Absent... without an expalnation

This is the Zodiac speaking...


Back... With a Vengeance!

This is the Zodiac speaking...

I've had plenty of time to work on this post, considering it's been over a month since I've written anything, And before I even start I want to say that it'll be a bit of a departure. Normally I write about whatever dumbass movie I just watched, or pander shamelessly about whatever actresses' tits happen to be arousing me at the moment.

 I can be topical.

Bad puns aside, I also feel the need to apologize for my last post. I kinda went off there, and I'm sorry. Thank you for accepting my apology. I felt the need to post something, anything, and had nothing I really wanted to say. So I took the easy way out and blamed others for my shortcomings. Looking your way Pat. With that aside, let's get on with what I normally don't do but for some reason feel the need to do now.

 I'm really worried you won't like what I'm about 
to write.

I was born, I grew up... sort of.  Meaning that I've technically reached maturity, post pubescence, I've got hair on my nuts.  As an unemployed 22 year old still living with my mother, I'd say that I still had some growing to do, psychologically, not physically, can't stress this enough. My penis is not large, but I would say that it is an adequate length for an adult male, I can vote, though chose not to. I spend most of my time playing video games, reading comics, and cruising the Internet for porn.

If it isn't quite obvious yet, I tend to shun the outside world. I'm not agoraphobic or anything, I just have an intense disgust for people. I can't pinpoint any time in my development that caused my aversion to the sloven huddled masses.  I've never been the victim of a random crime, I've never been publicly humiliated, I've never even been molested by a street performer, under the bridge that one summer when I was thirteen, who later turned out to be my uncle.  Never happened, that's what I tell myself.

I'm not a shut in.  Couldn't be one if I wanted.  That lazy bitch I call "Mother" makes me run errands for her all the time.  I have to do the grocery shopping, pick up the laundry, all the while taking the bus wherever I need to go 'cause she "needs" the car to go back and forth to her two jobs.  I wish dad hadn't killed himself, mom complained a lot less when he was around. It was on one of these excursions that my life was forever altered.

A typical fall day, the leaves hadn't changed, but there was a slight nip in the air, causing me to wear my new plaid scarf.  I don't usually sport neck wear so early into the fall but I'd recently noticed a sniffle upon waking, and was going to be damned if was going to catch cold.  A cold is a virus, there is no stopping that shit, all you can do is wait it out. 

I had taken the number 29 bus, as I was want to do on days I needed to go to the grocer, and had arrived at McMillan street without event.  I prefer to shop at the Try-N-Save on McMillan as opposed to the Big Buy over on Landry, it's usually less crowded and I like the clerks there better, less judgmental.  I suppose that's what you get when you pay them above minimum wage, sure the cost is pushed back on the consumer, but I'm willing to pay and extra five cents for kiwi's if it means that I'm not going to be ogled by some high school dropout who's dreams ended when her boyfriend said "Just let me put the tip in."  Mother doesn't like when I shop there because it puts us "over budget," but seeing as how I'm picking up her necessities, like Vodka, I have a little bit of room for my indulgences.

At check out, while the potentially attractive register jockey avoided eye contact, is it that her eye shadow was smeared from crying on her lunch break or the greasy, lazy ponytail that gave the impression that she is in a long term relationship and just stopped caring, I bet she cleans up nice, if she tried, a man came up from behind and struck me with his cart.  I don't mean he bumped into me, or just clipped my foot.  The fucker hit me with his cart, in the back, hard enough to cause my head to snap backwards, like if this would have happened in a vehicle, I'd need to go to the hospital to be treated for whiplash, which we all know is just a bullshit ailment, but it looks good when the insurance companies offer up a settlement, that's how I got my PlayStation 3.  Quickly assessing the lack of insurance in this situation, I turned around to confront my attacker.

With an indignant, "What the fuck?" I apparently crossed a line.  The man standing before me was some sort of hulking mongoloid, saying that he had obvious pituitary issues would be an understatement.  A quick assessment of his appearance led me to believe that he had spent some time in prison, it might have been the dead look in his eyes, or the WHITE POWER tattoo where his eyebrows should have been, there was something there that read recently caged.  

He offered nothing in the way of an apology, in fact he never spoke, the cold, dead, prison glare never changed not even as he beat me unmerciful.  Something snapped inside this mountain of a man, and something snapped inside of me, from the pain I believe it to be a rib.  Not having the wherewithal, or ability, to defend myself from the nonstop barrage of swastika covered fists, I looked in vain at my once pretty check out girl, rendered incapacitated by the sure terror of the beating I was receiving, or perhaps enchanted by the slow motion arc one of my teeth took as it flew threw the air and danced across the red lights emitted by the scanner.

While the beating continued ad infinitum, I kept praying to the God I claim in agreeable times doesn't exist, hoping for the sweet release of unconsciousness, but I remained surprisingly lucid.  My left eye swelled shut  almost instantaneously, preventing me from seeing the canned hams my assailant calls fists come crashing down upon my shattered skull, the only indication that I was alert enough to receive was a tugging on my neck from my scarf as he raised my head for a better leveraged punch.

Then it stopped.  As inexplicably as it started, he stopped, no one tried to intervene on my behalf, no threats of possible impending police intervention were shouted, I'm not entirely sure if the police were even called until after he left.  I like to think that somewhere around punch thirty, he happened to catch a glimpse of his watch and said "Shit, Roadhouse starts on TNT in five minutes, I better go."  Whatever the reason, he lifted his knee off my chest and paused to admire the Pollockesque painting he'd created across the filthy grocery store tile with my teeth and blood, then walked away, leaving his cart full of beef jerky, Molsen light, and the latest issue of mini trucker magazine, which he had just grabbed at the check out, probably while trying to shove the cart up my ass.

Here is where the spectacular shows up.  A little background about the area I live in first; we have a nuclear site about thirty miles from here.  Recently, a large group of unemployed were hired by a outside contractor to clean up old waste that had been buried.  This created employment for three years for a certain few.  Not me however, my mother forced me to apply but I got so nervous during the interview that when they asked me my name I threw up, needless to say, I failed to get the job.  This was three years ago, and a couple of months ago, all these young men, who'd been exposed to radiation for forty hours a week, were unceremoniously let go.  We all know that unemployment doesn't pay worth a damn, so some of these virile young men, started to sell blood.
When the paramedics finally arrived, it became painfully obvious that I was in need of lots of blood.  So much so that it preceded the attachment of the neck brace, after all, what does it matter if I'm paralyzed, if I die from blood loss.  Gathering up all the pieces that had been so spectacularly beaten off of me, I was hurriedly rushed to the local hospital where I was put back together just a pretty as before, which isn't saying much, and given the correct amount of that life giving tonic that I hereby refer to as blood.

Let me introduce you to one Mr. Robert Williamson.  He was the twenty fifth person out of twenty five hired to aid in the cleanup of buried toxic waste, I like to think that he got the job that would've been mine had I not had such a nervous stomach.  This is where we blur the lines of the comic books that I'm so fond of.  I've often read about the venomous spider bite, or the occasional Gamma Ray accident, but never a superhero created through a blood transfusion.  I received no less than five pints of blood that once belonged to Mr. Williamson.  Three years of radiation cleanup had quite the effect upon him, and on me.
It turns out that all that steady employment fed his heroin addiction, and when he was laid off, he took to selling his blood to feed the dragon, blood that later went into my veins.  Now I spend everyday fighting supervillians, such as staphylococcus, pneumonia, and the common cold virus.  The motherfucker gave me AIDS.

I don't leave the house anymore, I don't want anything to do with your outside world.  Although,  now, I always wear my scarf.




This is the Zodiac speaking...
I've been busy as shit lately and haven't had a chance to post anything new.
 Or any funny pictures

I can't even find the time to follow the format I set up. I've still be able to watch movies, just not finding the time to write out a cynnical review, even as I write this I should be sleeping cause I need to wake up early in the morning for work, not all of us get to be "kept" housewives who have nothing better to do than sit at home and write to the world, who really gives less of a shit about your musings about what "cute" thing your spawn said today. 
 "I Fucking hate you mom!"
Yes, yes, we all hate you. I know I'm coming across like an ass here and fully admit that I am. In a couple of days, or months the way I'm going, I might apologize to all you housewives out there and just come out and admit that I'm just jealous. But considering how often I get comments, not likely that there will be anyone who will complain.

Could be I've been distracted by all this debt ceiling shit, but that's not very likely. Would be more likely if I were to tell you I've been trying to keep up with all the goings on in football so I can get my shit together in time for my fantasy draft. That's part of it.
Poor bastard just got traded to the Lions

Whatever the hell this is I really don't know. I guess I just felt the need to post something, anything, even a whiney shitty post such as this. Maybe soon I'll be back to my old self and will return to talking about how shitty a Jerry Brukheimer movie staring John Wayne would be. More likely, I'll just post some more filler bullshit like this and make more empty promises.
 You couldn't pay me enough, well, I guess you could.
But it would take the last good part of my soul. 


Thank you Coen brothers

This is the Zodiac speaking...
I've written in other posts about how much respect I have for Joel and Ethan Coen as filmmakers, I've also voiced my disdain for a certain old time "screen legend," a term a use very loosely.
 Looser than his definition of acting

Of course I was aware that the Coen Brothers were remaking a John Wayne classic in the form of True Grit, I read Entertainment Weekly after all, and I was also aware from the uneducated masses that I call friends that this was one of the great John Wayne movies. Feeling like Alex at the Ludovico center whenever I watched any movie with the "actor," there are going to be a lot of quotes in this article, I can feel it, above mentioned, I chose to ignore the original film and wait to see the quality of the remake.
 Me during a John Wayne marathon on TBS
Let me be the first to tell you, oh my brother's, that the Coen brothers blew me out of the water with this film. It was a tight, beautifully shot, amazingly acted story that still survived the acting ability of Matt Damon. I can't see an actor other than Jeff Bridges who could have pulled off the grizzled, broken Rooster Cogburn. I really liked The King's Speech, but the academy really missed the mark this year.
 It happens more often than you think.
It was at this point that I felt it would be remiss of me not to at least try to watch the original and compare the two. Well the first thing I noticed is that the stories are pretty much the same. Mattie hires Rooster to hunt down Tom Chaney. There's a Texas Ranger also after Tom who is hanging out with Lucky Ned Pepper. Even most of the dialog is the same.
  Fill your hand you son-of-a-bitch!

Even the glowing reviews of the actress' who played Mattie seem quite consistent, one because she's a good actress, the other because the juxtaposition of her costar. So why would a movie that I rave over being so good, come from a film that I will never watch again?
Oh yeah, that's right
Just another hearty example that John Wayne is the worst actor to ever be captured on celluloid, and I've seen "The Room." He is especially bad in this film, having to take deep breaths in the middle of lines of dialog, due to his lung cancer. It's got a really bad "Shatner" vibe to it, and unlike with Marion, we can all agree that Shatner ranges somewhere above Keanu Reeves on the acting scale.
All that this really is is a big fuck you to John Wayne and all those misinformed bastards who still think he's a great actor. It takes innovators like the Coen brothers to remake what the misinformed think is classic cinema and show it's meant to be done. John Wayne became famous because all of our other actors were off fighting in WW2, his level of stardom could be attained by Frankie Muniz if Daniel Day Lewis, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and that guy from the Old Spice ads all got drafted and sent to Afghanistan.
  Yeah, I can play a cowboy!
What I'm getting at here is that we need to take all of these old John Wayne "classics," there I go with the parentheses again, and remake them with the ability to put a decent actor in the main role. The story is sound, we just need to tweak the leading man part and viola, box office gold.
  I'm glad you're dead, you undeservedly smug son
of a bitch. I really am.


Why you shouldn't read books

This is the Zodiac speaking...
As I mentioned in my last post, I have an incredibly hard time doing only one thing at a time. I watch television when I play video games, I eat while I shit, and I chew gum while I walk.
 Harder than you think.

In accordance with my constant need for stimulation I have the habit of listening to audio books while I'm at work. For clarification reasons I want you all to know that I only listen to unabridged books, meaning every word of the book is read, as opposed to abridged books, that are shortened, kind of like movies. This is where you all can talk about how an audio book isn't the same as actually reading and puritanical hipster bullshit involving a history lesson about Gutenberg. To all that I say, fuck you and your Kindle.
 "I put my Kindle inside a book before it was cool. "

It was only a couple of days ago that I finished "The Three Musketeer's" by Alexandre Dumas. It was a mere four hours into the twenty four hours of audio that I began to notice a problem... the story didn't seem to match the movie I had seen. I'm talking about the 1993 Disney movie, with Kiefer Sutherland, Tim Curry, and Charlie "Winning" Sheen playing a priest, perhaps the greatest casting decision ever.
 "Then Jesus ascended into Heaven.. "

I understand that it is hard to take a book with a days worth of content and turn it into a two hour movie, things obviously have to be dropped. I also am fully aware that Disney doesn't have the greatest track record when it comes to converting it's base material for the big screen, just read The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
  Gets hanged for attempted murder

 Steals Esmeralda's corpse and dies of starvation

It wouldn't be the best ending to pitch to the children, so it is understandable why Disney felt they had to change it, but a whole fucking movie. The only thing Disney used from the book were the names of the Musketeers, and the fact that there were three of them. Imagine my surprise while reading this book, the whole plot of the movie, never showed up! Disney would have you believe that the Musketeers had been outlawed and Cardinal Richelieu was plotting to overthrow the King, none of that shit happened. 
  Source material doesn't need to be followed!

The only problem with all this is no one has read the book, at least no one I know. Pat. So when I talk about the book all I get are confused stares and, one fellow, a big mongoloidish steroid popping fucker, actually punched me. As I lay on the ground checking to see if I still had all my teeth, pondering over what all this "high falutin book learnin" has gotten me, I decided, fuck it, I'll never read again. 
  Education is painful

Books are for pretentious assholes who want to show off how smart they are. Movies are for the Gods. It doesn't matter if Romeo and Juliet run off to Rome and live happily ever after, or instead of a murder suicide Gatsby runs off with Daisy and gives up his mansion and his riches to an orphanage, only to live a poor farmers life in South Dakota. I have learned that no one reads anymore, especially the writers of movies, and to fit into the society I have chosen, neither should I. 
  The Valedictorian of my Senior Class

To ensure that I have the same knowledge as all of my contemporaries, I will now only get information on the classic works of Literature from my masters, the movie studios. I want to fit in with the uneducated, unwashed masses spending my time watching marathons of American Chopper. I'm not cynical, I don't even know what that means. Someone once wrote "Ignorance is bliss," can't tell you who wrote it, but I do remember hearing it in "The Matrix." 
  This dude said it