How To Fuck Up A Perfectly Good Movie, Pt. 2

In case you missed part 1, I’m bitching about movies, because complaining about someone’s execution of a task you could never perform yourself is one of the requirements of writing for the interwebs (the other seems to be the inability to realize that ‘would’ve’ is an abbreviation, whereas ‘would of’ is nothing more than a sequence of two words so utterly bereft of coherence you could reverse the word order, or combine two random words from the dictionary, and have better odds of achieving a functional sentence). Right, let’s get to it shall we?

The first pillar of the great movie/bad ending is the sci-fi/fantasy epic that ends perfectly, and then inexplicably keeps showing you scenes that make you wonder if the director got fired from his previous job as a barber for scalping people. The most flagrant example of this is Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, which not only meanders for half an hour past its logical point of conclusion, but does so with the ostensible intent of being the first mainstream film to contain an entire scene that is utterly indistinguishable from its gay porn parody version.

Contrast that with the final scene in Escape New York, for instance, which is the ne plus ultra of concise storytelling, encapsulating the dystopian theme and the main character’s ethos all in the span of about 30 seconds.

Let’s just hope Peter Jackson doesn’t get to direct the proposed remake, lest we be subjected to Snake Plissken wandering home to stare lovingly into the eyes of a childhood friend.

At Long Last

Been a while, hasn’t it? An annoying clusterfuck combination of disparate injuries and complications from my aforementioned staph infection have kept me off the mats for over a month. Since one of those injuries consisted of a torn ligament in my (thankfully non-jacking it) wrist, I have not been favourably disposed towards typing shit, and quite frankly, I don’t think that a lot of particularly interesting shit has happened. But on further consideration, just because something is mundane to me, doesn’t mean you won’t find it fascinating, after all, I’m bored by my own awesomeness, but that’s only because I live with it every day. So I can’t spend my afternoons strangling people for a while, what do I do then? Well, since this is setback 4 or 5 in a row, in a short span of time I might add, were I a typical fuckstick american, I would have long since given up, wallowed, and added 20lbs to an already corpulent frame. Not that there’s anything wrong with wallowing, mind you, pigs do it, and they provide us with bacon, which is glorious, but since the 40% of ‘mericans who imitate the noble pig’s feeding habits and sedentary nature would object if we carved them up for strips to add to our eggs in the morning, I’m willing to entertain far less of their oinking. Mind you, if I were a typical american, I wouldn’t be gallivanting around the globe learning new ways to strangle people to begin with, but that’s also what qualifies me to give a little advice to anyone seeking to up their awesome quotient instead of their body mass index for a change.

Imagine you’re a gay dude, and the leader of the gays (don’t even pretend like you don’t have one guys, too many of you dress and act alike to not be following orders) says you can’t chug cock for a month. What do you do? What do you do!? (yes, that’s a ‘Speed’ reference… you‘re welcome). I’ll tell you what you don’t do, you don’t wallow just because you can’t swallow. You pour yourself a mojito, steel your resolve, and you spend that month getting into better shape and practicing on cucumbers so that when your exile is up, you can be a more effective homosexual, otherwise, you‘ll know in your fruity heart of hearts that not only did you let yourself down, you let the tribe down.

But most people don’t have the burden of living up to awesome poofter stereotypes, like superb fitness, upward mobility, erudition, and love of musical theatre. Instead, they look around, and as long as they’re not 300lbs and clinically retarded, they feel like they’re doing pretty well at life. Hell, if they’re good at Call of Duty to boot, they prolly feel like they’re downright badass. Unless we have an army of robot soldiers linked to videogame controllers with which to battle the Chinese, this is no way to save a civilization people! Take me for example. Left with nothing but free time, I could’ve entertained myself with coke and hookers, or heroin and sluts, or even marijuana and cheerleaders, depending on the dividend from my trust fund that month, but no. I worked out practically every day. I ran stairs for high intensity intervals and did core training. My wrist still hasn’t healed to the point where I can do pushups on my palms, so I do them on my knuckles. My resting heart rate has gone from nearly 60, down to 45, my time on the 100 burpee challenge has gone from 8:43 to 6:50. What’s the 100 burpee challenge? You do 100 burpees, then you stop, what are you, from Alabama or something? And when I’m not sweating my stones off trying to wrest my fitness back from the clutches of medical misfortune, I’m following my ‘youtube theory of learning’ protocol to enhance my knowledge of submission grappling. Also, I look at porn, but that’s not actually part of my overall point. What is my overall point? The defining component of excellence is persistence. Also, when in need of a template for awesomeness, find the swishiest fudgepacker you can, and do what he would do. Or just read this blog, either way.

These Are Not The Droids You’re Looking For…

Since my recent experiment in youtube learning revealed a nearly Matrix-like ability to absorb combat skills with no physical training, I decided it would be quite corking to ascertain how many other sci-fi abilities I possessed. My attempts to make my finger glow like E.T. only resulted in third degree burns, but did save me the trouble of looking into the notion of having any Wolverine-esque healing gene mutation. For the purpose of being mistaken for a member of the local poofter community trying out a bizarre touchy-feely homosexual flirting method, Spock’s Vulcan nerve pinch was a gargantuan success, but for fighting… epic failure. It was, however, outstanding at starting fights with homophobes, but then winding up the ignorant isn‘t much of a sci-fi ability… a fact someone should pass on to all those scientologists out there.

While checking out some books by Michio Kaku at the nearest Borders, I tried concentrating really hard to see if I could freeze time, but all I got for my troubles was the irate missive “what are you staring at, fag?!”, from one of the patrons. A brief scuffle ensued, during which I brained the individual in question with both The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde, and a hardbound copy of Mapplethorpe photographs. The incident reinforced my reputation for wit and irony in my choice of improvised weapons, but was discouraging in my pursuit of sc-fi badassery.

At the gym the other night, I eclipsed my personal best deadlift by 20 lbs., which inspired me to again test the boundaries of the possible by seeing if I could control quantum probability and align my molecules so as to pass through solid matter. My venture was unsuccessful, and, if I’m honest, I probably could’ve selected a better target than the beefy gentleman who happened to be bending over to have a drink from the water fountain. Instead of a fracas, however, I received an invitation for a drink at some place called ‘The Manhole’. When I politely declined, my suitor employed a rather high volume (and pitch) to label me a ‘tease’, and all the other tanned, exquisitely groomed men at the gym shunned me from that point on. Who knew there’d be so many mindy fellows working out at a place called Adonis Male Fitness & Spa?

Not willing to relent in my quest, I elected to take a crack at the sine qua non of sci-fi warriors, the Jedi. During one of my grappling sparring sessions at the local Brazilian Jiu Jitsu academy, after several failed attempts to pass my guard (a position that involves keeping your opponent at bay with your legs), my opponent paused, frustrated, and exclaimed “damn your legs are long!”. I saw my opportunity and seized it, responding with “yeah, you should see my cock!”. Flummoxed, caught between laughter and disgust, the dude backed away, tapped the mat, and said “I’m done”. Yup, I Jedi Mind Tricked a guy into submission.

Bit of a long way to go for a dick joke, I grant you, but I think we can agree it was worth it.

Redeye, Evil Eye, Brown Eye

Sure, one can simply book a flight first class, but where’s the challenge in that? Besides, trust funds aren’t what they used to be, so if you’re planning on doing some adventuring with no income, every dollar counts. Thus, I found myself at the gate the other night, having procured an economy class ticket for a redeye flight, attempting to charm a Delta employee into upgrading me, or at least favoring me with a bulkhead seat (for, in addition to being handsome and dashing, I’m also quite tall). Two problems with that. First, the flight was booked solid, so there was no room for swapping seats (even husbands and wives were seated apart on this flight… oddly enough, only the wives were complaining). Second, the employee was male, and though devotees of the love that dare not speak its name may swoon at my chiselled features and devil-may-care demeanor, this particular male flight attendant did not happen to be a member of the swishy brigade. As a result of this confluence of  circumstance, I spent the next few hours airborne, ensconced between two occasionally somnolent, permanently corpulent gentlemen, with my knees somewhere in the vicinity of my armpits. On the plus side, if the plane were to have gone down, I was sure I’d survive, as I had, independent of any desire on my part, already assumed the crash position, and was safely encased within a five or six hundred cocoon of sweaty lard.

One hour layover in Atlanta. Fortune smiles upon me in the form of a hefty female flight attendant who responds to my garrulous overtures with an upgrade to first class. The dude behind me tries to duplicate my venture, but gets shut down. He gives me the evil eye, the sort of 1st degree evil eye I usually only get from dudes whose women are paying me some attention, which goes to show you just how coveted leg room is on a plane. I manage to find an unoccupied padded bench and immediately lay down to attempt a nap. How tired am I at this point? Sitting across from me is what can most aptly be described as a supermodel/trophy wife candidate, and not only am I too torpid to speak with her, I even lack the initiative to pilfer her expensive looking watch.

Arrive at destination. Wait for my ride while sitting on a bench next to rapper Fat Joe (probably, I didn’t confirm his identity because of the obvious difficulty involved in approaching a rotund and asking if the word ‘fat‘ is part of his official nomenclature, particularly when I’m nearing 24 hours without sleep, and especially when said rotund may be armed). A short drive later I reach my Magnum P.I.-esque living quarters (yes, there is a Ferrari in the garage, more on that another time). My fridge is barren, so I walk to the supermarket down the street. On the return trip, a car slows down, and an exceedingly friendly gentleman in a perilously plunging v-neck shirt offers me a job in the sustained air pressure industry. Barely here for 2 hours and already the gays are makin’ a play. Through bemused laughter, I decline, which, for some reason was taken not as a sign of disinterest, but as a negotiating tactic, causing my interlocutor to bolster his recruitment offer by gleefully informing me that he ‘takes it in the brown eye’. “Sorry dude,” I say, “I play for the other team, but good luck with your pursuits”.  The aggressive poofter hissed the word ‘breeder’ at me, gave me a sarcastic pout, and drove away. Little did he know that within a few hours, I’d be rolling around on the floor with sweaty dudes… but, you know, in a totally hetero way.

Lock Up Your Brothers

So last night the much-hyped Anderson Silva-Vitor Belfort fracas went down and I, being an aficionado of  sweaty shirtless men… uh, I mean superlative displays of unarmed combat, elected to take in the spectacle at one of downtown’s finest drinking establishments. Now, as you may be new to the world of Clint Thrust, I should explain my disposition towards the bar scene. I don’t go to bars to drink. I go to bars to exploit people who drink. Or, to ignore people and go about my business like I do at any other type of structure that does not serve alcohol. Last night was supposed to be one of those nights where I ignore everyone else and just enjoy the hot man-on-man action… I mean the intricate bloodsport of kinetic chess that is MMA.  To enhance the probability of the night being a solitary experience, I brought my copy of The Logic Of Scientific Discovery by Karl Popper to read in between fights, sequestered myself in a corner, ordered a cranberry juice  and mustered some steely resolve to not take the bait. Of course by bait, I mean the opportunity to mock the patrons’ nimrod statements regarding the bouts. You’ve heard the expression ‘opinions are like assholes, everybody’s got one’, well, that particular bromide happens to be the soul of truth when it comes to dudes watching fighting. Every botard with a y chromosome thinks they are qualified to opine authoritatively on a donnybrook (if you did not appreciate the sublime aptness of using an archaic irish term in a tale involving alcohol and fighting, then you, sir or madam, are a poltroon and I thank you to desist in reading this blog). What’s more, as tends to be the state of discourse, alas, in most matters, the least informed commentators hold their opinions more dear, choosing to express them with greater volume and certainty, than do more educated observers. I typically enjoy remarking on this, while, mind you, employing far less erudite language.

Normally, were I to pitilessly ridicule some inebriated douchebag for his inability to distinguish between a darce choke and an anaconda choke, the resulting brouhaha might end with me choking him out, twice,  you know, to clarify the terminology for him… after punching him square in the cock, that is. Under most circumstances, this would be a matter of considerable amusement, and worth pursuing, if only for the opportunity to practice eluding law enforcement in the aftermath of a conflagration initiated by my big fat mouth… a skill I have sadly neglected during my recent experiment in isolated mountain living and sumptuous beard cultivation. However, I have a couple of days before I’m due to catch a flight destined for more arenose climes, time I intend not to spend eschewing the local constabulary, but instead devote to tormenting my friend over the prospect of me having intercourse with his sister, and possibly also actually having said intercourse. Fortune smiled upon me last night, as it often does in situations where my behavior stands to prove the random caprice of the universe, when my friend’s brother walked into the bar. We watched the fights, reminisced, and I walked away with number to the sister-in-question’s mobile phone device…