time, it never comes (no pun intended).
Oh, don’t look at me like that! Prude. Young, consenting adult, in their sexual peaks, in the 1% top physical prime of the world, boning, is something I am curious about. Do they enjoy themselves on the trampolines? Water Polo pool? Perhaps the track or on the gymnastic equipment? Is it possible to screw on the uneven bars? Do you think there is a tier system in all that Olympic humping? A who-hooks-up-with-who class system? Water Polo, Beach Volley Ball and Soccer at the top while power lifters, fencers, and that stupid Ribbon Twirl thing are at “the weirdo table” of the cafeteria? Or is it a free for all?
If you want to know why I have this weird fixation, blame Hope Solo.
In 2012, during an interview with ESPN, which was picked up by multiple outlets, she said that Olympic Village is a massive party with a LOT of sex. She said “I've seen people having sex right out in the open. On the grass, between buildings, people are getting down and dirty.”
*Swirls cognac whist wearing a smoking jacket* “Hmm, tell me more Ms. Solo.”
According to USAToday, 8,500 condoms were issued at the Seoul Olympics in 1988. In 1992 in Barcelona, there were 90,000 issued. In 2008, the Beijing China Olympics passed out 100,000 condoms.
But wait, it gets better.
The 2012 London Olympics had 150,000 condoms passed out AND 100,000 female condoms. And for this year, the 2016 Olympics had...
...450,000 condoms passed out.
450,000. THAT...is a lot of fucking.
When not competing, The Olympians stay in the Olympic Village. The feeding and housing area where no press or media are allowed. Which makes me wonder about the amazing security of Olympic Village. Do these kids have smart phones? Cameras? Do the chaperons turn a blind eye while simultaneously wiping the internet clean from all the “frolicking”?
There are zero sex tapes. Zero online leaks (outside of iPhone hacking). Zero Olympians with their Twitter accounts flashing nude selfies. How? With their proven libidos, how is this possible? I can understand the past, prior to the modern digital age. But these days, every device is linked to the internet. Every device has an HD camera. And people have been taking pictures of themselves doing it ever since photography was invented.
Bullshit sensational sites like Gawker and TMZ base their entire business model on click-bait tabloid journalism. They actively seek, and pay, for images like this. So, how is this possible? Outside of the tasteful nudes ESPN and Time Magazine show every year (easy to Google), there is a distinct lack of gold medal gonzo nudity.
Maybe...just maybe, these kids are showing self-restraint while competing. Against their normal, real-world generational peers, they realize that all their hard work and dedication to being the best at their sport would crumble if such a self-indulgent, youthful narcissistic display were to leak. Entire celebrity careers and empires like Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton, were built on the bedrock of a sex tape “leaking”.
Or, maybe, there is just a “What Happens in Olympic Village, STAYS in Olympic Village” mentality. It’s obvious there people are no strangers to scandal. Olympians have been busted for drugs, steroids, the occasional pipe to the knee.
I have to give those kids some credit, thus far, they keep their private business private. Well, as private as one can be “having sex right out in the open, on the grass, and between buildings”. 450,000 condoms worth of private business is nothing short of a record.
So, come on Olympic young folk. Let’s get that condom count up to 500,000! Remember, you’re fucking not just for yourself, but for your respective countries! Think of the glory! Think of the nations you represent! Think of all the...chaffing? Seriously, be generous and considerate with your partners. Use lube. 450,000 times worth.
...except you ribbon twirling people. Your life, and “sport” is a sham and you know it.
