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Thursday, May 06, 2010
The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity
You know that level of "oh, what the fuck is THIS now?" that leaves you stumbling, fumbling, bumbling for any sort of coherent articulation of your boiling indignation?
Yeah, well, recently I've decided I'm not even gonna try anymore. Instead, I've decided to deploy the "Gleason Face" to succinctly and accurately communicate those feelings:
Ahhh, perfect.
Let's give the Gleason Face a test run with a little stroll through today's headlines, shall we?
Blahblahblah - oil spill - blahblahblah - British elections - blahblahblah - Times Square bomber
Oh, what the fuck is THIS now?
"KFC announces 'Buckets for the Cure'"???
…
…
Read the Read about the relationship between obesity and cancer here.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Your SPORTS!!! Headlines for Wednesday, May 5th
Basketball:
Following Complaints, ESPN Classic Airs 1998 NBA Finals with Censored John Stockton
T-Ball:
Newport Lil' Phillies Win on Walk-off 4-base Error
Slow rolling grounder turns into big trouble after opposing rightfielder buries glove in dirt, gets distracted by turtle
Opinion:
Hey, Maybe I Should Start the Wave!
By Some Asshole in Sec. 237
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
This Day in History
Dutch explorer Peter Minuit landed on what is now Manhattan. 6 hours later, Minuit was broke, on his 4th roommate and his fucking cab driver still hadn't found a way to get him crosstown.
1961
Freedom Riders in Washington, D.C. boarded buses headed for New Orleans to challenge racial segregation in transit terminals and on interstate buses. Well, all except for 37-year-old U.S. Postal employee Orvil LaRouche, who unfortunately thought he was just catching the J4 bus to his aunt's house in Bethesda.
Movie Villain Face-Off: Fate of the Great Eight
Here we go again. Hold onto your genitals.
Oh, cool...you're actually doing it. All right, let's get moving:
(Oh, snap - Re-cap: Movie Villain Deathmatch: Part 1, Part Deux, Part Tres, Part D, First Mean Sixteen, and Mean Sixteen 2.)
(Embiggen-klicken.)
Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Fate of the Great Eight
Die Hard/Sith o' Vengeance Division:
Darth Vader Vs. Hans Gruber
From the start, Hans knew something was...different about this one. He seemed far more dangerous than anyone he'd encountered thus far. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, but less out of fear than out of anticipation of an actual challenge.
Vader, too, looked into the eyes of his adversary, and saw a pair much like he remembered his own to have been all those years ago. Cold. Ruthless. Cunning. He almost allowed himself to soften a bit as he approached his opponent, but Gruber's lightning-quick production of a snub-nosed 9mm Heckler & Koch pistol stopped him in his tracks.
"Hold it right there, you wheezing blackguard," said Gruber, never taking his eyes off of Vader for a moment. "I don't have the faintest clue who you are, but I don't care for the look of you. And I'll thank you to keep your distance." Gruber waggled the gun at his hip for emphasis.
"You are in no position to issue orders to me," Vader rumbled, "much less dare to point your Blaster. I will destroy you where you stand." He waggled an accusing finger at Gruber in disapproval.
"A 'blaster'?" replied Gruber. "Gott in himmel, what are you -"
Before Gruber could finish his thought (much less his sentence), Vader had produced his lightsaber. It sizzled to sinister life, throwing its bloody neon glow. The light reflected onto Vader's helmet, not unlike the bright-hot light of the lava beds of Mustafar that had once nearly claimed him. Gruber responded by also reflexively clasping his free hand around the butt of his VP70, and raising it to eye level, framing Vader's helmet directly between its sights with a steady, two-fisted grip.
"That's a pretty fancy trick," said Gruber. "But you won't be able to stop a bullet with a flashlight, I'm afraid."
"Don't be too proud of the technological terror you wield. Its ability to destroy me is insignificant next to the power of the Force, " Vader responded.
"Right, fine," spat Gruber. "I'm already weary of this. Good-bye." With that, Gruber squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession, never once pulling his aim. The first two shots ground to a halt in mid-air, as Vader raised a hand, effectively stopping them from finding purchase. The third, however, did find its mark...splitting Vader's helmet cleanly in two. And, while the mask absorbed the bulk of the impact, sparing Vader's skull...its destruction nonetheless severed a crucial link to his suit's on-board respiratory apparatus.
At once, Vader began withering, and slumped to the floor. Without air, he felt his strength leaving him rapidly. Gruber crossed to Vader slowly, pistol still aimed at his forehead, to finish the job if necessary...
...Not that it was.
As the last of Vader's sterile, artificial breath left him, he still managed to muster a grudging respect for his enemy, and marveled at the accuracy of this hitherto un-encountered Blaster variant. He had thought that not even Imperial Stormtroopers could be so precise.
Impressive...Most impressive.
Beastly Brits Division:
Sheriff of Nottingham Vs. Hannibal Lecter
"Oh, most delicious," thought Dr. Lecter as the Sheriff drew near. "Most don't, but I do love a spot of good English food here and again."
"You there, old man," the Sheriff shouted as he approached the good Doctor. "Do be kind enough to direct me toward the nearest p-aaaaaAAAAIGGH MY GOD!"
Lecter hadn't been interested in waiting for the Sheriff to finish, pouncing toward him and snarling with ravenous desire as soon as he'd been near enough. Unfortunately for him, the Sheriff's reflexive combat training meant that he'd had his rapier out and ready while Lecter was still in mid-air. Thus, Lecter was forced to watch himself fall helplessly and painfully upon its sinister point. Within a fraction of a second, it had punctured his abdomen and traveled clean through out the lumbar, ending the function of several rather essential internal organs along the way. Lecter's thin linen scrubs offered little in the way of protection from its puncture. At once, they began to bloom brightly with hot, fresh blood.
Lecter's reaction was one borne more of irritation than of pain as he clutched at the blade's hilt, still firmly held in the Sheriff's glove as Nottingham stood gaping at him, slack-jawed. "God damn it all," muttered Lecter, disappointed. "I was still USING my transverse colon..."
Lecter's speech yanked the Sheriff out of his own shocked silence. "What? In the BLOODY? HELL?!?" he demanded, rivulets of Lecter's lifeblood surging and gushing over his glove. "Look what you've DONE! You've gone and gotten yourself killed, old man! And for what?"
"I...I - I was hungry," Lecter replied, and started to laugh in short, sharp barks. The Sheriff at once understood, reclaiming his weapon forcefully and with disgust, causing the last of the support strength to disappear from Lecter's legs.
"And you meant to eat...ME, did you?" the Sheriff asked, jerking a gloved thumb toward his sternum as Lected tumbled roughly to the dirt.
Lecter continued hacking wetly as he giggled. "Any port in a storm," he responded. "Speaking of which, before I forget...I've...*-HACK!-*...always wanted to...*koff-koff*...sample my own wares...and it looks - *KOFF* - like my opportunity...is...fading..." Even as he spoke, the Sheriff noticed that Lecter was working his trembling hands busily in the fresh wound, tearing out gobbety strips of moist meat. As the Sheriff watched in absolute horror, Lecter began popping wet, bloody chunk after wet, bloody chunk of his own vitals into his gore-streaked mouth, blood bubbling up fresh from inside and out as he chewed, laughing.
"Good CHRIST!" the Sheriff yelled as Lecter consumed himself.
"Sorry..." responded Lecter. "But...-*KOFF!*-...He's not invited." More wheezing giggles erupted as Lecter continued his revolting auto-cannibalism.
"In that case," countered the Sheriff, hunching down over his fallen adversary, "eat your bloody heart out, old man."
Nottingham stood, and prepared to continue on his way. As the last of Lecter's life drained away, he reached into one of his many belt-pouches, dropped a spoon onto Lecter's thin, wasted chest, and walked on.
Mordor Kombat Division:
Gollum Vs. Shang Tsung
By now, Gollum had gotten used to two things. Being underestimated, and the victory that resulted from it. Not to mention that his confidence had been boosted considerably due to the presence of his new Precious. So when Shang Tsung strode purposefully over to him, Gollum drew himself up to his full two feet and six inches, and croaked, "STOP!", holding out a thin palm towards the sorcerer. "We says you don't come no closer, you nasty Wizardses. No more! We are tired! Let us rest!"
Shang Tsung stopped cold, regarding Gollum with narrowed eyes, and a flip smirk. "But of course," he answered, his plummy speech metered with a not-very-subtle note of snide condescension. "Not until you are ready."
"Yes. Yeeeessss," replied Gollum, his sad, wet eyes darting uncontrollably in nearly every direction at once. "We only just now found a new Precious, and we still have yets to know all its big, powerful powers." He held his bony hand out to admire the ring of Ming as it spun freely on his slender finger, and its preternatural luminescence sent reflected golden glints dancing across the vast expanses of his sclera. The low, barely-perceptible hum of the sinister bauble was making Shang Tsung's teeth vibrate slightly.
"It is most lovely, my young friend," said Shang, his dulcet tones delivering a near-approximation of melody. "Tell me, how did you come by this beautiful piece?"
"OoooOOooh, it was a BEASTLY Wizardses, in a red, bloody red gown," said Gollum, flicking his eyes back and forth between Shang Tsung and the ring. "He's insides it now, like its a soul prison with his wizardsness trapped all in."
Shang's keen ears perked up. "His soul, you say?" he sang smoothly. "And he's a Wizard, too? Tsk, tsk. My, what a dilemma." He crouched, slowly, hunching down nearer to Gollum, who did not notice his sly approach.
"Yessss, a Wizzzardzesss, who had a big, shiny head, and a -HGURKKK!!*!!" Gollum's gutteral tone suddenly grew more so, as Shang had him by the neck in a flash. "GgggGGhhAAAAHH-" growled Gollum in shocked pain...stopping abruptly as Shang squeezed and twisted sharply, cleanly snapping his frail neck like a dry twig.
The life-force already having left his tiny frame, Shang dropped Gollum's body roughly, wiping his hands on his trenchcoat even as he let what was left of Gollum's soul go to its reward. He had no need of it, twisted and bent as it was. It was of no use to him. However, as Gollum's corpse lay still, Shang carefully bent down, and slipped Ming's ring off of the finger it had only resided on for the briefest of periods, and slipped it onto his own.
As perfectly as the ring hugged his finger, Shang had a notion that the prize inside of it would be an even better fit once he determined how it could best be liberated.
Forfeit High and Rising Division:
{Null Set} Vs. Leatherface
Due to the HAL 9000/Anton Chigurh double-elimination last round, Ol' Leather-puss gets a bye this time out. So, with no victim to carve up into bloody chunks, he instead opted to go to town on a little chainsaw sculpture, creating this lovely totem in honor of his last-round opponent.
Isn't THAT nice?
Next time: The long-awaited Semifinal matchups hit an unexpected snag or two. Will Leatherface's chugging chain be any match for Shang Tsung's fists and brain? Will Shang Tsung barge in on Hans Gruber and the Sheriff of Nottingham's round early, assuming that Shao Khan has set up a "face yourself" challenge, and morph into Professor Snape just to be a dick?
Only one way to find out. Be there, or be rectangular.
UPDATE: Final Four on the Floor.
Oh, cool...you're actually doing it. All right, let's get moving:
(Oh, snap - Re-cap: Movie Villain Deathmatch: Part 1, Part Deux, Part Tres, Part D, First Mean Sixteen, and Mean Sixteen 2.)
(Embiggen-klicken.)Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Fate of the Great Eight
Die Hard/Sith o' Vengeance Division:
Darth Vader Vs. Hans GruberFrom the start, Hans knew something was...different about this one. He seemed far more dangerous than anyone he'd encountered thus far. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, but less out of fear than out of anticipation of an actual challenge.
Vader, too, looked into the eyes of his adversary, and saw a pair much like he remembered his own to have been all those years ago. Cold. Ruthless. Cunning. He almost allowed himself to soften a bit as he approached his opponent, but Gruber's lightning-quick production of a snub-nosed 9mm Heckler & Koch pistol stopped him in his tracks.
"Hold it right there, you wheezing blackguard," said Gruber, never taking his eyes off of Vader for a moment. "I don't have the faintest clue who you are, but I don't care for the look of you. And I'll thank you to keep your distance." Gruber waggled the gun at his hip for emphasis.
"You are in no position to issue orders to me," Vader rumbled, "much less dare to point your Blaster. I will destroy you where you stand." He waggled an accusing finger at Gruber in disapproval.
"A 'blaster'?" replied Gruber. "Gott in himmel, what are you -"
Before Gruber could finish his thought (much less his sentence), Vader had produced his lightsaber. It sizzled to sinister life, throwing its bloody neon glow. The light reflected onto Vader's helmet, not unlike the bright-hot light of the lava beds of Mustafar that had once nearly claimed him. Gruber responded by also reflexively clasping his free hand around the butt of his VP70, and raising it to eye level, framing Vader's helmet directly between its sights with a steady, two-fisted grip.
"That's a pretty fancy trick," said Gruber. "But you won't be able to stop a bullet with a flashlight, I'm afraid."
"Don't be too proud of the technological terror you wield. Its ability to destroy me is insignificant next to the power of the Force, " Vader responded.
"Right, fine," spat Gruber. "I'm already weary of this. Good-bye." With that, Gruber squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession, never once pulling his aim. The first two shots ground to a halt in mid-air, as Vader raised a hand, effectively stopping them from finding purchase. The third, however, did find its mark...splitting Vader's helmet cleanly in two. And, while the mask absorbed the bulk of the impact, sparing Vader's skull...its destruction nonetheless severed a crucial link to his suit's on-board respiratory apparatus.
At once, Vader began withering, and slumped to the floor. Without air, he felt his strength leaving him rapidly. Gruber crossed to Vader slowly, pistol still aimed at his forehead, to finish the job if necessary...
...Not that it was.
As the last of Vader's sterile, artificial breath left him, he still managed to muster a grudging respect for his enemy, and marveled at the accuracy of this hitherto un-encountered Blaster variant. He had thought that not even Imperial Stormtroopers could be so precise.
Impressive...Most impressive.
WINNER: GRUBER
Beastly Brits Division:
Sheriff of Nottingham Vs. Hannibal Lecter"Oh, most delicious," thought Dr. Lecter as the Sheriff drew near. "Most don't, but I do love a spot of good English food here and again."
"You there, old man," the Sheriff shouted as he approached the good Doctor. "Do be kind enough to direct me toward the nearest p-aaaaaAAAAIGGH MY GOD!"
Lecter hadn't been interested in waiting for the Sheriff to finish, pouncing toward him and snarling with ravenous desire as soon as he'd been near enough. Unfortunately for him, the Sheriff's reflexive combat training meant that he'd had his rapier out and ready while Lecter was still in mid-air. Thus, Lecter was forced to watch himself fall helplessly and painfully upon its sinister point. Within a fraction of a second, it had punctured his abdomen and traveled clean through out the lumbar, ending the function of several rather essential internal organs along the way. Lecter's thin linen scrubs offered little in the way of protection from its puncture. At once, they began to bloom brightly with hot, fresh blood.
Lecter's reaction was one borne more of irritation than of pain as he clutched at the blade's hilt, still firmly held in the Sheriff's glove as Nottingham stood gaping at him, slack-jawed. "God damn it all," muttered Lecter, disappointed. "I was still USING my transverse colon..."
Lecter's speech yanked the Sheriff out of his own shocked silence. "What? In the BLOODY? HELL?!?" he demanded, rivulets of Lecter's lifeblood surging and gushing over his glove. "Look what you've DONE! You've gone and gotten yourself killed, old man! And for what?"
"I...I - I was hungry," Lecter replied, and started to laugh in short, sharp barks. The Sheriff at once understood, reclaiming his weapon forcefully and with disgust, causing the last of the support strength to disappear from Lecter's legs.
"And you meant to eat...ME, did you?" the Sheriff asked, jerking a gloved thumb toward his sternum as Lected tumbled roughly to the dirt.
Lecter continued hacking wetly as he giggled. "Any port in a storm," he responded. "Speaking of which, before I forget...I've...*-HACK!-*...always wanted to...*koff-koff*...sample my own wares...and it looks - *KOFF* - like my opportunity...is...fading..." Even as he spoke, the Sheriff noticed that Lecter was working his trembling hands busily in the fresh wound, tearing out gobbety strips of moist meat. As the Sheriff watched in absolute horror, Lecter began popping wet, bloody chunk after wet, bloody chunk of his own vitals into his gore-streaked mouth, blood bubbling up fresh from inside and out as he chewed, laughing.
"Good CHRIST!" the Sheriff yelled as Lecter consumed himself.
"Sorry..." responded Lecter. "But...-*KOFF!*-...He's not invited." More wheezing giggles erupted as Lecter continued his revolting auto-cannibalism.
"In that case," countered the Sheriff, hunching down over his fallen adversary, "eat your bloody heart out, old man."
Nottingham stood, and prepared to continue on his way. As the last of Lecter's life drained away, he reached into one of his many belt-pouches, dropped a spoon onto Lecter's thin, wasted chest, and walked on.
WINNER: SHERIFF
Mordor Kombat Division:
Gollum Vs. Shang TsungBy now, Gollum had gotten used to two things. Being underestimated, and the victory that resulted from it. Not to mention that his confidence had been boosted considerably due to the presence of his new Precious. So when Shang Tsung strode purposefully over to him, Gollum drew himself up to his full two feet and six inches, and croaked, "STOP!", holding out a thin palm towards the sorcerer. "We says you don't come no closer, you nasty Wizardses. No more! We are tired! Let us rest!"
Shang Tsung stopped cold, regarding Gollum with narrowed eyes, and a flip smirk. "But of course," he answered, his plummy speech metered with a not-very-subtle note of snide condescension. "Not until you are ready."
"Yes. Yeeeessss," replied Gollum, his sad, wet eyes darting uncontrollably in nearly every direction at once. "We only just now found a new Precious, and we still have yets to know all its big, powerful powers." He held his bony hand out to admire the ring of Ming as it spun freely on his slender finger, and its preternatural luminescence sent reflected golden glints dancing across the vast expanses of his sclera. The low, barely-perceptible hum of the sinister bauble was making Shang Tsung's teeth vibrate slightly.
"It is most lovely, my young friend," said Shang, his dulcet tones delivering a near-approximation of melody. "Tell me, how did you come by this beautiful piece?"
"OoooOOooh, it was a BEASTLY Wizardses, in a red, bloody red gown," said Gollum, flicking his eyes back and forth between Shang Tsung and the ring. "He's insides it now, like its a soul prison with his wizardsness trapped all in."
Shang's keen ears perked up. "His soul, you say?" he sang smoothly. "And he's a Wizard, too? Tsk, tsk. My, what a dilemma." He crouched, slowly, hunching down nearer to Gollum, who did not notice his sly approach.
"Yessss, a Wizzzardzesss, who had a big, shiny head, and a -HGURKKK!!*!!" Gollum's gutteral tone suddenly grew more so, as Shang had him by the neck in a flash. "GgggGGhhAAAAHH-" growled Gollum in shocked pain...stopping abruptly as Shang squeezed and twisted sharply, cleanly snapping his frail neck like a dry twig.
The life-force already having left his tiny frame, Shang dropped Gollum's body roughly, wiping his hands on his trenchcoat even as he let what was left of Gollum's soul go to its reward. He had no need of it, twisted and bent as it was. It was of no use to him. However, as Gollum's corpse lay still, Shang carefully bent down, and slipped Ming's ring off of the finger it had only resided on for the briefest of periods, and slipped it onto his own.
As perfectly as the ring hugged his finger, Shang had a notion that the prize inside of it would be an even better fit once he determined how it could best be liberated.
WINNER: TSUNG
Forfeit High and Rising Division:
{Null Set} Vs. LeatherfaceDue to the HAL 9000/Anton Chigurh double-elimination last round, Ol' Leather-puss gets a bye this time out. So, with no victim to carve up into bloody chunks, he instead opted to go to town on a little chainsaw sculpture, creating this lovely totem in honor of his last-round opponent.
Isn't THAT nice?
WINNERS: LEATHERFACE, ETSY.COM
Next time: The long-awaited Semifinal matchups hit an unexpected snag or two. Will Leatherface's chugging chain be any match for Shang Tsung's fists and brain? Will Shang Tsung barge in on Hans Gruber and the Sheriff of Nottingham's round early, assuming that Shao Khan has set up a "face yourself" challenge, and morph into Professor Snape just to be a dick?
Only one way to find out. Be there, or be rectangular.
UPDATE: Final Four on the Floor.
BREAKING NEWS
9 years after tragic plane crash, government panel rules it's morally acceptable to masturbate to Aaliyah videos again
"Time has come to celebrate her legacy by wanking away with a clear conscience"
Monday, May 03, 2010
A Nightmare on Elm StreetI know how this one's gonna go.
I don't have to see it to know.
Though Fred wants to thrill us,
We'll look up, shout, "Kill us,"
And he will look down, whis'pring "No."
How to Train Your DragonThey're STILL buying tickets for "Dragon"?
I'm shocked that the take isn't saggin'.
It's nice when there's money
In warm, family funny,
Without all the violence or shaggin'.
Date NightMistaken identity hoax
Leads Gangsters to threaten some folks.
But then, just like that,
They knock the mob flat...
As flat as the bulk of the jokes.
The Back-Up PlanA woman of staggering beauty
Considers a baby her duty.
And yet she can't find
A guy who won't mind
A guilty-free ride on her booty?
Furry VengeanceThe title? I thought it was scary.
Admittedly, I am quite wary
Of folks who get stiff
Then cuddle and "yiff"
While wearing a suit that's all hairy.
The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity
"Honey, I'm sorry about cheating. To improve our marriage I just ordered us a Better Marriage Blanket. That ought to fix everything, right hon? ... Hon?"
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.
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