Boozer's Prayer (by Amelia Hitchcock)

I stole this off my lovely friend Amelia's FB page because I thought it was cute ;)

My version of the lords prayer, for drinking times:

Our Lady of Perpetual Fuck Ups,
Screw ups be thy game,
Thy stupidity stuns,
thou art so dumb,
it shocks, even amazes!
give us this day our dose of despair,
and forgive us our relapses,
as we forgive those who slapses us,
save us from the alluring vial,
And deliver us from cheap vodka,
for thine is the chaos,
the ridicule,
and excuses.
whenever whatever,
the end!

Teh Intenets, Magical Land ov Mysteries and Wunders....

I'm on a freakin' safari here... ;)

And Now, For Your Viewing Pleasure...

Fuck You, Penguin describes itself as a blog where people "tell cute animals what's what." And with 8,238 followers (so far), it's one of the best and most popular blogs I've come across... it's pretty damn funny.

Here's a selection of some of the quotes from the Orca/Killer Whale page (which you can find here):

"I get it, Whale, you're busy. I've only been on this FUCKING BOAT for three and a half hours waiting for you, and the only thing I've seen so far is my lunch from earlier. It's not like you spend your entire goddamn life in the ocean, so I see why you would only come up for basically a split second. Personally, if someone was going to all this trouble specifically to see me, I would take time out of my BUSY ASS SCHEDULE to at least stop by the boat and make some small talk, maybe have some salmon. But I understand, Whale, places to go, 500 pounds of food to eat. I'll be fine. The real question here, Whale, is will you be fine? Can you really live with yourself? Maybe you need to make a change."


Jennifer said...
Whales have an enlarged ego. Ever since "Free Willy" they think they're the shit. Especially those orca bastards. Fuck orcas. They are so fucking vein. They should spend a day in a sperm whale's shoes and see how it feels to be ugly bastards.


RandyG said...
Whales are selfish manipulative bastards...acting all extinct, like oooooh save me, save me!

Fuck you whale.


The Rougman said...
What sort of self respecting mammal drinks water that fish have shat in?

You ain't all that, Orca. Bite me.


Dunesdreamer said...
Wait a minute...what's that I see in the background? A Japanese tuna boat?

Say good-fucking night, Gracie.


Ryan said...
What I'd like to know is where the fuck this DOLPHIN gets off calling itself a WHALE in the first place. A toothy cetacean does not a whale make. Asshole.


Jaywalker said...
Also, call that a "song"? I don't fucking think so. My ears are bleeding. Who do you think you are, whale? Britney fucking Spears?
I'm not angry. I'm just so damn disappointed.

Fishy... For Tom

Have any of you played this? I found out about it through a review over at http://awesomerthanthou.blogspot.com/009/11/game-review-fishy.html

It's addictive, and fun!! The game itself can be found at http://www.freeonlinegames.com/fun-games/fishy.html

Too True...

Massey is The Sh*t. SRSLY.

(Thanks to Jeff's anonymous mate for the image)

WKUK Black Doctor

More Whitest Kids You Know hilarity :)

Retrieved from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ma9i23kFVrI

WKUK Backseat

Haha, thanks Yannick ;)

Retrieved from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9Zls2AReVI&feature=related

Nightmare Fuel

Nightmare Fuel [...] means those things that scared the pants off you as a kid, though they weren't meant to. It's something that was meant to amuse, entertain, or be only slightly scary to the audience; but in execution, they're so trauma-inducing that they may cause adults to void themselves in terror [...] Things that are supposed to scare the pants off you fall under High Octane Nightmare Fuel.

- Tv Tropes Wiki



Made by Flameknight7, Retrieved from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-db9qgn99o

Weep, Weep For Future Generations...

Here's a short list of some of my favourite quotes from the atrociously spelt and narrated Harry Potter fan-fic 'My Immortal' by Tara 'Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way.' You can find the full hilarious story at http://myimmortalrehost.webs.com/chapters122.htm Just for a bit of context, Ebony/Enoby/Eboby is a vampire goth in Slytherin House at Hogwarts, her bisexual vampire goth boyfriend is Draco/Drak/Darko Malfoy, Harry Potter has changed his name to Vampire and... yes, he's a bisexual vampire goth... noticing a trend? A good third of the story is actually incredibly detailed descriptions of vitually indistinguishable black outfits and identical emo concerts, there's sex, drugs, murder and bad grammar. My Immortal also has perhaps the biggest fanbase of any internet fan-fic - nobody can quite decide if it's serious or a vicious parody. So without further ado (and without any editing)....

Dumbledore: "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU MOTHERFUKERS!"

Snake and Loopin were in da middle of da empty hall, doin it, and Dobby was watching!

"STOP IT NOW YOU HORNY SIMPLETONS!" shouted Professor McGoggle who was watching us and so was everyone else.

"I MAY BE A HOGWARTS STUDENT"" Hargirid paused angrily. "BUT I AM ALSO A SATANIST!"

"Hey bitch you look kawaii."

"The Dark Lord shall kill all of you. Then you must submit to him!!!!" Snape ejaculated menacingly. "You fucking preppy fags!" Serious shouted angrily.

"Volfemort has him bondage!"

"You fucking bustard!" yelled Draco at Vampire. "I want to shit next to her!1"

"VAMPIRE POTTER, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" I yelled.

"Why did you do such a thing, you mediocre dunces?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"YOU ARE NOT FIT TO BE THE PRINCIPAL ANY LONGER!" yelled Rumbridge. "YOU ARE TOO OLD AND YOUR ALZHEIMERS IS DANGEROUS! YOU MUST RETRY OR VOLDEMORT WILL KILL YOUR STUDENTS!"

"CUM NOW!1!" Preacher McGongel yielded. We did guiltily.

"Suddenly an idea I had. I clozd my eyes and using my vampire powers I sent a telepathetic massage to Drako and Vampire so they would destruct Snape."

"THE BARK LORD IS PLANNING TO KILL THE STUDENTS!" yelled Cornelia Fudge.

"Crosio!" I shited pointing my wound. Snoop scremed and started running around da room screming.

"OMFS, letz have a groop kutting session!11" said Profesor Trevolry.

A chapter after Loopin "masticates" outside of Enoby's window, Tara took a second stab at it: "You saved me from getting a Paris Hilton p- video made from your shower scene and being vued by Snap and Loopin." Who MASTABATED (c is dat speld rong) to it he added silently.

"Abra Kedavra!" he yelled at Snape and Loopin pointing his womb.

"Noooooo!11" she screamed. All the preps in da theater screamed but everyone else crapped koz Satan and I loked so cute 2gether.

I smelled happily.

"Hey haz aneone fuking seen Draco?" I asked gothikally.
"No Draco told me he wood be watching Hoes of Wax." said Profesor Trevolry.

Dracola used to be called Navel but it tuned out dat he was kidnapped at birth and his real family were vampires. They dyed in a car crash.

"Rid my sight you despicable preps!"

Snoop laughed meanly. He polled down his pants. I gasped- there was a Dork Mark on his you-know-wut!11!

"But it was to late. I knew what I herd. I ran to the bathroom angrily, cring. Draco banged on the door. I whipped and whepped as my blody eyeliner streammed down my cheeks and made cool tears down my feces like Benji in the video for Girls and Bois (raven that is soo our video!). I TOOOK OUT A CIGARETE END STARTED TO smoke pot."

"I laffed statistically."

"We went sexily to Potionz class. But Snap wasn't there. Instead there was…………………………………………Cornelio Fuck!11111"

"“OMFG!!! Im back in Tim again!!!!111” I screamed loudly."
"“Oh my fukking god!!!! Voldimort! Voldimort!” screamed Hedwig as his glock touched Voldemort’s."

"then suddenlyn………………. the floor opened. “OMFG NO I SCEAMED AS I FEEL DOWN. everyone looked At ME weirdly.”"

All Rise

By DannyR

All rise.
Court is now in session.
Thank you, let’s hear from the Prosecution.
Thank you, Your Honour, Jury Members,
And now, ladies and gentle-men
Are you all paying attention?
I present for your inspection
The proof of this man’s transgression.
You may all remember,
When last we were in session
We heard from the Defendant
The ludicrous suggestion
That the cause of his aggression
Was sexual repression,
Spousal rejection,
The want of real respect and
A dearth of affection.
Be not fooled, it is deception,
As a lie, it is Perfection,
It obscures the evidence and
Seems a suitable defence. But
I beg you to reject it,
Don’t be fooled by his expression!
For he may seem penitent and
Resigned to his correction,
But he is hardly repentant,
I argue it was his intention
All along to get arrested
To escape his wife’s revenge for
Hiding all her underwear and
Setting fire to her hair. If
It please you, you should send him
Not to jail but to his bedroom
Without police protection
Where his wife may ease her tension
With a suitable reception;
And inflict on him the sentence, I’d
Suggest she takes a hair-pin
And inserts it up his rectum –
Yes thank you, Counsel for the Prosecution
But I'll decide the restitution.
Of course sir, it was only a suggestion.
But I have a lot invested
In seeing that man there divested
Of his smug self-assurances,
You see sir, he is my ex and
I’ve a personal vendetta,
I’d love to see him get a
Public flogging or even better
Brand him with a scarlet letter –
Yes, thank you Counsel, but I’ve said that
I’ll be the one to choose the sentence. Your
History is not pertinent,
In fact it’s a Conflict of Interest and
I think I'll Hold you in Contempt –
Your Honour, please I beg you,
I really do respect you
I apologise and guess I’ll
Have to step down from the bench –
Now, now, I see you’ve learned your lesson,
Counsel, is your case presented?
Aye the Prosecution rests, sir.
Then I think we’ll take a break here and
Let’s all go for a beer. We’ll
Adjourn ‘til, say, eleven?
Good.
All rise.

Possibly The Worst Music Video Ever

Hahahaha!!!

What is... Flash Fiction?

Mitchell Warren describes Flash Fiction as “short, funny and allowed only so much pathos before the word count is up. Like a stand-up comic graduating from an hour-long show to an eight-minute set on a late night talk show, flash fiction is a ceremonious demotion to professional writing. Readers of flash fiction are demanding, overly critical, and of course, are only humbly asking to be entertained.”

I love this stuff… there’s some real gems. But for all the ones that make you laugh, cry or blanch in horror, there a ten that just don’t quite succeed. I’ve tried a couple of times but can’t get do it, it takes more talent than I’ve got :)

So here’s some fun examples…

The first two are by Giles Hobbs and can be found at http://www.mystorypage.com/flashfiction_one_hundred_words.html


The Sale (only 100 words!!)

"Nice car! Can I buy it?” He asked.
“Now?” I say.
“Now, including everything in it. I’ll pay you double what it’s worth.”
I look around the car, finding nothing of real value.
“OK” I say, “but I need to get home first.”
He follows me home and I sign a hasty contract whilst sat in the driver’s seat.
Inside my house my dog starts barking as I hand back the contract.
In his hand the man holds a studded dog collar.
“My dog wasn’t in the car!” I protest.
“Your dog wasn’t.” he says and reaches for my throat.


Wild Horses (only 100 words!!)

When the hooves strike and splinter your front door with a crash, your body will freeze. The familiar clip-clop, out of place on your stairs, will seem less benign than you remember. Then near silence, hooves muffled by carpet as you wait, unsure if you’re dreaming, terrified, until the large equine head finally peers around your bedroom door. “What did I ever do to you?” A stupid question. Will you really expect an answer? No, because you will know well before it rears it’s hooves above your head, you will know that this horse is in no mood for talking.


Now here’s three by Hugh Cook, beginning with this nasty little horror…

Waiting for the Americans

My wife doesn't like it when I play attack helicopters, though it's a perfectly harmless game. The baby doesn't mind being levitated through the air to the accompaniment of "budda-budda-budda" chopper noises. But I've been told to stop.
So we play "Waiting for the Americans" instead. This is a very quiet game. Your wife may not even be aware that you're playing it. All it involves is a father. Sitting quietly. In a corner. With his daughter. Waiting. For the Americans.
But the Americans do not come, and it's been another long hot month, and the thunder on the horizon is neither war nor rain, merely the discontentment of the sky. One month more, and I still have my wife and baby daughter.
Well. Really. Do I need to wait for the Americans? After all, I have a hammer. And a shovel. And two burlap sacks. And that, I think, is all I really need.


Under the Alien Yoke

When the aliens arrived on planet Earth, one of the first things they did was to ban ice hockey. The aliens were the Glish Galzish, a remorseless race of logicians who were in the process of conquering the known universe in the name of Rational Ethics.
"No ice hockey," they said. "No football. No beer. Everyone in bed by eleven at night, please."
The inevitable result? Revolution. No way, ultimately, to thwart those dreams of ice hockey, of sharpened blades, of blood glistening on the glittering ice. The revolutionaries used a stolen alien space drive to trigger a massive solar eruption which killed ninety per cent of the human race, but effectively threw the Glish Galzish off balance and allowed the revolutionaries to triumph.
Now the invincible starships of the Fans of Sport are fanning out from planet Earth, and the appalled civilizations of the ethicalized are falling before them, unable to contend against the true barbarians -- against the horror, the horror.


Meeting My Agent

So we get together in this restaurant in the World Trade Center, and Ronnie gives me the bad news about the proposal.
"No," says Ronnie.
Just like that. Flat no.
"Why?" I say.
Thinking to myself: I need the advance, you bastard!
"It's just not credible," said Ronnie. "They out the spy? For, like ... what's the word? Pique?"
"Yeah," I say. "It's refreshing, original."
"No," says Ronnie. "It's not original. It's nutso. The government doesn't out its own spies. We don't betray our own side, not without, you know, motivation. Someone sells out for a million bucks, something like that."
"But that's what makes this so original," I say. "I've created unique monsters. They've disconnected from ... what can I call it? The protocols of necessity, shall we say. Make sense?"
"No," says Ronnie. "It doesn't."
"The smallest thing," I persist. "The smallest thing, they'll set it up so people are killed, tortured, thrown in jail ... they out her, it's headline news, her contacts get rounded up -"
"Yeah, yeah, sticks in orifices," says Ronnie, impatiently, cutting me off. "That's your problem. You're just wacko. You're just too much into this stuff. I mean, this is one sick fantasy. People getting disappeared, beaten up, deported off to these, these - "
"Torture camps. The overseas torture camps."
"Yeah, that. And the bit about the guy with the gunshot wounds ...."
"That's just how I see it," I protest. "You know my ethos."
"Yeah, yeah," says Ronnie. "The reality thing. But you gotta accept, this isn't reality, this is just, like I said, just -"
"My demented imagination."
"Yeah, that."
And, five minutes later, Ronnie is gone. Leaving me with the bill for the dead duck and the oyster shells. Alone in the restaurant, looking out at the view of the blue sky and an airplane.


…and to finish off, here’s two by Jared Axelrod…


Invaded

We think large. We may be small creatures to you, but our lives extend far beyond the miniscule moments you possess. We think large, and we think long.
Have you ever looked at a mosquito, closely? It’s a strange shape, all hunched over and crooked. Even by your insect standards, it is a bizarre creature. And you never realized. It’s one of the few insects that survive your winters. Did you ever wonder why?
It was us, of course. We didn’t have to do much; it was already such a glorious creature. And what with that penetrating…what’s the word? Oh, there it is. Proboscis. Lovely word. Proboscis. What with that proboscis, we had the perfect conveyance.
Naturally, you were still too great in number, so a certain degree of population destruction, a bit of “shock and awe,” if you will, was necessary. What was it you called it? Malaria? How…quaint. If the boys in the infantry don’t already know what you call them, I’ll have to tell them. Sounds like a girl you used to have sex with, doesn’t it? “I just met a girl named Malaria…” The things you people think up.
And all this time, you blamed the mosquitoes! Not totally, I see. You called them “carriers.” Too true. What does that make you then, I wonder?
I do apologize for all the mucous that clogged your throat and sinuses, the aching of your muscles, your general weakness for the past few days. I can see that you thought it was a just a cold, but I feel the need to own up. We’ve become so close, after all. It was me. Your nervous system is surprisingly hard to operate.
Tell you what, before we meet up with the rest of the invasion fleet, let’s go find a girl that arouses you and have sex with it. First one we find, huh? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, boy?
Look, I’m trying to be nice, here. I don’t have to be.
After all, your world is ours. From the first time you coughed, you had already lost.


How Much Will You Take?

With each stroke of the knife, I knew he loved me.
It started with my nipples, him telling me how much he loved me and how sexy I would look without them. He touched my face as he did it, cooing and kissing my forehead and telling me how much he loved me. He kissed away every one of my tears and held me within his powerful arms as I bled.
For six weeks there was no mention of knives. My heart leapt every time he looked at me, a joy and longing in his eyes. The six weeks after I gave up my nipples were quite possibly the happiest of my entire life.
But the seventh and eighth and ninth passed, and he grew distant, moody. He would spend nights away from the house and return drunken and grumbling. One night, I asked what was wrong, and what I could do to help him.
And so the knives came out again.
He shaved my head, including my eyebrows that night. Soon after, all of my hair from my body was removed through his amateur electrolysis. He took off my nose with one clean slice and, using a device I didn’t recognize, sealed up the wound and made it smooth to the touch, as if nothing had ever been there. I could only breathe through my mouth, and told him so, panicking. He just smiled, kissed the smoothness in the center of my face, and told me I was beautiful.
My toes and fingers took nearly two months, one joint at a time. He took similar relish with each of my teeth. He said he was sad when he went for my crotch, but I saw how happy his eyes were and how his hands shook with arousal as he smoothed out my groin.
He used that same device to seal off my sockets after he cut out my eyes. He also used it to fuse my ass cheeks, and later, my mouth leaving only a small hole in each case. I heard him laugh and tell me how sexy I looked. He kissed me all over, and made jokes about how easy it would now be to confuse my two ends. He sounded so happy.
One night -- or what I assumed was night, at the very least -- he drew a heart on my smooth chest with his finger. He told me it meant “I love you.” Then he cut off my ears.
Between long stretches of nothing, I would suck vitamin-enriched water from a straw he would press against lips and feel his strong fingers all over what was left of my naked body. I was too weak to react physically, but I reveled in his touch and the way traced that heart on my chest over and over. My life was spent this way, waiting for these moments.
It is difficult to love a being from another planet, but there are sacrifices to be made in every relationship. And now my alien lover will never leave me.

Hitler Isn't Happy...

Lovingly pilfered from http://www.scifiscoop.com/news/hitler-isnt-happy-with-avatar/

Chess

Most Freaky Awesome Thing I've Ever Seen

Coming to you from Awesomer Than Thou

Bloggity Blog

Elusive...

From Dump.com

Squicked

squick
1. Noun. The physical sense of repulsion upon encountering a concept or situation one finds disgusting.
2. Noun. A situation or concept which engenders this reaction.
3. Verb, transitive. To cause someone to have this reaction.
4. Verb, intransitive. To experience this reaction.

The concept of the "squick" differs from the concept of "disgust" in that "squick" refers purely to the physical sensation of repulsion, and does not imply a moral component.

Stating that something is "disgusting" implies a judgement that it is bad or wrong. Stating that something "squicks you" is merely an observation of your reaction to it, but does not imply a judgement that such a thing is universally wrong.

DO NOT WATCH THE FOLLOWING VIDEO IF YOU ARE EASILY SQUICKED!! I POST IT MERELY FOR HILARITY'S SAKE!!



Retrieved from http://www.somegreybloke.com/

Unwellness

So...

I've been a bit unwell this last week and I really haven't got the energy or brainpower to come up with anything interesting to say. Consequently, I'm settling for posting these vids from somegreybloke.com ...

Two And A Half Hours I Won't Ever Get Back...

Ok so tonight I went and saw Transformers 2: Revenge Of The Fallen, knowing full-well that it would be mindless trash, having seen the other terrible films that make up Director Michael Bay's life work, including its predecessor, Transformers. At the end, I found myself quite unable to articulate my feelings on the movie I'd just seen, so and so when I got home I perused the Interwebs to find something, ANYTHING, that might get the verbage going again, my brain having been for all intents and purposes liquified by the seemingly endless explosions and gunfire I'd witnessed. Below, I've copied and pasted the two reviews that I feel come closest to capturing the essence of this cinematic abortion...

The Empire Strikes Out
Retrieved 02/07/09 from http://www.flickfilosopher.com/blog/2009/06/062309transformers_revenge_of_the_fa.html

I’m certain that someday it will be acknowledged that Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is like the most totally awesome artifact ever of the end of the American empire. It’s so us, a preposterously perfect reflection of who we are: loud, obnoxious, sexist, racist, juvenile, unthinking, visceral, and violent... and in love with ourselves for it. And Michael Bay is the high priest of our self-engrossment. It’s not enough that we like blowing shit up: the blowing shit up must be transubstantiated into something religious by having, say, a ridiculously gorgeous girl humping a motorcycle, her face aglow in the golden hour of sunset as she watches the shit get blown up, her glossy lips parted just a little in orgasmic joy.

What we have right here is the Easter Island statue of our legacy. People 1,000 years from now will gaze at Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen in wonder and mystery and marvel how we just couldn’t see. How could we not see?

I liked the first Transformers, two summers ago. It worked because it pretended to absolutely nothing, aspired to absolutely nothing beyond being a big dumb loud brainless advertisement for toys. Unlike every other propagandistic Michael Bay film, which all revel in their jingoism about justice or patriotism or heroism, Transformers felt no need to bother. If only Hollywood could have left well enough alone.

Of course, in Hollywood, “well enough alone” means you wear out a franchise with 12 movies, until even the fanboys are complaining that it’s stupid and a budget-bloated sequel finally bankrupts the studio. We’re nowhere near that, though. Transformers 3 is coming soon to a theater near you, you may rest assured of that.

I was ready for Revenge to be as agreeably inconsequential as the first film, and I was perfectly happy to be enjoying that it’s so completely fuckin’ bonkers from the get-go, when we discover that the alien robot things have been on Earth from 17,000 BC, when they apparently fought off Stargate’s Goa’uld or something for the right to pick on the poor uncivilized cavepeople natives. But then I got lost beyond that, for -- unlike the first movie -- this one either assumes that you’re steeped in the laughable mythos that Hasbro invented for its toys, or else screenwriters Ehren Kruger (The Brothers Grimm, The Skeleton Key) and the team of Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (Star Trek, Mission: Impossible III) invented a new laughable mythos. I’m not an eight-year-old boy, and I wasn’t in the 1980s either, so I don’t know which is which.

It’s something to do with an ancient bloodfeud between the good robots (the Autobots) and the bad robots (the Decepticons). You can tell which are the good robots -- they have blue eyes and are nice and round and shiny and look like Japanese motorcycles or something Paul Walker drove in Fast & Furious or gas-guzzling, all-American pickup trucks manufactured by companies now in bankruptcy -- and you can tell which are the bad robots: they’re very pointy and have red eyes. Beyond that, there’s a lot of high-falutin’ about wrongs done eons ago and such: it’s impossible to understand 90 percent of the Transformers’ dialogue, which is probably a blessing, because the other 10 percent sounds like Gandalf explaining to Frodo about the Ring, or Darth Vader grumbling about the damn Jedi Knights, but without the gravitas of either.

Apparently the good robots have discovered that Shia LaBeouf is Indiana Jones’s kid, because they send him on a mission to find an ancient doohickey from 17,000 BC in the North African desert. And luckily his superhot girlfriend (Megan Fox: How to Lose Friends and Alienate People) is along to gape in ecstatic joy at stuff blowing up and blue-eyed robots and red-eyed robots beating one another up over the ancient whatchamacallit, which is supposed to have the power to do something-or-other.

To call Revenge incoherent and bloated is to put it kindly. To say that Michael Bay fetishizes slow-motion and we still can’t see what the hell is happening the half the time is probably something he’d take as a compliment. But eventually I got so bored -- for these two and a half hours feel much, much longer than the same two and a half hours the first movie consumed -- that I lost track of the number of testicle jokes and taser jokes that flew by. The target audience will be pleased to know, perhaps, that yes: one joke combines testicles and tasers. It’s like the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of frat-boy humor.

But it’s all good, because, you see, even though a Decepticon snatches the American flag from the Brooklyn Bridge as a show of contempt for us puny humans, it’s back later. America rules! Take that, Decepticons!

Welcome to Easter Island.

Viewed at a semi-public screening with an audience of critics and ordinary moviegoers. Rated PG-13 for intense sequences of sci-fi action violence, language, some crude and sexual material, and brief drug material.


Small Penis Humilation
- by Dustin Rowles
Retrieved 02/07/09 from http://www.pajiba.com/film_reviews/transformers-revenge-of-the-fallen-review.php

I realize I’m stating the obvious here, but it bears elucidation in light of this review because it’s the single biggest driving force behind Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. Michael Bay has a profoundly tiny dick. The man has a diminutive dangler — what’s known in medical circles as a micro-penis (less than 2.75 inches erect). And rather than seek psychotherapy for his small penis humilation, Mr. Bay deals with his itty-bitty anxieties by hiding behind his work. It’s classic overcompensation; all the symptoms are manifested in his person — long hair, leather jackets, sports cars — but none more evident than his pursuit of aggrandizement in Revenge of the Fallen. His desire to embiggen Transformers II over its predecessor — to make bigger in power, to enlarge our conceptions — is clearly an attempt to conceal his sexual inadequacy.

It’s sad, really. Mr. Bay has no ability to drive, thrust, shove or plunge. All he has in his arsenal is a malevolently irritating poke delivered with a toothsome sneer, the flick of his mullet, and a decidedly timorous and almost hopeful, “Do you like that, baby?” And so Mr. Bay takes these frustrations out in his films, and in Revenge of the Fallen his eagerness gets the best of him. It’s easy to suggest that the two-and-a-half hour series of explosions, cheesy toddler one-liners, and cacophonous, bass-heavy noises is all part of an ongoing big-dick swinging contest Mr. Bay has with McG, but if you look closer, you’ll see what’s really at play here. Revenge of the Fallen is little more than a series of explosions transposed with shots of Megan Fox’s cleavage and/or ass. Mr. Bay sees what he cannot have in the bedroom, and out of those phallic frustrations, he obliterates everything in his wake like a petulant little child who destroys the contents of his toy chest because he’s been denied an ice cream cone. Those Transformers are his toys; the big screen is his bedroom; and sexual competence is the ice cream cone that will forever elude him.

Serial killers are often associated with small-penis syndrome and though there may be little veracity in that theory, it’s apparent that Michael Bay shares the same hedonistic soullessness of a Ted Bundy or Leonard Lake. There’s not an ounce of life in the Fallen’s script. But there is little denying that the man knows how to film an action sequence — 44 years of practice borne out of sexual insufficiency will make a person an expert. In Revenge of the Fallen, Bay sticks to what he knows, barely capable of poking his spectacle into a narrative framework. It’s a battle of good and evil. Autobots vs. Decepticons. Megatron is pulled from the sea to assist the original Decepticon, Fallen (a metaphor for Lucifer? No: For Bay’s limp junk). Fallen wants avenge an ancient slight against the planet Earth by finding an instrument hidden in a monstrous Egyptian obelisk that will allow him to stab out the sun (there’s some metaphorical wish fulfillment for you).

Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) spends all of one day in college, where he is attacked by a human-shaped Decepticon (Isabel Lucas) with a phallic tail, before he is recruited by Optimus Prime to act as an ambassador between the Autobots and the United States military, which has an uneasy relationship with the Transformers. That relationship becomes moot, however, when Fallen and the other Decepticons invade Earth in search of that sun-diffusing instrument, which Sam — along with the assistance of Megan Fox’s low-cut blouses and all powerful slo-mo cleavage — has to prevent while also retrieving a few shards and something called the Matrix of Leadership.

That’s essentially the gist of the nonsensical, incoherent, illogical ass-brained plot, and even the six-and-a-half minutes of story seems to get in the way of the other 144 minutes of shit blowing up. There are, of course, even more Transformers in the sequel, which only means it’s even more difficult to tell what’s going on, who is on whose side, and who is battling whom, which becomes particularly problematic near the end where everything is also obscured by a storm of sand.

John Turturro brings further indignity upon his career by appearing as a former government agent turned conspiracy theorist; it’s hard to say what the fuck he was doing in this movie — both Turturro and his character — except to bring shame on his family. Megan Fox is in a perpetual state of glisten and never stops pouting her lips; meanwhile, Shia LaBeouf continues his fast-talking douchenut ways. Rainn Wilson has an incredibly brief two minutes as a college prof — it’s the best two minutes of the entire movie, and the possibility he might return at the end of the film was the only thing that kept me in my seat. I’ll save you the trouble: He does not. [Actually... if the reviewer had stayed on to watch the credits for a few minutes - tedious as it was - he would have seen that this professor comes back for an utterly redundant and unfunny minute-long final scene - DR]

In addition to Fallen, there are a few other new Transformers, including a sand-sucking monstrosity that bites the tip off an ancient Egyptian pyramid (ouch); a senior citizen fighter-plane Decipticon who switches allegiances; a few mini-Transformers; and Mudflap and Skids, the Jar Jar African-American racial caricatures (gold tooth, hip-hop lovin’, bad slang, can’t read) of Transformers, who really are offensive, though it’s not too surprising: Racists have notoriously small dicks.

Lookit: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is Bush League, and I mean that in a purely political sense. It’s chest-thumping, racially-insensitive, sexually provocative redmeat bullshit designed to get needle dicks hard. And that’s fine, if you’re a hormone-addled pubescent Beavis who gets his rocks off on blowing up frogs. But you know that, and you don’t need a review to tell you that Revenge of the Fallen is an epic shit storm so bad you’ll wish you were watching Wolverine. And for a lot of you, that knowledge isn’t going to prevent you from seeing Transformers II, and I won’t begrudge you that. Your morbid curiosity may get the best of you. The confluence of your skepticism of critics, your overwhelming childhood nostalgia, or your desire to see just how awful it is may compel you into the theater. That’s cool — that’s what a manipulative, $100 million marketing campaign will do. But you’ll probably walk out of the theater fuming, itching to murder the one guy in the theater who attempted to start an ovation every time Optimus Prime appeared onscreen (he was met with a round of blank what-the-fuck stares by a sold-out crowd).

But even if you do help to contribute to the $150 million Revenge of the Fallen is likely to gross over the next five days, you can rest easy knowing that, no matter how much money Michael Bay has in his bank account or how many bloated, corporately jingoistic films that he makes, all he has to show for it is an estate that’s the size of Delaware and a babydick the size of your little toe. It’s small consolation.

Dustin Rowles is the publisher of Pajiba. He hides his small penis behind petty insults and personal attacks on Hollywood directors.