I made the mistake of going to see the new Star Wars movie the other day. I knew it was going to be awful, but I was 8 when the first Star Wars movie came out and it was so insanely popular that for a lot of people like myself, Star Wars has become a cultural touchstone. I felt that since it was the last movie, I had to go see it in the theater. Basically, I just gave my hard earned money to the Disney corporation in exchange for entertainment so bad that it’s been banned in prison. I have three kids. This kind of shit has been going on with Disney for years.

I’ve done a lot of screwy stuff in the name of providing (alleged) entertainment on this site. I’ve asked celebrities to thank me for giving them herpes, asked a rock band to make me a Reuben sandwich, and just recently I have undertaken the learning of a useless language. But I have gone above and beyond this time. Honestly, you should start saving up your money and sexual favors now, because when you find out what I did, you’ll surely want to shower me with both. I sat through an entire showing of the Cats movie.

I have been asked by the European Union to place a disclosure on this website to assure users that it complies with European Union laws regarding the use of cookies. This, of course, was not well received.

Earlier this summer, I watched the entire Land of the Lost series. Remember Land of the Lost (the original series, not the cinematic abortion starring Will Ferrell)? It was a Sid and Marty Krofft show, which meant that it merged childhood whimsy with LSD in order to… Actually, I’m not sure that there was a purpose to it, other than because it was the 70’s, and because they could. (Don’t believe me? Check out Lidsville, a show about hats that combines drug references and Charles Nelson Reilly in a way that probably had toddlers shooting smack during playtime.) But why, you may ask, would a grown man watch an entire children’s television series from the 70’s? Because that grown man had been freebasing shoe polish, that’s why.

Entertainment has undergone a sea change in the last 20-something years. It is now to be had on demand, preferably in all popular formats, with options for both rental and purchase, and certainly it has to be consumable on mobile devices because I’m sitting here at this funeral and let me tell you something: BORING! Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s sad. I understand. And he was taken too soon, I’ll give you that. But if he didn’t want to wind up dead, maybe he should have thought of that before he slammed his bedroom into my bitchin’ monster truck at upwards of 85 miles per hour. Asshole. Anyway, the least the grieving family can do is provide something to take our minds off of all of the sadness, like strippers, or maybe a dunk tank.

I don’t know if you are aware of this or not, but I am a paragon of modern style. There is not a single decision in the fashion industry, for instance, that is made without my consultation. Oh sure, the fashion moguls are proud, and they disguise their queries and pleas for help in the form of emails with subjects such as “Hot Sluts Want Your Credit Card Numbers!!!”, but I see through their thin charade. Like I said, I am a paragon of modern style because I am Up To Fucking Date. Which is why today I will be reviewing the book The Stand, first published in 1978. Continue reading

We are all of us influenced by others, whether we admit it or not. Our parents influence us from birth, our spouses and children influence us daily, our friends influence us, our coworkers influence us, hell even the guy who farts loudly in line at McDonald’s influences us, even if we were only influenced to get the fuck out of McDonald’s and never return. Seriously, that happened to me the other day. This dude just went and fucking ripped one in line. Not an accidental, squeaker-type fart that might slip out when one bends over to pick up loose change. No, it was a long, loud, thunderclap of flatulence that he didn’t even bother to acknowledge. It was like standing in line behind Jabba the Hutt, which would have been tolerable if Princess Leia was there wearing that bikini, but she wasn’t. It was just Jabba, me, and about six or seven horrified customers, about half of whom joined me in leaving immediately. Look, I was at fucking McDonald’s, so it’s not like I was expecting a gourmand experience or anything. But it would be nice if people kept the contents of their goddamn colons to themselves, you know? Jesus. Continue reading

I watched something really fucking stupid on Youtube the other day. That’s easy to do, of course, you pretty much go to Youtube and click on anything and it’s bound to be really fucking stupid, especially if what you happen to click on is the scroll bar and you find yourself in the comment section. Youtube comments are to civilized discourse what a 20 pound sledgehammer is to brain surgery. In no other format would someone be stupid enough to implore a complete stranger to “show us your tits” while misspelling all four of those words. Continue reading

I was sitting at work today doing, you know, the usual: Dropping a quarter million hits of LSD into the office water cooler. Normal Thursday afternoon kind of stuff, right? When all of a sudden I became aware of the fact that dear friend, fellow blogger, and the winner of the 2003 Nobel Prize for Chemistry, the very Reverend Back It On Up 13 was under attack. And not a fun attack, either, like when your body is being attacked by the Rockin’ Pneumonia, the Boogie Woogie Flu, or even Reggae AIDS. No, this was a concerted attack by that most terrifying of enemies: Phil Collins fans. Well fuck all of you male-pattern baldness loving motherfuckers, because I am not going to just sit around while a friend is under attack. Continue reading

You know what I hate? Commercials that ask questions. “What would you pay for this?” Listen, asshole, I didn’t sit down on the couch and turn on the TV so I could engage in witty repartee. Just get to the fucking point and tell me how much the decorative Abe Vigoda corn cob holders cost already! Jesus. Continue reading