Tom Hooper and The King’s Speech robbed David Fincher and the much more deserving The Social Network last night at the Eighty-bajillionth Academy Awards. What a bunch of suckers. You’d think of all people, those crotchety old Academy members would remember a little something called THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. I think someone needs to hire Phil Anselmo to go door to door screaming REVOLUTION IS MY NAME! in their old faces.
Congratulations on your Oscar win
Not only that, the Brits are notorious closet Nazi sympathizers. Check out this pic of Edward VIII yucking it up with the Fuhrer. And if this sketchy article I found on the internet is to be believed, King George VI may actually be Hitler’s secret half brother!
Which I guess is only slightly more palatable to stuffy white people than Eminem or Three 6 Mafia. It’s hard to believe the same people who voted for marble-mouth Randy Newman awarded Trent Reznor a statue as well. This is the guy who made the pseudo snuff film Broken and turned the phrase, I want to fuck you like an animal into a pop hook. Blackie Lawless would be proud, but Alfred Newman (Randy’s uncle) is rolling in his grave. In a top hat and tails.
Click through for the hot monkey digit on lady chest action
And who can blame them? Jessica Lange was a hottie-potottie back in the day. Like a January Jones that could actually act. If I had something as big and black as a giant ape’s finger, I’d massage her with it, too.
That doesn’t mean it’s not hard to watch, though. For a PG rated film, the 1976 remake of King Kong has some seriously creepy sexuality on display. The utterly human look of lust on the beast’s face as he tries to take off Jessica Lange’s top is cringe inducing. It’s like seeing your dad give your mom sex face.
And- correct me if I’m wrong, here- but it seems to me that Ms. Lange enjoys it very much when Kong dries her off with his hot monkey breath. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that Jessica Lange has taken her love of gigantic horny apes a little too far. I know there is an element of Stockholm syndrome at play here, but still. She could exhibit a modicum of self respect.
As regular human men, this is competition we just don’t need. We already have enough primate problems considering monkeys with human faces want to suckle our women. Personally, I blame Dino De Laurentiis. This is obviously that horny old Italian’s twisted fantasy (may he rest in piece.) He will forever be remembered as the guy who gave us the hottest non-pornographic interspecies grope-down this side of La Bete.
Jim Cameron ain't got nothin' on me!
And they did it more than 15 years before those crafty bastards in Hollywood! Take that, liberal Jew media! From his cold, dark grave (or a sunny beach in Argentina,) Hitler stabs at thee!
Alright, maybe the Nazis didn’t invent 3D (stereoscopic film dates back as far as the 1890′s) but according to Variety, they perfected it. And you know what else? That Australian guy who directed Howling III: The Marsupials is gonna put it in a documentary. You can’t make this shit up. To the quotemobile!
“The films are shot on 35mm — apparently with a prism in front of two lenses…”
“They were made… for Goebbels’ propaganda ministry and referred to as ‘raum film’ — or space film — which may be why no one ever realized they were 3D.”
One film, a musical… entitled “So Real You Can Touch It” features close up shots of sizzling bratwurst on a barbecue; the other “Six Girls Roll into Weekend” has what may be UFA studio starlets living it up.
Brilliant. Starlets slutting it up and phallic imagery. Nice to see the Nazis weren’t above a good dick joke. The quality of the films is described as “fantastic,” which leads me to believe James Cameron went back in time and gave them the technology in an attempt to actually become “King of the World.” For all we know there is an alternate future out there where Hitler and Jim are comically mismatched studio heads who control the world but can’t agree on what kind of movies to make.
Posted in Film, History
Tagged 3D, 3D Glasses, Australia, Avatar, Goebbels, Hitler, Howling III, James Cameron, Jew Media, Nazis, Philippe Mora, Propaganda, The Marsupials, Where Brooklyn At?
Those crafty Brits over at Radioheadquarters have just announced the details of long-player numero ocho, which will be released like a digital Kraken this Saturday, February 19th, in the year of our Lord, 2011. I don’t have time to rehash them, so click HERE for details.
What I do have time for are some ruminations on the title and its creepy artwork. King of Limbs is apparently a thousand year-old tree that inhabits Savernake Forest, which is in close proximity to the house the band recorded In Rainbows in. It is also a term referenced in the Koran (those wacky liberal musicians!)
But the true King of Limbs is older than any future paper or book of fairy tales. He’s been prowling the murky depths for millions of years, biding his time- and now’s his time to shine! That’s right, I’m talking about a little cephalopod who goes by the name of Octopus vulgaris. No one has more limbs than that motherfucker! And Radiohead knows it, because guess who graces the cover of the new album in all their majestic glory? Not Allah or some goddamn tree, but your garden variety ghost octopus, commonly referred to as a ghoctopus. Long live the king!
Huff some paint and ride the rails over to ChuckPalahniuk.net, where you can check out my review of Grace Krilanovich’s Burroughsian nightmare, The Orange Eats Creeps. You’ll be happy to know that, although greatly influenced by the man, Krilanovich doesn’t seem to share Burroughs’ fetish for sodomizing young boys hanging by their neck. Enjoy!
The Orange Eats Creeps is a surreal coming of age horror story, a drug-fueled rape fantasy threatening to overtake reality. Almost every sentence is a half-remembered dream of suppressed emotion, which makes summarizing the narrative a difficult endeavor. The synopsis on the jacket puts it best- a girl with drug induced ESP… searches for her disappeared foster sister along “The Highway That Eats People.” Throw in some comparisons to Twin Peaks and a serial killer named Dactyl and you’ve got yourself an interested me
Best Tagline Ever
Halle Berry says it point blank … her daughter is Black — a direct message to her ex Gabriel Aubry who, according to sources, “went nuts” anytime someone called Nahla Black.
This kid’s not gonna need therapy.
They say the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice, but isn’t Halle Berry half white? Not only that, the child’s father is white, so technically that kid is only 1/4 black. That’s why Catwoman is breaking out the ole one drop race rule, which, if I’m not mistaken, was actually used as a form of social oppression back in the day. I guess she’s taking it back.
If that doesn’t work, there’s always the old Jewish way of thinking- that if your mother’s vagina was Jewish, you are automatically a Jew. That way the kid can spend its entire life trying to escape the gaping maw of its mother’s womb.
But why limit this poor child, forcing it to be either white or black? Everyone knows that half-breeds get all the attention. Look at Vin Diesel. There’s a completely untalented person with the best of both worlds. Who cares what the fuck he is? He’s making an ass-bucket of money. I’d worry less about this kid’s race and more about the fact that its father is named after a member of The Pussycat Dolls.
Posted in African American, Celebrity Shit Heads, Film, Pregnancy, Race Relations, Sociology
Tagged Catwoman, Gabrielle Aubry, Halle Berry, My Baby Is Black, Nahla Berry, One Drop Rule, Pussycat Dolls, Vin Diesel
Props to whoever took it (Fair use! Fair use!) If anyone complains, I may have to retain the counsel of my most recent interview subject- Donald C. Farber, Esquire. You may not be familiar with his name, but you should be. He only represents a little author by the name of Kurt Vonnegut, maybe you’ve heard of him?
Not only was he Kurt’s agent and business manager, he was also one of his closest friends. So in lieu of getting John Edwards to help conduct an interview from beyond the grave, this is the next best thing to talking to Kurt. The full interview, as always, resides at The Cult.
Donald Farber has the same no nonsense candor associated with some of Vonnegut’s best work. He was direct and to the point, almost blunt in his answers, and never once gave in to sensationalism. We discussed everything from the trials of being in business with your friends to whether or not Vonnegut would approve of the handling of his estate. Our conversation paints a fascinating picture of one of the most enduring writers of the 20th century and the legacy he left behind.
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