"I could have been something, but I'm digging a ditch. I'm a sonvabastard and a sonvabitch!"
I'm a chump. A huge Chump. A fat Chump. A pisswasher. A poo rag of humanity that should die already. I just can't get this knot tied tight enough. Around my neck. I've got the Peppermint crotch. The pull-it wrinkle: call it Pinkeye of the Soul. I can't even do this job right, and all it is, is sitting at a keyboard, typing rhetorical nonsense. Reviewing movies? On the Internet? Does anyone care anymore? Not really. I don't think. I don't care. I suddenly hate all of you hack couch critics that phone it in from the back of a tall glass. How many High Balls did you have, Julian Roman, before you decided to give Stealth 3 and stars? You must have been high, you must have been high, you must have been high…
I know I was drunk.
And I'm no better or worse. I constantly sift through sh*t, then give it the double thumbs-up, "Way to go, Champ!" Take Dukes of Hazzard for instance…Did I really enjoy that movie, or was I just happy that I didn't have to review it afterwards? I'm pretty sure it was the later. So I gave it the okay. I'm still trying to figure out why. I told everyone Dukes was better than sucking the blood out of a tampon found in the trashcan at a public rest-a-room! Yum. And I guess it's saying awful things like that that always gets me in a heap of trouble. (We gotta out gross each other here on the Net; it's the only thing that keeps it fun.)
Well, recently, I decided to hang up my critical hat. Reviewing movies is for the monkeys. And everyone, at this current moment, except for those splendid guys at CHUD (their thematic narratives are beautifully rendered works of word art), are swinging with their F game. All you douche bags suck. And I believe that's why, at this current point in time, movies suck too. If we, as critics, can't even spell check our spiteful retellings of whatever Remake we saw last week, then why should Director Bruce Hunt give us something new and refreshing. He shouldn't. Because he doesn't have to. Because nobody cares that some Tercel-driving Web journalist hated his new horror film. It's the truth…
I recently reviewed Bad News Bears, because another reviewer on this site pissed me off. Don't ask me why I was even reading his trash talk (I won't say your name, you know who you are). Film Critic Dot Com: Who needs ‘em? I guess movieweb does, cause they don't have anyone else to turn to in a time of need. So, I counter-attacked this jackass's views because I thought he was way off base. Don't even ask me why I cared. I was bored. And I thought it was funny. Basically, I only write things down on paper because they amuse me. I don't care if they amuse anyone else…
Well, a couple days later, I got slapped in the face with some hatemail. Someone's drunk bitch of a mom did a Google search for Bad News Bears, and, I guess, my tiny essay jumped off the computer screen and ate her clitoris. Sharks like chum. What can I say? Thing is, I've been doing this for 5 years now. Day in, and Day out. Reviews, essays, junket interviews with big stars. Some people might think that's fun. And cool. For a while, it was. But now it seriously reminds me of my stint at Taco Bell. The Lunch Rush. Constantly pushing hard shell tacos down the line for this invisible, insatiable monster. It never stops eating. And nobody cares that it's getting fed. Basically, what I'm trying to say is, I've never gotten anything out of this job. Not a girlfriend, not a bit of money, not a pat on the back, or even an "'Atta Boy!" The only thing that has ever been thrust into my hands as a direct result of being an Internet Journalist here at Movieweb is hatemail. A lot of it. And, generally, I like it. It's kept me going, and it's kept me from going insane. Even in those darkest "You must see The Man!" hours. I've never had my feelings hurt. How could I? I mean; I sit here, in this tiny shoebox apartment, pumping out angry missives about the honest hard work being done by a million different individuals. And none of these people ever complain about B. Alan Orange. How can I get mad when someone who has less to do in life than me (they must, otherwise, why would they be taking the time too write my dumb ass?) sits down and tells me I'm an awful person? I can't. I know I'm lower than some Polish guy that just got out of prison for beating his mom with a tire iron. At least he has a giant penis. All I have is this Vienna sausage stuck between two bowling balls, and it refuses to come alive for the thickest bitches. So you know I'm no good. I'm an awful, ugly loser. I should worship and cherish each piece of hatemail I get. At least someone is paying attention to me.
That's the way I usually think. But for some reason, this whore's stupid email got to me. It crawled into my subconscious and spit bollweivels into my rational thinking. I suddenly hated this faceless lady. Here, read what she wrote yourself:
I have sent the following e-mail to Napster, Allstate, TiVo, Disney, and Kodak, for starters:
To Whom It May Concern,
Just thought I'd let you know what your website is being associated with.
I was recently looking up some information on a movie called "The Country Bears." I ran across a review of the movie on movieweb.com by a so-called ‘reviewer' that goes by the name of ‘B. Allen Orange'. Thought you might like to know that accompanying your ads are lines such as "Whenever I hear that goddamned song" and "F*ck this movie" and "I don't know who the f*ck she is" and "Tear the mother f'er into tiny chunks". This was all in just ONE review! I couldn't bring myself to read the others.
Of course it's entirely up to you, but as a businessperson myself, I wouldn't care to have my business associated, in anyway, with that mouth.
Wait one f*cked-up minute…I read that wrong the first time. I thought she was mad about my Bad News Bears review. This is for Country Bears? The lady must be on 7 flavors of Angel Dust. I'm not mad at her anymore. She's way more pathetic than I could ever hope to be. Who, in their right mind, is sitting at home looking up 4 year old reviews for the Country Bears movie? And then sending an angry letter to Disney and TiVo about it (they don't give a f*ck about me)? That's just wrong. In an immoral way. Actually, I'm laughing now. Realizing this crazy woman is defending a Dietrich Bader movie has me pulling out my guts and stapling them with the magnetic particles of a laugh track…
God, I hate people. All of them. You are all so stupid. And I hate every movie that is out right now…
Look at me, I'm the Cave! I'm a big rubber monster. F*ck all you f*cking movies. I hate you all. You all suck. What, am I supposed to like any of you? I don't think so. The Man. More like, The Sh*t. Ha, ha. Why hasn't Neil Hamburger made a movie? It would be better than Chairman of the Board.
"Hi, I'm a producer!"
"What did you produce?"
"Chairman of the Board."
"Why are you telling me that? In a bar? You might as well tell me you've got a cocktail of Aids and Herpes mixed up in your leaning front pocket."
Whimper, whimper, suck. And it's into the street without a number. I'd rather tell chicks that I made a Bigfoot film. Speaking of Bigfoot films, Sasquatch Hunters is the awesome. Why? God, I don't know. Because I can just shut off my mind and watch that Bigfoot slam bitches into a tree. Yeah, I'm mad at the ladies. They don't like my Penis. Or my reviews (as evidenced above). I will never be able to please a woman. They just use me for my DVD collection. It's sad. Because I don't even have any really good movies sitting on my shelf. They don't even realize that until they come over to my house and sift through the stacks a third time…
"Why do you have Blast Off? Troy Donahue's a dick and this movie sucks. You suck. You can't get it up, and I'm leaving you for a window washer."
Goddamn it. A window washer is better than an Internet Journalist. Hate Mail and a bad disposition. We should all get out right now. I will never please any of you readers. I'm feeling crushed inside. Sick at my stomach. I need to die.
I guess I have made myself feel this way. It has nothing to do with the multiplex, or that girl sitting across from me, chatting on the cell phone. We were having dinner. She told the guy on the other end that she was doing nothing. Eating with me is "Doing Nothing". God, I suck. And so does this current box office slump. Not because the movies are horrible, but because this whole business affair is bullsh*t. There is no box office slump. It's a myth.
So, go put the you know what in the you know where!
I have some laundry to do.