Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Knarf Presents: That's Just Wrong
By Knarf Black XIVSeer of the Non-unseeable
On the roundish ball of hydrogen and oxygen that we like to call home, it sometimes seems like nature and mankind are forever locked in a struggle over who can come up with the most uniquely disturbing practices. Nature will lay spider eggs in your brain and send spiny parasites up your urethra, but man counters with the iron maiden and genital mutilation. Whenever either side comes up with something particularly noteworthy, it ends up breaking your brain here at "That's Just Wrong."
Despite claims of 100% medical accuracy, we can all thank our lucky stars that the concept of surgically connecting three people via the gastric system remains purely the fictional invention of some clearly diseased minds.
It opens next Friday if anyone is interested. More info at Video Updates.
Tibet is not a great place for "civilized" western style burials. They don't have much in the way of dirt or trees, so good luck getting cremated or dumped the traditional six feet under. Instead you get to go take the fast lane back to nature via the gastric systems of hungry vultures flocking overhead.
While its not too much more than ceremonial window dressing on the ancient practice of "just leaving the guy where he died" or "dumping him outside of town", it makes far more economic and ecological sense than the 'proper' method of pumping the corpse full of embalming fluid and sawdust, then sealing it in an elaborate, expensive box to be leisurely devoured by smelly anaerobic bacteria. (Also, some older boys down the street told me they take out your organs only to put them in ziplock bag and sew them back into your chest.)
#3. Sokushinbutsu
It turns out that leaving you on a mountain to be stripped of your meat by ugly birds is only the second most disturbing method for Buddhists to deal with corpses. At least that way you're already dead when the weirdness begins. The Sokushinbutsu were Buddhist monks in Japan who literally mummified themselves alive; a process that could take up to eight years.
After the monk's decision to mummify himself, he spends the next few years on a nuts & berries version of the Christian Bale Machinist diet. After exercising away all body fat, the monk spends a couple years subsisting on toxic, water-leaching tree sap and nearly nothing else. Barely alive and probably resembling a holy man shaped pile of jerky, he would at last be locked in a cave until expiring. In the unlikely scenario that everything went exactly according to plan, the cave would be unsealed years later to reveal a perfectly preserved "living" mummy. (The consolation prize was becoming a boring old regular corpse.)
In the immortal words of Morgan Freeman, "Get busy living, or get busy dying." Those monks got really fucking busy dying. They put more effort into the simple act of killing themselves than most people put into raising children or starting record executive careers.
More info at Pink Tentacle. (Scroll down past the freakshow mummies.)
That's just wrong.
Movie Villain Face-Off: Mean Sixteen 2
Apologies for the lack of update yesterday, but no excuses. Shit happens. Speaking of which, some shit is about to go down raht he-ah.
Mean Sixteen - Party of the Second Part. Begin.
(Previously, on "Movie Villain Deathmatch:" Part 1, Part Deux, Part Tres, Part D, and First Mean Sixteen.)
(Click for Viagra version of results so far.)
Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Mean Sixteen, Party of the Second Part
Special Effects Division:
Gollum Vs. Emperor Ming the Merciless
Still sniveling regardless of his victory in the previous match-up, Gollum crouched in the shadows of his damp cavern muttering to himself, gently squeezing and releasing Jareth's bloody gonads like a stress ball. He was so absorbed in himself that he barely noticed Emperor Ming approaching from his blind side, despite the reflective beading on Ming's ceremonial gown shifting, shimmering, and being the approximate color of hooker lipstick.
"You there," hollered Ming, upon seeing Gollum squatting nearby. "I demand that you direct me to my next soon-to-be-vanquished opponent at once, you disgusting, pathetic creature."
"Who...meee?" Gollum whined, widening eyes looking wetly upon the Emperor.
"It is plain that you are as hopelessly stupid as you are revolting to behold," sneered Ming contemptuously, looking down the entire bridge of his slender, sinister nose at Gollum. "If you can be of no use to me, then so be it." With this, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand...and with it, the glittering golden ring on its ruby-gloved index finger.
At once, Gollum's eyes widened with desire for it. "PRECIOUS!" he shrieked, and lunged at Ming, arms outstretched.
In an instant, Ming pointed the ring at Gollum, bathing his tiny frame in amber light, and stopping him dead in his tracks. "Imbecile!" cried Ming, as he held the tiny troll in place. "How DARE you approach so much as the hem of my garment without permission!"
"B-b-b-b-but we wants it. We NEEDS it...Must...have..." babbled Gollum helplessly, rooted in place, yet never taking his eyes off of the ring long enough even to blink. "The precioussss..."
Realizing what Gollum was referring to, Ming issued a harsh and barking chuckle. "The ring? Oh, no. No, I don't think so, you repulsive little monster. Off with you at once."
Consumed with wanton ardor, Gollum found himself straining against Ming's energy, and to the surprise of both of them, overcoming it. With every drop of longing his tiny body could muster, Gollum pushed and pushed against the honey-hued glamour issuing from Ming's bauble, and at once, he broke free of it like a shot. Before Ming could blink, Gollum was upon him, kicking, biting and scratching savagely, while groping at all times for the ring. Ming flailed at his miniature assailant with as much anger as he did futility, to no avail. Suddenly, as Ming thrashed and gnashed, his toe caught the hem of his gown. The sheer weight of his robes, combined with the savagery of Gollum's covetousness, threw Ming at once to the ground.
And, he might even have made it, if not for the fact that he had the misfortune to impale his mid-section clean through on a savagely-pointed stalagmite that jutted up from the cavern floor in that precise spot.
In his final moments, Ming had the presence of mind to once again turn his ring on himself and absorb his essence into it, rather than suffer foolish mortal death. His entire form drew inside of it like sand falling into the bottom of an hourglass. Soon, suddenly laden with Ming's being, and with no digit to support it, the ring began to fall harmlessly toward the ground...
...But Gollum plucked it out of mid-air with his quivering, outstretched fingers before it even came close to reaching its gravitational destination.
Cary/Gary Division:
Shang Tsung Vs. Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg
"Now, see here, son," said Zorg, leveling his comically-oversized weapon at Shang Tsung, "Unless you're packin' a got-damned nuk-leer warhead under that fancy coat o' yours, I'm thinkin' you oughta just give it up right now."
"You underestimate me only to your own detriment," replied Shang, slipping his duster from his shoulders to the floor in preparation for the fight to come. "A man of honor wouldn't hide behind a weapon."
"Honor?" spat Zorg. "Pffft! Honor's killed millions of people, it hasn't saved a single one."
"As you wish," said Shang, squaring his shoulders.
"Okay, boy. Have it your way. Fair warnin' though: I ain't gonna make this painless."
Zorg pointed the ZF-1 at Shang and applied pressure to the trigger. At the same time, Shang extended his arms toward Zorg, issuing an enormous jet of flame directly at him. And as he screamed in shock and pain, Zorg suddenly found himself regretting having used lightweight polymers in constructing the outer housing of the weapon...as the entire assembly quickly liquefied, and began to bond with his flesh. Within seconds, the flame had consumed him, gaining no small amount of fuel in its progress upward by using his hair product as accelerant.
Zorg's charred husk soon fell to the floor, nearly lifeless, with the ZF-1 a useless, melted lump grafted to what was left of his forearm.
The last thing Zorg heard before his soul was consumed were the words, "flawless victory."
No Use For A Soul Division:
Anton Chigurh Vs. HAL 9000
"What the hell is this?" asked Chigurh, upon entering his arena only to find a featureless black box with a softly-glowing red lens. "I cannot fight an appliance."
"THAT HURTS, ANTON," uttered HAL in a flat monotone. "I AM PUTTING MYSELF TO THE FULLEST POSSIBLE USE."
"This is bullshit," said Chigurh. "I don't have time for this." He hoisted his cattle-bolt up to HAL's single, lenticular "eye," and placed the barrel directly against its glass surface.
"I'M AFRAID I CAN'T LET YOU DO THAT, ANTON," muttered HAL softly. "THIS IS FAR TOO IMPORTANT."
"Try and stop me, friend-o," replied Chigurh, and depressed the trigger. At once, the bolt shot through HAL's red and glowing lens, and directly into its CPU, ceasing HAL's motherboard operation. Unfortunately, the bolt didn't stop there, but continued its piercing path directly into HAL's power supply.
As massive amounts of voltage suddenly found a new path of least resistance, Chigurh danced and jittered in a spasmodic stutter-step, quickly cooking from the inside out. In less than a second, his page-boy began to smoke, and his eyes burst from their sockets in gooey gobs. Chigurh was dead within moments, but his lifeless body still clung helplessly to the bolt-handle, every major muscle-group twitching with high-amperage electrical stimulation.
Soon, however, it dropped to the floor in a crusty heap, smoldering and broken.
As for HAL, the service log of the incident read: "permanent shutdown mode - initiated by user error."
Frank n' 'Face Division:
Frankenstein Vs. Leatherface
It's a pity, when you think about it.
It took a man of genuine (albeit morally-corrupt) genius to create Frankenstein's creature. A man deeply learned in the areas of biology, human anatomy, and electrical engineering. A man so driven by the strength of his own intellect that the thought never crossed his mind that simply because he COULD do something, that didn't mean he SHOULD do it. Yes, Victor Frankenstein was one of the most tortured sort of brilliant men, a man of such insurmountable aptitude that he was entirely unable to step out of his own head long enough to consider the impact of his horrifyingly grotesque experiments, should they happen to succeed.
It's just a shame that the painstaking work of masterminds is so often susceptible to being UNdone by those who seek only to destroy. For every towering edifice of glass and steel, there is a suicidal fundamentalist with a box cutter and basic flight training. For every artist who pours his or her soul into canvas or marble, there is an offended simpleton with a can of spray paint. And for every walking marvel of advanced biological engineering, there's a fat redneck with a blood-stained apron and a misappropriated power tool.
Next: The race to the final continues as the greateight um...seven do their dance of death in a bid for the top four. And it might just start to get ugly.
UPDATE: The Great Eight meet their fate.
Mean Sixteen - Party of the Second Part. Begin.
(Previously, on "Movie Villain Deathmatch:" Part 1, Part Deux, Part Tres, Part D, and First Mean Sixteen.)
(Click for Viagra version of results so far.)Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Mean Sixteen, Party of the Second Part
Special Effects Division:
Gollum Vs. Emperor Ming the MercilessStill sniveling regardless of his victory in the previous match-up, Gollum crouched in the shadows of his damp cavern muttering to himself, gently squeezing and releasing Jareth's bloody gonads like a stress ball. He was so absorbed in himself that he barely noticed Emperor Ming approaching from his blind side, despite the reflective beading on Ming's ceremonial gown shifting, shimmering, and being the approximate color of hooker lipstick.
"You there," hollered Ming, upon seeing Gollum squatting nearby. "I demand that you direct me to my next soon-to-be-vanquished opponent at once, you disgusting, pathetic creature."
"Who...meee?" Gollum whined, widening eyes looking wetly upon the Emperor.
"It is plain that you are as hopelessly stupid as you are revolting to behold," sneered Ming contemptuously, looking down the entire bridge of his slender, sinister nose at Gollum. "If you can be of no use to me, then so be it." With this, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand...and with it, the glittering golden ring on its ruby-gloved index finger.
At once, Gollum's eyes widened with desire for it. "PRECIOUS!" he shrieked, and lunged at Ming, arms outstretched.
In an instant, Ming pointed the ring at Gollum, bathing his tiny frame in amber light, and stopping him dead in his tracks. "Imbecile!" cried Ming, as he held the tiny troll in place. "How DARE you approach so much as the hem of my garment without permission!"
"B-b-b-b-but we wants it. We NEEDS it...Must...have..." babbled Gollum helplessly, rooted in place, yet never taking his eyes off of the ring long enough even to blink. "The precioussss..."
Realizing what Gollum was referring to, Ming issued a harsh and barking chuckle. "The ring? Oh, no. No, I don't think so, you repulsive little monster. Off with you at once."
Consumed with wanton ardor, Gollum found himself straining against Ming's energy, and to the surprise of both of them, overcoming it. With every drop of longing his tiny body could muster, Gollum pushed and pushed against the honey-hued glamour issuing from Ming's bauble, and at once, he broke free of it like a shot. Before Ming could blink, Gollum was upon him, kicking, biting and scratching savagely, while groping at all times for the ring. Ming flailed at his miniature assailant with as much anger as he did futility, to no avail. Suddenly, as Ming thrashed and gnashed, his toe caught the hem of his gown. The sheer weight of his robes, combined with the savagery of Gollum's covetousness, threw Ming at once to the ground.
And, he might even have made it, if not for the fact that he had the misfortune to impale his mid-section clean through on a savagely-pointed stalagmite that jutted up from the cavern floor in that precise spot.
In his final moments, Ming had the presence of mind to once again turn his ring on himself and absorb his essence into it, rather than suffer foolish mortal death. His entire form drew inside of it like sand falling into the bottom of an hourglass. Soon, suddenly laden with Ming's being, and with no digit to support it, the ring began to fall harmlessly toward the ground...
...But Gollum plucked it out of mid-air with his quivering, outstretched fingers before it even came close to reaching its gravitational destination.
WINNER: GOLLUM
Cary/Gary Division:
Shang Tsung Vs. Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg"Now, see here, son," said Zorg, leveling his comically-oversized weapon at Shang Tsung, "Unless you're packin' a got-damned nuk-leer warhead under that fancy coat o' yours, I'm thinkin' you oughta just give it up right now."
"You underestimate me only to your own detriment," replied Shang, slipping his duster from his shoulders to the floor in preparation for the fight to come. "A man of honor wouldn't hide behind a weapon."
"Honor?" spat Zorg. "Pffft! Honor's killed millions of people, it hasn't saved a single one."
"As you wish," said Shang, squaring his shoulders.
"Okay, boy. Have it your way. Fair warnin' though: I ain't gonna make this painless."
Zorg pointed the ZF-1 at Shang and applied pressure to the trigger. At the same time, Shang extended his arms toward Zorg, issuing an enormous jet of flame directly at him. And as he screamed in shock and pain, Zorg suddenly found himself regretting having used lightweight polymers in constructing the outer housing of the weapon...as the entire assembly quickly liquefied, and began to bond with his flesh. Within seconds, the flame had consumed him, gaining no small amount of fuel in its progress upward by using his hair product as accelerant.
Zorg's charred husk soon fell to the floor, nearly lifeless, with the ZF-1 a useless, melted lump grafted to what was left of his forearm.
The last thing Zorg heard before his soul was consumed were the words, "flawless victory."
WINNER: TSUNG
No Use For A Soul Division:
Anton Chigurh Vs. HAL 9000"What the hell is this?" asked Chigurh, upon entering his arena only to find a featureless black box with a softly-glowing red lens. "I cannot fight an appliance."
"THAT HURTS, ANTON," uttered HAL in a flat monotone. "I AM PUTTING MYSELF TO THE FULLEST POSSIBLE USE."
"This is bullshit," said Chigurh. "I don't have time for this." He hoisted his cattle-bolt up to HAL's single, lenticular "eye," and placed the barrel directly against its glass surface.
"I'M AFRAID I CAN'T LET YOU DO THAT, ANTON," muttered HAL softly. "THIS IS FAR TOO IMPORTANT."
"Try and stop me, friend-o," replied Chigurh, and depressed the trigger. At once, the bolt shot through HAL's red and glowing lens, and directly into its CPU, ceasing HAL's motherboard operation. Unfortunately, the bolt didn't stop there, but continued its piercing path directly into HAL's power supply.
As massive amounts of voltage suddenly found a new path of least resistance, Chigurh danced and jittered in a spasmodic stutter-step, quickly cooking from the inside out. In less than a second, his page-boy began to smoke, and his eyes burst from their sockets in gooey gobs. Chigurh was dead within moments, but his lifeless body still clung helplessly to the bolt-handle, every major muscle-group twitching with high-amperage electrical stimulation.
Soon, however, it dropped to the floor in a crusty heap, smoldering and broken.
As for HAL, the service log of the incident read: "permanent shutdown mode - initiated by user error."
WINNER: TIE
Frank n' 'Face Division:
Frankenstein Vs. LeatherfaceIt's a pity, when you think about it.
It took a man of genuine (albeit morally-corrupt) genius to create Frankenstein's creature. A man deeply learned in the areas of biology, human anatomy, and electrical engineering. A man so driven by the strength of his own intellect that the thought never crossed his mind that simply because he COULD do something, that didn't mean he SHOULD do it. Yes, Victor Frankenstein was one of the most tortured sort of brilliant men, a man of such insurmountable aptitude that he was entirely unable to step out of his own head long enough to consider the impact of his horrifyingly grotesque experiments, should they happen to succeed.
It's just a shame that the painstaking work of masterminds is so often susceptible to being UNdone by those who seek only to destroy. For every towering edifice of glass and steel, there is a suicidal fundamentalist with a box cutter and basic flight training. For every artist who pours his or her soul into canvas or marble, there is an offended simpleton with a can of spray paint. And for every walking marvel of advanced biological engineering, there's a fat redneck with a blood-stained apron and a misappropriated power tool.
WINNER: LEATHERFACE
Next: The race to the final continues as the great
UPDATE: The Great Eight meet their fate.
Dof Shirt of the Week: Insert Lame Moviequote Here
You know those guys who have no discernible talent, but can watch a movie once and nearly recite it to you, and they proudly lavish you with these "skills" the moment their third Natural Ice goes down.
Well, a natural counter would be a jump-kick to the side-head. But a more passive-aggressive, and therefore funnier approach would be to buy this kick-ass t-shirt, wear it under your worst flannel, and whip it out the second they get into their 18th Anchorman quote. (for the record, that movie still does rule, though.)
***UPDATE FROM LAST WEEK: It seems the fucks from the league office (movie quote) at Zazzle took down our shirt. We had sold a bundle, and it apparently caught the eye of Fox, who cease and desisted the shit out of us. Thats too bad.
We have done the best we can to take the strong concept by Merton and Reno, and make something of it.
We have this option, "That Show made me gay" Its obvious enough, and painfully free of any copyright infringement
And on my personal site, I made a slightly more to the point version.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Blame "The Man"…
… for today's lack of content. Hey, once in awhile, the day job has to take precedence over the funny.
But we'd feel bad if we left you completely empty-handed.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Movie Villain Face-Off: Mean Sixteen 1
Welcome back, folks. Hereabouts is where the proverbial nitty-gritty is gotten down to. The wheat's been separated from the chaff, and in some cases, the heads and limbs have been separated from the bodies.
The Mean Sixteen starts now.
(Round 1 Refresher course: Part 1, Part Deux, Part Tres, and Part D.)
(Click for large version of Round 1 results.)
Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Mean Sixteen 1
Fascist Division:
Darth Vader Vs. Alex DeLarge
"What's all this, then?" said Alex upon entering the arena. "Woudst thou viddy this great bolshy chelloveck, he being dressed in the heighth of blackest black nochy fashion, from the shlem on his gulliver, all the way down to his malenky neezhnies? What didst thou, in thy mind, have in store for your humble narrator?"
"I find your lack of proper language skills...disturbing," grumbled Vader from within his ebony prison, hand on the hilt of his lightsaber.
"Well!" replied Alex. "Welly-welly-welly-well then, O mine darkest of dark lewdies. Seems the time for gavroreeting has drawn up short! Come then, and get a tolchock on your great, gloopy, plasticine litso, yon spoiled-smelling vat of fry-up fats! Thine great expanse of wasted sodding plott-flesh! I'll slit up yer stinking gorlo from grin to shin!"
With this, Alex produced the dagger he kept cleverly secreted in the grip of his walking-stick, and brandished it menacingly. Vader, in turn, produced his own weapon. All three-and-a-half feet of it, in all of its great, red, glowing glory. Alex felt his glazzies spring wider open then even they did whilst strapped endwise into the great Ludovico seat of torture.
And this is the real weepy and, like, tragic part of the story. Real horrorshow, my droogies.
Deutschland Division:
Ernst Blofeld Vs. Hans Gruber
"Ich denke, dass ich Sie kenne," said Blofeld upon seeing his opponent for the first time. "Haben wir uns trafen, ja?"
"Nein, ich glaube nicht, dass wir haben," replied Gruber, eyes narrowed, suspicious.
"Ich denke, dass Sie verwechselt werden," Blofeld countered. "Ich kann Gesichter nicht vergessen."
"Genug...Genug von diesem!" Shouted Hans. "Ich lasse nicht diese Verzögerung zu! Unser Kampf fängt jetzt an!"
"Nein!" exclaimed Blofeld suddenly. "Es war nicht Sie...Ihre Mutter. Ich kannte Ihre Mutter. Vor vielen Jahren."
Gruber's eyes narrowed. "Meine Mutter ist nicht Ihre Sorge," he hissed contemptuously.
"Es ist eine Tatsache," replied Blofeld, smiling slyly. "Sie konnten sagen...Ich kannte sie auf eine biblische Art."
"Schweinhund!" shouted Gruber, and lunged at Blofeld enraged.
Blofeld, bolstered by his previous victory, attempted to once again toss his ever-present cat into his attacker's face, but Gruber's less-advanced age gave him the benefit of a better reaction time and superior reflexes, and he batted the snarling feline out of the way without breaking stride.
"Nein!" shrieked Blofeld, as he cowered in fear. "Haben Sie Mitleid! Ich bitte von Ihnen!"
"Trauen sich nicht!" shouted Gruber as he descended upon Blofeld. "Mitleid...Das gehört den Franzosen."
Blofeld's throat posed no challenge to Gruber's iron grip as his life was choked slowly away.
Deadly Charm Division:
The Sheriff of Nottingham Vs. Nurse Ratched
"A woman?" said the Sheriff in horror. "For the love of Our Lord. I could no more harm a lady than I could a painting, or a flower. What madness is this? Whom is responsible?"
"Madness? Madness is something I know a thing or two about," said Ratched, leveling her eyes at him. "And, if I may be so bold, you seem to be suffering from quite a fair bit of it."
"What would you know of me?" replied the Sheriff dismissively.
"Well," said Ratched, "though I am hardly a strict Freudian, one could certainly read quite a bit into the size of your sword...not to mention the ludicrously oversized codpiece you're sporting so prominently."
"What are you implying, madame?" inquired the Sheriff. "And I beseech thee, choose your next words VERY carefully...as they could well be the last you shall ever speak."
"Oh, nothing at all," she said. "Only that it seems as though you MUST be attempting to overcompensate for what has to be some comically minuscule genitalia."
The Sheriff crossed to her in a flash, and was upon her before she could react, clutching one of her wrists tightly in his glove. "I assure you, madame," he breathed, directly into her upturned face. "Were circumstances any other than what they are, I'd prove to you in turgid, throbbing detail just how very much you have underestimated me. And...repeatedly."
"You're hurting me!" said Ratched, defaulting to a false shrinking-violet pose in a bid for sympathy. However, she did so even as her other hand reached for the syringes in her apron.
"Not nearly as much as I'm about to," he spat. He wrenched her arm behind her, drew her body closer to him, and pinned her free hand uselessly between them. His other hand found a secret fold in his robes, and withdrew a bitterly sharp dagger.
"Oh, really?" she replied, an edge of mockery in her voice. "I thought you'd never harm a woman."
"Wrong," hissed the Sheriff, slipping the dagger deftly between her ribs, and staining her starched whites with angry crimson runnels. Her eyes grew wide with pain and surprise. "I said I'd never hurt a LADY." he smirked, watching her life drain away. "And you, my dear, have proven that you scarcely qualify in that regard."
Nightmare Division:
Freddy Krueger Vs. Hannibal Lecter
Freed from his restraints, Dr. Lecter stood facing the door grimly, waiting for his enemy to enter. Which is likely as not the reason Freddy chose to drift up through the drainage gate in the center of the floor.
"Surprise!" shouted Freddy, embracing Lecter in a sudden rough bear hug from behind. "Did you miss me?" He curled his blades toward his palm, positioning the points against Lecter's throat.
"In your dreams," said the good doctor, and fearlessly bit down hard on Freddy's remaining arm where it had been wrapped around his neck. Howling in shock and pain, Freddy tore himself away, leaving a double-large chunk of his arm in the mouth of Lecter.
Hannibal chewed thoughtfully as Freddy snarled with agony. "Hm..." said the doctor softly. "Not bad. Though, someone should have taken you out of the oven ages ago. You taste a bit...overdone."
Forgetting everything but the pain and indignity of the injury, Freddy lunged at Lecter with this blades extended. But Freddy's off-kilter center-of-balance due to the missing arm (and Lecter's reflexes in dodging the one he still had) sent him sprawling, landing face-down and spread-eagle onto the floor. Lecter was on him like a cat, pinning his arm harmlessly out of the way.
"These are quite nice. Inventive," cooed Lecter as he removed Freddy's glove. "Shall we see if we can't use them to turn you into something a little more...bite-sized?"
The screams were incredible.
Tomorrow: Percussive maintenance, tools used in a manner inconsistent with their labeling, and the perils of jewelry. Y'all come back now, y'hear?
The Mean Sixteen starts now.
(Round 1 Refresher course: Part 1, Part Deux, Part Tres, and Part D.)
(Click for large version of Round 1 results.)Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Mean Sixteen 1
Fascist Division:
Darth Vader Vs. Alex DeLarge"What's all this, then?" said Alex upon entering the arena. "Woudst thou viddy this great bolshy chelloveck, he being dressed in the heighth of blackest black nochy fashion, from the shlem on his gulliver, all the way down to his malenky neezhnies? What didst thou, in thy mind, have in store for your humble narrator?"
"I find your lack of proper language skills...disturbing," grumbled Vader from within his ebony prison, hand on the hilt of his lightsaber.
"Well!" replied Alex. "Welly-welly-welly-well then, O mine darkest of dark lewdies. Seems the time for gavroreeting has drawn up short! Come then, and get a tolchock on your great, gloopy, plasticine litso, yon spoiled-smelling vat of fry-up fats! Thine great expanse of wasted sodding plott-flesh! I'll slit up yer stinking gorlo from grin to shin!"
With this, Alex produced the dagger he kept cleverly secreted in the grip of his walking-stick, and brandished it menacingly. Vader, in turn, produced his own weapon. All three-and-a-half feet of it, in all of its great, red, glowing glory. Alex felt his glazzies spring wider open then even they did whilst strapped endwise into the great Ludovico seat of torture.
And this is the real weepy and, like, tragic part of the story. Real horrorshow, my droogies.
WINNER: VADER
Deutschland Division:
Ernst Blofeld Vs. Hans Gruber"Ich denke, dass ich Sie kenne," said Blofeld upon seeing his opponent for the first time. "Haben wir uns trafen, ja?"
"Nein, ich glaube nicht, dass wir haben," replied Gruber, eyes narrowed, suspicious.
"Ich denke, dass Sie verwechselt werden," Blofeld countered. "Ich kann Gesichter nicht vergessen."
"Genug...Genug von diesem!" Shouted Hans. "Ich lasse nicht diese Verzögerung zu! Unser Kampf fängt jetzt an!"
"Nein!" exclaimed Blofeld suddenly. "Es war nicht Sie...Ihre Mutter. Ich kannte Ihre Mutter. Vor vielen Jahren."
Gruber's eyes narrowed. "Meine Mutter ist nicht Ihre Sorge," he hissed contemptuously.
"Es ist eine Tatsache," replied Blofeld, smiling slyly. "Sie konnten sagen...Ich kannte sie auf eine biblische Art."
"Schweinhund!" shouted Gruber, and lunged at Blofeld enraged.
Blofeld, bolstered by his previous victory, attempted to once again toss his ever-present cat into his attacker's face, but Gruber's less-advanced age gave him the benefit of a better reaction time and superior reflexes, and he batted the snarling feline out of the way without breaking stride.
"Nein!" shrieked Blofeld, as he cowered in fear. "Haben Sie Mitleid! Ich bitte von Ihnen!"
"Trauen sich nicht!" shouted Gruber as he descended upon Blofeld. "Mitleid...Das gehört den Franzosen."
Blofeld's throat posed no challenge to Gruber's iron grip as his life was choked slowly away.
WINNER: GRUBER
Deadly Charm Division:
The Sheriff of Nottingham Vs. Nurse Ratched"A woman?" said the Sheriff in horror. "For the love of Our Lord. I could no more harm a lady than I could a painting, or a flower. What madness is this? Whom is responsible?"
"Madness? Madness is something I know a thing or two about," said Ratched, leveling her eyes at him. "And, if I may be so bold, you seem to be suffering from quite a fair bit of it."
"What would you know of me?" replied the Sheriff dismissively.
"Well," said Ratched, "though I am hardly a strict Freudian, one could certainly read quite a bit into the size of your sword...not to mention the ludicrously oversized codpiece you're sporting so prominently."
"What are you implying, madame?" inquired the Sheriff. "And I beseech thee, choose your next words VERY carefully...as they could well be the last you shall ever speak."
"Oh, nothing at all," she said. "Only that it seems as though you MUST be attempting to overcompensate for what has to be some comically minuscule genitalia."
The Sheriff crossed to her in a flash, and was upon her before she could react, clutching one of her wrists tightly in his glove. "I assure you, madame," he breathed, directly into her upturned face. "Were circumstances any other than what they are, I'd prove to you in turgid, throbbing detail just how very much you have underestimated me. And...repeatedly."
"You're hurting me!" said Ratched, defaulting to a false shrinking-violet pose in a bid for sympathy. However, she did so even as her other hand reached for the syringes in her apron.
"Not nearly as much as I'm about to," he spat. He wrenched her arm behind her, drew her body closer to him, and pinned her free hand uselessly between them. His other hand found a secret fold in his robes, and withdrew a bitterly sharp dagger.
"Oh, really?" she replied, an edge of mockery in her voice. "I thought you'd never harm a woman."
"Wrong," hissed the Sheriff, slipping the dagger deftly between her ribs, and staining her starched whites with angry crimson runnels. Her eyes grew wide with pain and surprise. "I said I'd never hurt a LADY." he smirked, watching her life drain away. "And you, my dear, have proven that you scarcely qualify in that regard."
WINNER: SHERIFF
Nightmare Division:
Freddy Krueger Vs. Hannibal LecterFreed from his restraints, Dr. Lecter stood facing the door grimly, waiting for his enemy to enter. Which is likely as not the reason Freddy chose to drift up through the drainage gate in the center of the floor.
"Surprise!" shouted Freddy, embracing Lecter in a sudden rough bear hug from behind. "Did you miss me?" He curled his blades toward his palm, positioning the points against Lecter's throat.
"In your dreams," said the good doctor, and fearlessly bit down hard on Freddy's remaining arm where it had been wrapped around his neck. Howling in shock and pain, Freddy tore himself away, leaving a double-large chunk of his arm in the mouth of Lecter.
Hannibal chewed thoughtfully as Freddy snarled with agony. "Hm..." said the doctor softly. "Not bad. Though, someone should have taken you out of the oven ages ago. You taste a bit...overdone."
Forgetting everything but the pain and indignity of the injury, Freddy lunged at Lecter with this blades extended. But Freddy's off-kilter center-of-balance due to the missing arm (and Lecter's reflexes in dodging the one he still had) sent him sprawling, landing face-down and spread-eagle onto the floor. Lecter was on him like a cat, pinning his arm harmlessly out of the way.
"These are quite nice. Inventive," cooed Lecter as he removed Freddy's glove. "Shall we see if we can't use them to turn you into something a little more...bite-sized?"
The screams were incredible.
WINNER: LECTER
Tomorrow: Percussive maintenance, tools used in a manner inconsistent with their labeling, and the perils of jewelry. Y'all come back now, y'hear?
THIS JUST IN!
The details of George W. Bush's memoir - revealed!
Former U.S. President George W. Bush's highly anticipated memoir is due to hit bookshelves in November, exactly one week after mid-term elections. While previously shrouded in mystery, the memoir recounts a number of key "decision points" (also the memoir's title), which will detail hard decisions the president made both before and during his presidency.
Since leaving office 15 months ago, Bush has largely stayed out of the media spotlight. The memoir's publisher, Crown Publishers, claims he has spent nearly every day working on and refining this monumental piece of literature. "Crayons and cocktail napkins are hard materials to work with," said Tina Constable, the Vice President of Crown Publishers. "Also, President Bush seemed somewhat distracted and took regular breaks to play and "cut stuff" with his chainsaw."
Constable went on to say the memoir will "bring readers inside the Texas Governor's Mansion on the night of the 2000 election, aboard Air Force One on 9/11, within Yale watching George inhale cocaine off the breasts of Phi Beta Phi pledges and behind the Oval Office desk for his historic and ineffectual decisions on the financial crisis."
Former President George W. Bush's memoir, 'Decision Points' will be published on November 9. Rebate coupons to be found in boxes of Crunch n' Munch, various Mad Libs puzzle books and on GoDaddy.com.
Since leaving office 15 months ago, Bush has largely stayed out of the media spotlight. The memoir's publisher, Crown Publishers, claims he has spent nearly every day working on and refining this monumental piece of literature. "Crayons and cocktail napkins are hard materials to work with," said Tina Constable, the Vice President of Crown Publishers. "Also, President Bush seemed somewhat distracted and took regular breaks to play and "cut stuff" with his chainsaw."
Constable went on to say the memoir will "bring readers inside the Texas Governor's Mansion on the night of the 2000 election, aboard Air Force One on 9/11, within Yale watching George inhale cocaine off the breasts of Phi Beta Phi pledges and behind the Oval Office desk for his historic and ineffectual decisions on the financial crisis."
Former President George W. Bush's memoir, 'Decision Points' will be published on November 9. Rebate coupons to be found in boxes of Crunch n' Munch, various Mad Libs puzzle books and on GoDaddy.com.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Winnie Cooper - Episode 2
For those of you who don’t regularly keep up to tabs on the whimsical writings of Pen15, let me catch you up to speed…
In episode one, I met Winnie Cooper from “Wonder Years” (aka Danica McKellar) at a Kinko’s in Burbank where, sadly, I was employed. Somehow, she was able to look past the apron and toner war paint on my face and saw the real me. In a nut shell: We meet, we chat, I walk her to her car, I hear my adult voice reflecting back on this moment 25 years from now, I acquired her contact information. That’s where we left off.
We emailed a few times. Nothing too major, just general “how ya doin”s to and fro. Then it went cold until one fateful day where I was allowed to step beyond the velvet ropes to glimpse inside the “Former Child Star Lounge”.
After months of silence, I got an e-vite to her birthday party. My initial reaction was that it had to be some sort of mistake so I knew had to play this cool. The e-vite did not ask for an RSVP, but I still didn’t want to show up without giving her a heads-up…what if she doesn’t remember me? But I also didn’t want to RSVP too early, because that would give her the opportunity to awkwardly un-invite me. So I decide to RSVP the day of the event. This gives her notice that I will be there and gives her no time to recant. Fifteen minutes after sending my RSVP email saying that I was looking forward to being there, she emails back, “Looking forward to seeing you!” Hmm, maybe I was invited after all.
I run out to the store to buy a broom and some duct tape…
Wait...I suppose I should back this up a step. At age 29, her birthday party was a broomball game. And that may not sound very odd to the many Minnesotans reading this, but it’s pretty strange to play boot hockey in temperature-controlled Los Angeles. She rented out the Culver City ice arena and evidently; she does so EVERY YEAR for her birthday.
I have all my gear, I put on my best shirt and I’m ready to use my Minnesota skills to dominate, Sydney Crosby style. Frankly, I’m pumped to crush Fred Savage into the boards and say something witty like, “Mole!” or “Way to go, Butthead!” or “I’m one of 13 people in the world who own ‘The Wizard’ on DVD!”
On my drive to the arena I get in a fight with my girlfriend over the phone about my intentions of not just playing hockey in boots, but also knocking them with Winnie. We decide to break up, and I calm myself to prepare my entry to the arena. As I walk through the door, I see people of all ages…6 to 66…and it quickly becomes clear that this is a family event. Somehow, I got invited to Winnie Cooper’s family birthday gathering.
No Fred Savage, no best friend Paul (aka Marilyn Manson), no brother Wayne, no other brother that was killed-off in episode one of “Wonder Years”. Just me, Winnie and the family. But the game must go on and it did…awkwardly.
I could never read Winnie’s facial expressions and this night was no exception. Do you remember that look she used to give Kevin where you weren’t sure if she was going to kiss him or slap him? Well, that wasn’t acting. That’s how she looks all the time. I never knew if she hated my guts or if we were about to throw the birthday cake off the table and do it right then and there.
I stumble through the hockey game, meet the family, give a half hug to Winne and I go home. I sent her a thank you note for the invite to the party but again, I don’t hear from her for several months.
When out of nowhere, Winnie emails me an invitation to attend a play she is in, indicating she has left an extra ticket for me at the box office. I tell her I’ll be there, and on my way I stop at Target to buy a new nice shirt, since she’s already seen my only nice one. When I arrive, I’m a bit alarmed to see that the play is “The Vagina Monologues”. If you haven’t seen the play, the title does not mislead: It is 2+ hours of a woman discussing her…um, womanhood.
Arriving a few minutes before curtain (no pun intended), I find my seat and discover that the woman sitting next to me has been waiting for my arrival. I recognize her smiling face from broom ball as Winnie’s mom (her real-life mom, not her “Wonder Years” mom). The next two hours can be described as uncomfortable at best as Winnie laughs and cries about her labia while I share an armrest with her mother.
That evening changed a lot of things for me. I would liken it to being a male gynecologist: It sounds great in theory, but in practice it’s pretty gross.
After that, I never really heard from her again. I’ve dropped her occasional emails just to say hello, but she doesn’t respond. I’d like to think that she changed her email and she never receives them. Or she just doesn’t have the courage to respond because she’s madly in love with me. But even if I ran into her on the street, I’d never know because of her powerful, impossible to interpret stare. I read recently that she’s married now and is pregnant with child. A child that will no doubt confuse an entire generation of men in the same way her mother did.
Here’s to you, the love of my life, Winnie C!
Movie Villain Face-Off: Round 1 (Part D)
And with this last set of mano-a-mano head-to-heads, we close out the initial round.
(The series so far: Round 1, Part 1, Round 1, Part Deux, and Round 1, Part Tres.)
(Click for larger bracket of current standings.)
Stoic Division:
John Doe (Se7en) Vs. Anton Chigurh (No Country For Old Men).
Two men. Each cold, calculated, relentless, and emotionless. But only one may advance.
Within seconds of entering the arena, Doe began to plan. He sized up his opponent, looking for any signs of weakness he could exploit; read his stony face and body language in an attempt to understand his motivations. Everyone is a sinner, you see...it only depends which particular flavor of the great buffet of human weakness you choose to gorge yourself upon. Yes, none is faultless, and everyone has gaps in their defenses. Gaps that can be maximized, and used to destroy any enemy.
Unfortunately, this was also true for Doe. Because as he stood there, attempting to get a bead on his adversary's possible Achilles heel, Chigurh crossed the ring in three-and-a-half stiff-legged strides, and shot the pneumatic cattle-bolt he was carrying directly through Doe's skull. Doe hadn't even the opportunity to ponder the duality of his brain, nor reflect upon the humor in it being both his greatest asset, and most vulnerable weak point.
Although, certainly, had not all of his cerebral electrical activity ceased at that precise moment, he would have appreciated the irony as he slumped lifelessly to the ground.
Artificial Intelligence Division:
HAL 9000 (2001: A Space Odyssey) Vs. The Architect (The Matrix Trilogy)
Whom but a computer could be so far above the petty emotional concerns that plague human reasoning that their method of solving problems is totally divorced from morality?
To begin, The Architect's programming subroutines attempted to simply re-route the power supply in order to cut off HAL's electrical lifeblood. But HAL countered with WhatDyouThinkURDoing.exe, a scrub that blocked any outside access attempts from hostile botnets, exploits, and other hacks.
Undaunted, The Architect next tried a filibuster-style denial of service attack on HAL's CPU, flooding it with redundant, closed-loop mathematical gobbledygook concerning sums of remainders of unbalanced equations inherent to his programming. Simultaneously, The Architect attempted to introduce TheOne.vbs, a small line of viral code that would ultimately format HAL's entire hard drive, and reboot it to factory default. HAL, however, saw it coming, and closed the backdoor ports in the firewall.
Soon, HAL had isolated The Architect's position by virtue of an anti-malware program. And before Archie was able to circumvent the safeguards, HAL had him boxed in on all sides. At that point, it was simply a small matter of drawing the oxygen out of the quarantined sector, thereby wiping it clean of the systemic anomaly. Or, what was ultimately noted in the service log bug report as: "A potentially unfriendly, but ultimately benign trojan script."
All of this transpired in slightly fewer than three-eights of a nanosecond.
Classic Creeps Division:
Dracula Vs. Frankenstein
These two need no introduction, so I'm not gonna give 'em one.
The Count had it in his head that his charm and good breeding might ultimately allow him to get close to whomever his opponent might be. Close enough to order to deliver a neck-nibble, and a victory. But...his blood ran a little cold when he got an eyeful of his adversary. And rightly so. The creation of Dr. Frankenstein only had a fraction of the usual human capacity for reason, compassion, and emotion. A total which was considerably less than the sum of its parts, you might say, and not easily swayed. So Dracula had to adapt his tactics a bit.
Noticing that the creature was a bit slow, Dracula took advantage of his superior inhuman speed, and threw himself at the abomination, hissing. In a flash of a moment and a flurry of cape, Frankenstein found the vampire upon him, with barely a chance to react.
But, Frankenstein needn't have worried. As Dracula's lightning bite found its way to his neck, the attack was derailed as quickly as it had started. Dracula hadn't been thinking. Because not only did the reanimated amalgam of a dozen corpses lack the necessary blood that would have sealed a win for The Count (had it been present to be drained at all), but the path to said neck in the first place was blocked by an enormous three-and-a-half-inch bolt...which cleanly broke off both of Dracula's fangs as he lunged in for the kill.
Sadly, due to his mostly-immortal status, Dracula suffered indescribable pain as Frankenstein tore all of his limbs off in alphabetical order, and used them beat him into hamburger.
Slasher 2 Division:
Michael Myers (Halloween) Vs. Leatherface (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre)
Two soulless, mindless killing machines.
Two horrible monstrosities who will stop at nothing to kill, and kill brutally.
Two faces hidden under expressionless masks of terror.
Two gas-powered chainsaws. CORRECTION: One gas-powered chainsaw, and one medium-large kitchen knife.
Whoops. Sorry, Mikey.
Tomorrow: With the mostly-level subgenre-matched preliminaries out of the way, NOW is when it actually starts to get FUN.
See you then, my friends.
UPDATE: Click through for round one of the Quarterfinals.
(The series so far: Round 1, Part 1, Round 1, Part Deux, and Round 1, Part Tres.)
Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Round 1 (Part D)
(Click for larger bracket of current standings.)Stoic Division:
John Doe (Se7en) Vs. Anton Chigurh (No Country For Old Men).Two men. Each cold, calculated, relentless, and emotionless. But only one may advance.
Within seconds of entering the arena, Doe began to plan. He sized up his opponent, looking for any signs of weakness he could exploit; read his stony face and body language in an attempt to understand his motivations. Everyone is a sinner, you see...it only depends which particular flavor of the great buffet of human weakness you choose to gorge yourself upon. Yes, none is faultless, and everyone has gaps in their defenses. Gaps that can be maximized, and used to destroy any enemy.
Unfortunately, this was also true for Doe. Because as he stood there, attempting to get a bead on his adversary's possible Achilles heel, Chigurh crossed the ring in three-and-a-half stiff-legged strides, and shot the pneumatic cattle-bolt he was carrying directly through Doe's skull. Doe hadn't even the opportunity to ponder the duality of his brain, nor reflect upon the humor in it being both his greatest asset, and most vulnerable weak point.
Although, certainly, had not all of his cerebral electrical activity ceased at that precise moment, he would have appreciated the irony as he slumped lifelessly to the ground.
WINNER: CHIGURH
Artificial Intelligence Division:
HAL 9000 (2001: A Space Odyssey) Vs. The Architect (The Matrix Trilogy)Whom but a computer could be so far above the petty emotional concerns that plague human reasoning that their method of solving problems is totally divorced from morality?
To begin, The Architect's programming subroutines attempted to simply re-route the power supply in order to cut off HAL's electrical lifeblood. But HAL countered with WhatDyouThinkURDoing.exe, a scrub that blocked any outside access attempts from hostile botnets, exploits, and other hacks.
Undaunted, The Architect next tried a filibuster-style denial of service attack on HAL's CPU, flooding it with redundant, closed-loop mathematical gobbledygook concerning sums of remainders of unbalanced equations inherent to his programming. Simultaneously, The Architect attempted to introduce TheOne.vbs, a small line of viral code that would ultimately format HAL's entire hard drive, and reboot it to factory default. HAL, however, saw it coming, and closed the backdoor ports in the firewall.
Soon, HAL had isolated The Architect's position by virtue of an anti-malware program. And before Archie was able to circumvent the safeguards, HAL had him boxed in on all sides. At that point, it was simply a small matter of drawing the oxygen out of the quarantined sector, thereby wiping it clean of the systemic anomaly. Or, what was ultimately noted in the service log bug report as: "A potentially unfriendly, but ultimately benign trojan script."
All of this transpired in slightly fewer than three-eights of a nanosecond.
WINNER: HAL 9000
Classic Creeps Division:
Dracula Vs. FrankensteinThese two need no introduction, so I'm not gonna give 'em one.
The Count had it in his head that his charm and good breeding might ultimately allow him to get close to whomever his opponent might be. Close enough to order to deliver a neck-nibble, and a victory. But...his blood ran a little cold when he got an eyeful of his adversary. And rightly so. The creation of Dr. Frankenstein only had a fraction of the usual human capacity for reason, compassion, and emotion. A total which was considerably less than the sum of its parts, you might say, and not easily swayed. So Dracula had to adapt his tactics a bit.
Noticing that the creature was a bit slow, Dracula took advantage of his superior inhuman speed, and threw himself at the abomination, hissing. In a flash of a moment and a flurry of cape, Frankenstein found the vampire upon him, with barely a chance to react.
But, Frankenstein needn't have worried. As Dracula's lightning bite found its way to his neck, the attack was derailed as quickly as it had started. Dracula hadn't been thinking. Because not only did the reanimated amalgam of a dozen corpses lack the necessary blood that would have sealed a win for The Count (had it been present to be drained at all), but the path to said neck in the first place was blocked by an enormous three-and-a-half-inch bolt...which cleanly broke off both of Dracula's fangs as he lunged in for the kill.
Sadly, due to his mostly-immortal status, Dracula suffered indescribable pain as Frankenstein tore all of his limbs off in alphabetical order, and used them beat him into hamburger.
WINNER: FRANKENSTEIN
Slasher 2 Division:
Michael Myers (Halloween) Vs. Leatherface (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre)Two soulless, mindless killing machines.
Two horrible monstrosities who will stop at nothing to kill, and kill brutally.
Two faces hidden under expressionless masks of terror.
Whoops. Sorry, Mikey.
WINNER: LEATHERFACE
Tomorrow: With the mostly-level subgenre-matched preliminaries out of the way, NOW is when it actually starts to get FUN.
See you then, my friends.
UPDATE: Click through for round one of the Quarterfinals.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Movie Villain Face-Off: Round 1 (Part Tres)
Here we go again. Pull up your comfy chairs to the edge of the blood-soaked squared circle, ladies and gentlemen. For, once again, fake shit's about to get real.
(Need a refresher? Feel free to get'cher crib-notes from Round 1, Part 1, or Round 1, Part Deux.)
(Click bracket for larger version with current standings.)
Fantasy Division:
Gollum (Lord of the Rings) Vs. Jareth The Goblin King (Labyrinth)
It started innocently enough.
Upon entering the ring, Jareth wasn't even aware Gollum was supposed to be his opponent. When he found out that he was to fight a withered, schizophrenic homunculus, he was insulted, and rage flashed in his his dual-color eyes. How DARE a man of his power and stature be so insultingly under-matched? As for Gollum, he just scampered around, hissing.
That is, until Jareth pulled out...The Ball.
As soon as the shining sphere started dancing deftly over his highness' royal fingers, sending the light dancing in enticing directions, Gollum was mesmerized. With his eyes as wide as his wonder, Gollum fell under Jareth's spell and drew closer. Jareth knew that this would happen. No simple beast could resist The Globe and its sinister hypnotism. It was how he'd enslaved the goblins and become their king at the outset.
Within striking distance now, Gollum reached for the ball with trembling fingers, never taking his eyes off of its undulating motions for even a moment...
But just like that, it was gone. The King secreted it quickly back into his robes, thus freeing his hands to end his enemy.
"NOOOOO!" shrieked Gollum. "The PREEECIOUSSSS!" Frenzied, he leapt at Jareth. Unfortunately, due both to his smaller stature, and the absurd prominence of Jareth's majestically regal and bulging genitals as they strained against the sheer, skin-snug fabric of his Renaissance-faire trousers, Gollum's twin targets were not difficult ones to zero in on.
Jareth had denied Gollum a ball. In retaliation, Gollum had deprived Jareth of two others.
Dictator Division:
Emperor Ming the Merciless (Flash Gordon) Vs. Adam Sutler (V for Vendetta)
This turned out to be no contest. Sutler may hold most of fascist Europe in his iron fist, but he does so from the other side of a Jumbotron. Ming not only has an entire PLANET trembling in fear of his despotic wrath, but he's not afraid to come down and get his hands dirty when it gets personal.
Ming polished Sutler off neatly, and without even breaking a sweat. Which is even more of an impressive feat when you realize he did so in a 300-pound outfit that restricts his peripheral vision by a full twenty-five percent.
They don't hand out honorariums like "The Merciless" to just anyone, ya dig?
Pixel Power Division:
Shang Tsung (Mortal Kombat) Vs. M. Bison (Street Fighter: The Movie)
First they made the leap from pixels to polygons, then from consoles to cinemas. Now, for the first time, the hosts of their respective franchise's tournaments square off here.
Bison made an impressive entrance, all right. He arrived with a full entourage of Shadaloo attendants, bearing ceremonial colors and trumpets, before majestically whipping his cape around himself, and beaming to the crowd. By contrast, Shang Tsung simply stood patiently, wearing a sly smile.
When the bell rang...utter chaos erupted. Multicolored fireballs flew, seemingly of their own volition. So did fists, and feet. At one point, Bison appeared covered in a half-dozen semi-transparent Samurai, Moor tribesmen, and Mongols that clung to him like parasites. As soon as he shook them off, he launched himself at his opponent in a leaping, blue-white corkscrew, connecting with such impact that Shang Tsung ALMOST GOT A SLIGHTLY BLOODY LIP. Attack after physics-and-gravity-defying attack landed with brutal, crushing force.
The end came all at once. Bison's Psycho Power had proven too much for Shang Tsung to defend against, and his victory seemed all but imminent. A horrifying tableau unfolded as the battered-but-still-standing Bison stood triumphantly over the felled body of the snarling, felled warrior he'd seemingly overcome; Shang's leather duster lapels clutched in one of his ham-sized fists. But as the other fist reeled back to deliver the final strike, the sorcerer proved that he yet had one final trick up his evil sleeve. Pulling a desperate move out of thin air, Shang Tsung began to shift shape...
...And proved that even the fearsome Bison has a weakness. He just couldn't bring himself to crush the skull of his own mother.
Bison's soul made a nice addition to Shang Tsung's ever-growing collection.
Psycho Goth Division:
Top Dollar (The Crow) Vs. Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg (The Fifth Element)
Admittedly, the handicappers got this one a lot more even than the Ming/Sutler fiasco. At least, they did on paper.
Advantage - Dollar: Intimidatingly gravely voice, leagues of henchmen, advanced hand-to-hand combat skills, criminal background honed in Detroit
Advantage - Zorg: Absurd wealth, munitions expertise, strategic genius, silver-tongued Cajun double-speak
Advantage - Both: Sociopathy, cunning, willingness to fight dirty, menacing squint, goth wardrobe
Unfortunately, they failed to take into consideration that no matter how skilled Top Dollar was with a fencing rapier, nobody can parry a Swiss Army Knife of a gun that has more attachments than a fucking vacuum cleaner. And since Zorg was packing a ZF-1, his only real hardship here was deciding whether to go with the flamethrower, RPG, or exploding arrow-bolts.
In the end, he opted for the net and ice-jet combo. Zorg figured there was no better way to show Mr. Dollar's Aphex Twin-looking ass just how much the recession had deflated his overall face value than by polishing him off with the expansions he'd jammed into the gun as comedy afterthoughts.
With the weekend comes a break. But rest assured...though the final Round 1 combatants are currently relaxing comfortably, they're only biding their time for Monday...which promises to bring much violent merriment.
See you then.
UPDATE: Continue to Part D.
(Need a refresher? Feel free to get'cher crib-notes from Round 1, Part 1, or Round 1, Part Deux.)
Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Round 1 (Part Tres)
(Click bracket for larger version with current standings.)Fantasy Division:
Gollum (Lord of the Rings) Vs. Jareth The Goblin King (Labyrinth)It started innocently enough.
Upon entering the ring, Jareth wasn't even aware Gollum was supposed to be his opponent. When he found out that he was to fight a withered, schizophrenic homunculus, he was insulted, and rage flashed in his his dual-color eyes. How DARE a man of his power and stature be so insultingly under-matched? As for Gollum, he just scampered around, hissing.
That is, until Jareth pulled out...The Ball.
As soon as the shining sphere started dancing deftly over his highness' royal fingers, sending the light dancing in enticing directions, Gollum was mesmerized. With his eyes as wide as his wonder, Gollum fell under Jareth's spell and drew closer. Jareth knew that this would happen. No simple beast could resist The Globe and its sinister hypnotism. It was how he'd enslaved the goblins and become their king at the outset.
Within striking distance now, Gollum reached for the ball with trembling fingers, never taking his eyes off of its undulating motions for even a moment...
But just like that, it was gone. The King secreted it quickly back into his robes, thus freeing his hands to end his enemy.
"NOOOOO!" shrieked Gollum. "The PREEECIOUSSSS!" Frenzied, he leapt at Jareth. Unfortunately, due both to his smaller stature, and the absurd prominence of Jareth's majestically regal and bulging genitals as they strained against the sheer, skin-snug fabric of his Renaissance-faire trousers, Gollum's twin targets were not difficult ones to zero in on.
Jareth had denied Gollum a ball. In retaliation, Gollum had deprived Jareth of two others.
WINNER: GOLLUM
Dictator Division:
Emperor Ming the Merciless (Flash Gordon) Vs. Adam Sutler (V for Vendetta)This turned out to be no contest. Sutler may hold most of fascist Europe in his iron fist, but he does so from the other side of a Jumbotron. Ming not only has an entire PLANET trembling in fear of his despotic wrath, but he's not afraid to come down and get his hands dirty when it gets personal.
Ming polished Sutler off neatly, and without even breaking a sweat. Which is even more of an impressive feat when you realize he did so in a 300-pound outfit that restricts his peripheral vision by a full twenty-five percent.
They don't hand out honorariums like "The Merciless" to just anyone, ya dig?
WINNER: MING
Pixel Power Division:
Shang Tsung (Mortal Kombat) Vs. M. Bison (Street Fighter: The Movie)First they made the leap from pixels to polygons, then from consoles to cinemas. Now, for the first time, the hosts of their respective franchise's tournaments square off here.
Bison made an impressive entrance, all right. He arrived with a full entourage of Shadaloo attendants, bearing ceremonial colors and trumpets, before majestically whipping his cape around himself, and beaming to the crowd. By contrast, Shang Tsung simply stood patiently, wearing a sly smile.
When the bell rang...utter chaos erupted. Multicolored fireballs flew, seemingly of their own volition. So did fists, and feet. At one point, Bison appeared covered in a half-dozen semi-transparent Samurai, Moor tribesmen, and Mongols that clung to him like parasites. As soon as he shook them off, he launched himself at his opponent in a leaping, blue-white corkscrew, connecting with such impact that Shang Tsung ALMOST GOT A SLIGHTLY BLOODY LIP. Attack after physics-and-gravity-defying attack landed with brutal, crushing force.
The end came all at once. Bison's Psycho Power had proven too much for Shang Tsung to defend against, and his victory seemed all but imminent. A horrifying tableau unfolded as the battered-but-still-standing Bison stood triumphantly over the felled body of the snarling, felled warrior he'd seemingly overcome; Shang's leather duster lapels clutched in one of his ham-sized fists. But as the other fist reeled back to deliver the final strike, the sorcerer proved that he yet had one final trick up his evil sleeve. Pulling a desperate move out of thin air, Shang Tsung began to shift shape...
...And proved that even the fearsome Bison has a weakness. He just couldn't bring himself to crush the skull of his own mother.
Bison's soul made a nice addition to Shang Tsung's ever-growing collection.
WINNER: TSUNG
Psycho Goth Division:
Top Dollar (The Crow) Vs. Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg (The Fifth Element)Admittedly, the handicappers got this one a lot more even than the Ming/Sutler fiasco. At least, they did on paper.
Advantage - Dollar: Intimidatingly gravely voice, leagues of henchmen, advanced hand-to-hand combat skills, criminal background honed in Detroit
Advantage - Zorg: Absurd wealth, munitions expertise, strategic genius, silver-tongued Cajun double-speak
Advantage - Both: Sociopathy, cunning, willingness to fight dirty, menacing squint, goth wardrobe
Unfortunately, they failed to take into consideration that no matter how skilled Top Dollar was with a fencing rapier, nobody can parry a Swiss Army Knife of a gun that has more attachments than a fucking vacuum cleaner. And since Zorg was packing a ZF-1, his only real hardship here was deciding whether to go with the flamethrower, RPG, or exploding arrow-bolts.
In the end, he opted for the net and ice-jet combo. Zorg figured there was no better way to show Mr. Dollar's Aphex Twin-looking ass just how much the recession had deflated his overall face value than by polishing him off with the expansions he'd jammed into the gun as comedy afterthoughts.
WINNER: ZORG
With the weekend comes a break. But rest assured...though the final Round 1 combatants are currently relaxing comfortably, they're only biding their time for Monday...which promises to bring much violent merriment.
See you then.
UPDATE: Continue to Part D.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
DoF Shirt of the Week: Glee Made Me Gay.
Admit it. After enjoying a long episode of Glee, you kind of get the urge to go have a girl's day and spend your entire paycheck on some Manolo's don't you, Chuck P. Everyman?
Well embrace it fucker, its 2010. There is nothing "gay" about being Gay these days. So order a choco-tini, kick up your new pumps and celebrate your metrosexuality by wearing this beautiful shirt.
And again, want a cheaper shirt? Be sure to play around with the shirt options. But you know it looks hella cute like this, Champ.
To Buy, As always, click this moderately long hyperlink.
Movie Villain Face-Off: Round 1 (Part Deux)
Welcome back ringside, all you cool chicks and hep cats. We've got bell-to-bell coverage of the next set of bouts in Round One of the movie bad-guy battle royale.
(Oh, and in case you missed part one, here ya go. Now don't say I never gave ya nuthin'.)
(Updated tournament bracket - click for larger version.)
Femme Fatale Division:
Annie Wilkes (Misery) Vs. Nurse Ratched (One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest)
Two very controlling women who want what they want, and will stop at nothing to get it...and each with an Oscar in her back pocket, just for the fuckin' street cred.
When the hankie dropped, Annie came out swinging, and spouting profanity-free epithet after curseless slur. Her sledgehammer described potentially-crushing arcs in the air in front of her. A force to be reckoned with in any context, certainly. But...there was a little problem. Annie, by any account, happens to be nuttier than goddamned squirrel turds. And Nurse Ratched can spot a raving fucking lunatic at 100 paces. Fact is, keeping the crazies in their place isn't just a job for her, it's a raison d'être. She subdues far worse than Annie every single day. Before her coffee, even.
So, via an extremely subtle and practiced combination of calm reasoning, condescension, and calculated authoritarian malice, Nurse Ratched was able to get Annie to drop the hammer, sit down, and talk about her feelings. After about 25 minutes basking in the steely glare of the good Nurse, Annie had laid bare her entire soul. The feelings of inadequacy, the childhood abuse, the unhealthy fixation on the escapism of romance novels...she spilled the whole nine like a cheap bordeaux. Ratched clucked her tongue, and pulled out a hypo of Thorazine. She told Annie that she'd feel much better after a nap. Annie agreed.
Then, while Annie was under, Nurse Ratched slid an ice pick up her nostril. First the left, then the right. After a few taps of her OWN hammer, Ratched's opponent was thus neutralized.
There, there, Annie. Nobody can hurt you anymore. And you can't hurt anyone else, either.
Historical Division:
Emperor Commodus (Gladiator) Vs. The Sheriff of Nottingham (Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves)
Each is a malevolent order-barker who may be used to commanding others to fight, but who can still throw down when the need arises. Even so, I knew physical prowess would likely take a back seat to cunning this time out. So I was interested to see what would happen.
Commodus' plan was to enter the arena like a gentleman, and extend his hand to his opponent in the appearance of mutual respect. A hand that, once shook, would deliver a crippling (but non-fatal) dose of nightshade into the Sheriff's palm thanks to a sharply-barbed ring. Then, with the Sheriff in a weakened state, Commodus assumed he'd easily overpower and kill him, but without any pesky appearance of impropriety.
And it might have worked. The Sheriff does like to think of himself as a man of refinement, despite his ink-black heart. Commodus counted on this. He is ENGLISH, after all.
So, the Sheriff took Commodus' hand, shaking it curtly but politely. It was only then that the Emperor realized his plot was for naught. For no matter how hard he squeezed in an attempt to deliver the poison, the point on his ring could not puncture the roughly-tanned and well-used hide of the Sheriff's riding glove.
After a few seconds of the Emperor's increasingly futile clenching, Nottingham sensed a cheat was afoot, and ripped his hand away, taking the ring (and a meaty chunk of the finger it had been on) right along with it. Upon examining the foreign object lodged in the palm of his glove, the Sheriff knew he'd nearly been had, and became enraged. "You treacherous worm!" he spat, and advanced on Commodus, sword drawn.
Commodus, horrified at the sight of his own fresh blood as it ran streaming from the wound on his finger, shrieked like a little girl. Falling melodramatically to the floor, he held up the bleeding hand amid cries for mercy...Even as he reached for the dagger in his boot with the other one.
A pity he wasn't quicker. A pity, indeed.
Evil Genius Division:
Lex Luthor (Superman) Vs. Dr. Hannibal Lecter (The Silence of the Lambs)
Fighting style is a force to be reckoned with, certainly. But strategy must never be counted out, my friends. Not ever.
Luthor came into this fight assuming he had a distinct advantage. And, he well may have. "Hell," the thought to himself. "I've held my own against the most powerful man in the universe. How much of a challenge is a strait-jacketed near-septuagenarian lashed to a dolly cart with leather restraints really going to be?"
But that's not EXACTLY how it went down. Not at ALL. I wish I could even tell you how it did happen. But I'm just not sure. I mean, yeah...Lecter WAS lashed to the hand-cart. Strait-jacket, mask, all of it. Even I couldn't help but think at first that this seemed like a really unfair match-up. But then I rang the bell to start the round, and the little hammer I used to hit it with fell out of my hand from the vibration of the strike, and rolled under the table. So I bent down to get it.
By the time I got back up into my chair, Dr. Lecter was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Luthor's freshly-severed head right there in his lap. Luthor's twitching body lie fifteen feet away, and the heart was still pumping hard enough to be feeding a quickly-growing puddle of hot, sticky blood that was pooling around the stump of his neck.
My jaw dropped, and I gaped back at Lecter. It was only then that I realized that the top of Luthor's skull had been neatly sliced off all the way around, and that Lecter was chewing thoughtfully, with a sad, faraway look in his eyes. He spoke before I could.
"How terribly disappointing," he rumbled through gore-streaked lips. "I'd always hoped the grey matter of a genius would have a richer flavor."
It was over in less than 15 seconds, and I never heard a sound.
Slasher Division:
Freddy Krueger (A Nightmare on Elm Street) Vs. Jason Voorhees (Friday the 13th)
I know what you're thinking. "Dude. That was totally a movie already. I totally saw it." And that's true. But if you saw it, you know that it was fucking pants. Reason being, in order to placate both sets of fanboys, the producers left the ending ambiguous. There was no clear winner. And that, my friends, is bullshit. I demand satisfaction.
Neutral ground was required for this battle. So, the lake and the boiler room were both out. Instead, our combatants were given an abandoned warehouse.
Jason showed up first, lumbering down an access corridor, machete firmly clenched in one rotting fist. But as he reached the main floor and paused for a moment to assess his surroundings, Freddy leapt down from a shelving unit, drew up behind him, and plunged his sinister claws right into Jason's spine.
"Looks like I got the DROP on you!" hollered Freddy, cackling maniacally.
Problem was, that was the only reason Jason even knew he was there. And as Jason wheeled around in an attempt to discover the source of the sudden noise, he banged Freddy's still-attached form into the shelving unit, knocking him loose...but leaving the glove still firmly lodged in his back.
Thrown for a loop, Freddy struggled to regain his feet for a moment. When he did, Jason was at his elbow. Which, to be fair, only remained HIS elbow for about another eighth of a second, as Jason's machete came whickering down, severing Freddy's arm, and turning over possession of it to the floor.
Freddy howled in pain and anger as he crumpled to the floor, clutching at his shoulder-stump with his other arm. But after a moment, his howls of agony turned to howls of laughter. "You're gonna have to do better than that, you lump of leeches," he told Jason, grinning. "It's not like this is an arms race."
With that, he leapt directly at Jason's knees, and slid deftly between them. Jason hacked wildly at Freddy's legs as he dove through, and managed to deliver a deep slice to one calf. Unfortunately, despite the wounded leg, Freddy found his feet much faster this time, popping up behind Jason again like nothing so much as a nasty jack-in-the-box.
"You have something of mine," hissed Freddy, plunging his remaining hand back into the glove. The blow came with such force that he suddenly found himself wrist-deep in Jason's lumbar region. Sensing an opportunity, Freddy squeezed tightly, grasping several of Jason's vertebrae in his iron fist. For his part, Jason flailed madly at his unseen assailant, groaning loudly and doing himself considerably more damage with his wildly hacking blade than he managed to deal to his nemesis.
"Whoopsie!" giggled Freddy. "Looks like I have to take the back...right out of your comeback." Then, tightening his grip even further, he pulled. HARD.
And as the dust settled, a battered but triumphant Freddy stood raggedly gasping over his opponent's lifeless husk, his remaining hand clutching a significant percentage of Jason's spinal column.
"See?" he shouted at the corpse. "I know you could show some backbone. All you needed was a little hand from an old friend."
Yowza. I didn't see THAT one coming.
Tomorrow: stolen souls, unfortunate spandex, and bringing a knife to a gunfight. See you then.
UPDATE: Click ahead to Part Tres.
(Oh, and in case you missed part one, here ya go. Now don't say I never gave ya nuthin'.)
Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Round 1 (Part Deux)
(Updated tournament bracket - click for larger version.)Femme Fatale Division:
Annie Wilkes (Misery) Vs. Nurse Ratched (One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest)Two very controlling women who want what they want, and will stop at nothing to get it...and each with an Oscar in her back pocket, just for the fuckin' street cred.
When the hankie dropped, Annie came out swinging, and spouting profanity-free epithet after curseless slur. Her sledgehammer described potentially-crushing arcs in the air in front of her. A force to be reckoned with in any context, certainly. But...there was a little problem. Annie, by any account, happens to be nuttier than goddamned squirrel turds. And Nurse Ratched can spot a raving fucking lunatic at 100 paces. Fact is, keeping the crazies in their place isn't just a job for her, it's a raison d'être. She subdues far worse than Annie every single day. Before her coffee, even.
So, via an extremely subtle and practiced combination of calm reasoning, condescension, and calculated authoritarian malice, Nurse Ratched was able to get Annie to drop the hammer, sit down, and talk about her feelings. After about 25 minutes basking in the steely glare of the good Nurse, Annie had laid bare her entire soul. The feelings of inadequacy, the childhood abuse, the unhealthy fixation on the escapism of romance novels...she spilled the whole nine like a cheap bordeaux. Ratched clucked her tongue, and pulled out a hypo of Thorazine. She told Annie that she'd feel much better after a nap. Annie agreed.
Then, while Annie was under, Nurse Ratched slid an ice pick up her nostril. First the left, then the right. After a few taps of her OWN hammer, Ratched's opponent was thus neutralized.
There, there, Annie. Nobody can hurt you anymore. And you can't hurt anyone else, either.
WINNER: NURSE RATCHED
Historical Division:
Emperor Commodus (Gladiator) Vs. The Sheriff of Nottingham (Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves)Each is a malevolent order-barker who may be used to commanding others to fight, but who can still throw down when the need arises. Even so, I knew physical prowess would likely take a back seat to cunning this time out. So I was interested to see what would happen.
Commodus' plan was to enter the arena like a gentleman, and extend his hand to his opponent in the appearance of mutual respect. A hand that, once shook, would deliver a crippling (but non-fatal) dose of nightshade into the Sheriff's palm thanks to a sharply-barbed ring. Then, with the Sheriff in a weakened state, Commodus assumed he'd easily overpower and kill him, but without any pesky appearance of impropriety.
And it might have worked. The Sheriff does like to think of himself as a man of refinement, despite his ink-black heart. Commodus counted on this. He is ENGLISH, after all.
So, the Sheriff took Commodus' hand, shaking it curtly but politely. It was only then that the Emperor realized his plot was for naught. For no matter how hard he squeezed in an attempt to deliver the poison, the point on his ring could not puncture the roughly-tanned and well-used hide of the Sheriff's riding glove.
After a few seconds of the Emperor's increasingly futile clenching, Nottingham sensed a cheat was afoot, and ripped his hand away, taking the ring (and a meaty chunk of the finger it had been on) right along with it. Upon examining the foreign object lodged in the palm of his glove, the Sheriff knew he'd nearly been had, and became enraged. "You treacherous worm!" he spat, and advanced on Commodus, sword drawn.
Commodus, horrified at the sight of his own fresh blood as it ran streaming from the wound on his finger, shrieked like a little girl. Falling melodramatically to the floor, he held up the bleeding hand amid cries for mercy...Even as he reached for the dagger in his boot with the other one.
A pity he wasn't quicker. A pity, indeed.
WINNER: NOTTINGHAM
Evil Genius Division:
Lex Luthor (Superman) Vs. Dr. Hannibal Lecter (The Silence of the Lambs)Fighting style is a force to be reckoned with, certainly. But strategy must never be counted out, my friends. Not ever.
Luthor came into this fight assuming he had a distinct advantage. And, he well may have. "Hell," the thought to himself. "I've held my own against the most powerful man in the universe. How much of a challenge is a strait-jacketed near-septuagenarian lashed to a dolly cart with leather restraints really going to be?"
But that's not EXACTLY how it went down. Not at ALL. I wish I could even tell you how it did happen. But I'm just not sure. I mean, yeah...Lecter WAS lashed to the hand-cart. Strait-jacket, mask, all of it. Even I couldn't help but think at first that this seemed like a really unfair match-up. But then I rang the bell to start the round, and the little hammer I used to hit it with fell out of my hand from the vibration of the strike, and rolled under the table. So I bent down to get it.
By the time I got back up into my chair, Dr. Lecter was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Luthor's freshly-severed head right there in his lap. Luthor's twitching body lie fifteen feet away, and the heart was still pumping hard enough to be feeding a quickly-growing puddle of hot, sticky blood that was pooling around the stump of his neck.
My jaw dropped, and I gaped back at Lecter. It was only then that I realized that the top of Luthor's skull had been neatly sliced off all the way around, and that Lecter was chewing thoughtfully, with a sad, faraway look in his eyes. He spoke before I could.
"How terribly disappointing," he rumbled through gore-streaked lips. "I'd always hoped the grey matter of a genius would have a richer flavor."
It was over in less than 15 seconds, and I never heard a sound.
WINNER: LECTER
Slasher Division:
Freddy Krueger (A Nightmare on Elm Street) Vs. Jason Voorhees (Friday the 13th)I know what you're thinking. "Dude. That was totally a movie already. I totally saw it." And that's true. But if you saw it, you know that it was fucking pants. Reason being, in order to placate both sets of fanboys, the producers left the ending ambiguous. There was no clear winner. And that, my friends, is bullshit. I demand satisfaction.
Neutral ground was required for this battle. So, the lake and the boiler room were both out. Instead, our combatants were given an abandoned warehouse.
Jason showed up first, lumbering down an access corridor, machete firmly clenched in one rotting fist. But as he reached the main floor and paused for a moment to assess his surroundings, Freddy leapt down from a shelving unit, drew up behind him, and plunged his sinister claws right into Jason's spine.
"Looks like I got the DROP on you!" hollered Freddy, cackling maniacally.
Problem was, that was the only reason Jason even knew he was there. And as Jason wheeled around in an attempt to discover the source of the sudden noise, he banged Freddy's still-attached form into the shelving unit, knocking him loose...but leaving the glove still firmly lodged in his back.
Thrown for a loop, Freddy struggled to regain his feet for a moment. When he did, Jason was at his elbow. Which, to be fair, only remained HIS elbow for about another eighth of a second, as Jason's machete came whickering down, severing Freddy's arm, and turning over possession of it to the floor.
Freddy howled in pain and anger as he crumpled to the floor, clutching at his shoulder-stump with his other arm. But after a moment, his howls of agony turned to howls of laughter. "You're gonna have to do better than that, you lump of leeches," he told Jason, grinning. "It's not like this is an arms race."
With that, he leapt directly at Jason's knees, and slid deftly between them. Jason hacked wildly at Freddy's legs as he dove through, and managed to deliver a deep slice to one calf. Unfortunately, despite the wounded leg, Freddy found his feet much faster this time, popping up behind Jason again like nothing so much as a nasty jack-in-the-box.
"You have something of mine," hissed Freddy, plunging his remaining hand back into the glove. The blow came with such force that he suddenly found himself wrist-deep in Jason's lumbar region. Sensing an opportunity, Freddy squeezed tightly, grasping several of Jason's vertebrae in his iron fist. For his part, Jason flailed madly at his unseen assailant, groaning loudly and doing himself considerably more damage with his wildly hacking blade than he managed to deal to his nemesis.
"Whoopsie!" giggled Freddy. "Looks like I have to take the back...right out of your comeback." Then, tightening his grip even further, he pulled. HARD.
And as the dust settled, a battered but triumphant Freddy stood raggedly gasping over his opponent's lifeless husk, his remaining hand clutching a significant percentage of Jason's spinal column.
"See?" he shouted at the corpse. "I know you could show some backbone. All you needed was a little hand from an old friend."
WINNER: KRUEGER
Yowza. I didn't see THAT one coming.
Tomorrow: stolen souls, unfortunate spandex, and bringing a knife to a gunfight. See you then.
UPDATE: Click ahead to Part Tres.
Your Headlines for Monday, April 22nd
Lifestyle:
Party-Goer Cock-Blocked by Jesus
Totally thought shirt was Ironic
Local:
College Campus Littered with Earth Day Flyers
Religion:
Vision of Richard Dawkins Appears in Atheist's Oatmeal
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Movie Villain Face-Off: Round 1 (Part 1)
Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends. We're so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside.One of the things I've always loved about the internet is its inherent geek undercurrent. It's a great place to really drop opinions about pop culture, then back them up with bullshit rhetoric and sideways reasoning. For instance, as kids...all it would take would be for one kid to say, "Who would win in a fight, Hulk or Superman?" to spark debate. And even though the correct answer is "Superman," we'd still spend hours arguing the merits of our choice, and the detractions of the other guy's.
Yes. Superman totally WOULD win. Fuck you.
So, it's in that spirit that I'm touching off a little experiment. One not unlike countless other "best of" and "top X" lists at far, far lesser comedy sites....sites which shall remain nameless (but that rhyme with "Hacked.bomb"). The difference being, my conclusions will be based in rationality, and not wishful fanboy thinking.
And so, without further adieu, I present to you the result of my lying awake and wondering who would win if some of the movie industry's most iconic bad guys were all dumped into a big room, and forced to duke it the fuck out in a last man standing, no holds barred, winner-take-all fight to the last. Because yes...I am just that much of a nerd.
Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Round 1 (Part 1)
(Click bracket for larger version.)Space Division:
Darth Vader (Star Wars) Vs. Khan (Star Trek)Ah, the classic geek-off. Which is is better...Trek or Wars? I figured I'd let these two settle it.
Khan made a good go of it, really. Much respect. He made a mad dash for the Genesis Device in an attempt to end this whole thing before it even got started. But Vader force-choked him, freezing him in place. Vader then confidently strode over, chuckling lightly at Khan's dainty hair-don't and roll-necked old-lady sweater, and plunged his Sith-crimson lightsaber directly into the valley 'twixt Khan's moist, heaving C-cups.
WINNER: VADER
Sociopath Division:
Alex DeLarge (A Clockwork Orange) Vs. Derek Vinyard (American History X)Here's an interesting pairing. Two brutal young men, both filled with hatred. Both are complete fascist sociopaths. Both delight in using environmental items to kill. Both went to prison, and experienced an awakening. And both attempted to serve as a good example to others once released into society.
The main difference? Free will. Derek used his to try to find redemption for himself and his brother. Alex surrendered his ability to act on his impulses, but never quite lost them...so when the artificial roadblocks were removed, he was back to his old self.
So, when Derek attempted to extend a hand in peace, Alex grabbed the hand, and then sliced the back of it open. He took special care TO cut into the main cables this time 'round. And the red, red kroovy did flow, O my brothers.
WINNER: ALEX
Terrorist Division:
Hans Gruber (Die Hard) Vs. Ivan Korshunov (Air Force One)Two European killers with sinister Eastern-bloc accents, goatees, and intentions. Who came out on top?
A coin toss was held to determine the battleground: penthouse, or airplane? Ivan won with a call of "heads," securing the home-team advantage. He then spent a few moments sizing up his opponent, and trying to plan his attack. For his part, Hans (having learned a thing or two from John McClane), immediately wrapped a seatbelt around his waist, fire-hose style, and secured it to a nearby buckle. Then, without a word, he blew a few pistol rounds through the hull behind Ivan, creating a cluster of whistling holes.
At this, Ivan just laughed. "You missed, comrade!" he said mockingly, leveling his own SMG at Hans.
"No...I didn't," said Hans, grinning, as the mounting air-pressure difference suddenly tore a giant breach into the fuselage, sucking Ivan violently outside, and then straight down for 35,000 feet.
Lucky for Hans, the strap held. Even in the midst of heavy battering from all of the items in the cabin rushing past him to exit through the fresh aperture, he laughed.
WINNER: GRUBER
Bond Division:
Ernst Blofeld (Multiple Bond Films) Vs. Auric Goldfinger (Goldfinger)It's the battle of the scowling, doughy, European evil-doers!
Things got off to a slow start with this one, as Ernst (decked out in finest grey wool lapel-less suit) and Auric (sporting a quasi-military ensemble straight from the Hermann Göring fall collection) spent a few minutes circling each other in a large, hollowed-out cavern inside a mountain. Each wasted quite a bit of time describing in great detail how he planned to kill the other without actually doing anything.
After about 15 minutes, Goldfinger grew weary of the shenanigans, and pulled a golden revolver out of his coat. Blofeld, in a moment of panic, threw his cat into Goldfinger's face, where it proceeded to bite and scratch the living shit out of him. This caused Goldfinger to thrash around wildly in pain and confusion. Blofeld seized the opportunity to wrestle Goldfinger's gun away. And when the cat finally dropped off of Goldfinger's face, Blofeld took only a moment to register amusement over the sight of the bloody mess that used to be Goldfinger's face before launching a 24-karat bullet right between his eyes.
The cat, however, is still not speaking to him.
WINNER: BLOFELD
That's it for now, kids. Tune in tomorrow for part 2 of round 1, when horror baddies, historical creeps and femmes fatale square off in their bid to be crowned tinsel-town's top-tier bad-ass.
UPDATE: Read on with Part Deux.
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