Sunday, June 28, 2009
Ah, England! Ah Wales! Ah the BBC! Ah god what is the U.K. thinking?! Now I don't know if anyone who reads this trash heap of a blog is a British television fan, or if anyone in the world is for that matter. I mean yeah canuk TV isn't much better. All we've got is ... shit I dunno the news? And comedy shows that make fun of the news? Jesus that's awful. But at least our country knows we suck. Those soccer hooligan, (football?) blokes across the pond just keep trying and just keep failing. I mean they try really hard to make great programs, (programmes?) and everyone knows the harder you try the harder you die. Bitch. I tattoo that on all my girlfriends so whenever they look at their asses in a mirror or a toaster they'll know the score. (All my boyfriends get a butterfly on their lower back and a crazy mustache on their index finger.)
Flicking around trying to decide which one of the fifty BBC stations to settle on is a total chore. It's no wonder everyone there is so crabby. They've got an entire station where Richy Attenborough narrates hours upon hours of stock footage. Sheepdog trials. He narrates. Frogs mating for nine hours. He narrates. He even likes to talk along to the hidden camera in Jamie Oliver's bathroom. (That one is ALSO called 'Jamie At Home'. Or 'Ministry Of Poo' I can never remember.)
One day I got stuck listening to 'the English Morgan Freeman' putting the hurt on what seemed like an eternity of 'Churchill family reunion tapes'. ACK! (F.Y.I. There is no good looking cousin. They're all total ug-mo's.) That was the afternoon from hell. And it's not like you can go and do anything else in that country 'cause besides the fact that it's always raining it's also incredibly freaking dangerous. Everyone drives on the wrong side of the road and there are soooo many different accents and slangs that I don't think anyone knows what anyone else is really talking about. Ever! Imagine, just imagine how bad that must be for the people. You order fish and chips and you get a shwarma and crisps. You request Pet Shop Boys on the radio but you're really telling Scotland Yard that you're getting raped or something, I dunno. It's anarchy over there! (And when I want to smoke a fag people keep handing me cigarettes!)
So let's get to the review of what I'm calling the United Kingdom's 'Dawson's Creek.' Because that's what it is. It's like watching the X-Files except not only are Mully and Sculder banging but they're also knocking boots with everyone in the freaking bureau! (Yes, even smoking guy. By the by, Skinner told me he's great at inhaling F.B.I. pole as well.) But it's all good. In point of fact it's pretty freaking awesome. It's like watching The Hills but because they talk funny and are super sexy "SLASH" annoying, I never have any idea what the hell is going on. So I guess it's like really watching The Hills but let me explain. SPOILERS AHEAD. Or if you need to get caught up then here's the skinny.
Gwen Cooper is shagging her boyfriend but then she starts shagging Owen Harper. Owen Harper is a total player so he's also shagging Amelia Airheart I think. Also Toshiko Sato. I think they shagged. Toshiko Sato went on a date in 1945 with Capt. Jack Harkness and I think they Shagged as well. (She's a tramp. Bong!) But Capt. Jack Harkness and Gwen Cooper are all "we should totally shag sometime cause we're awesome." For now though he's shagging Ianto Jones as well as this crazy Time Pirate guy, who is a complete bad-ass by the way! When he's not shagging or drinking he's just tossing punks off of parking garage, (car-hold?) rooftops, willy nilly and with ONE HAND! Jack must really respect that grip. BOOM! Oh and I think Doc Harper is dead, or he did die but then he was shagged back to life for a bit? Something like that.
So many people are doing the nasty on that show that I can't even keep track of it anymore. Season two is up and I can't wait to see who catches the space-clap in that new mini-series that's on the telly this summer.
However the one thing I really hate about the program is that it's a TOTAL rip-off of Doctor Who. The similarities seem to be endless. I mean who the hell do these Torchwood freaks think they are?! If Eva Myles didn't make such a good omlett I would delete her from my life forever. But despite all the aliens and monsters and time travel let us all be real for a quick second. She can really wear the shit out of that t-shirt! Torchwood is bloody right!
Friday, June 26, 2009
So me and this chick Duffy have been dating a while now. Well not so much dating. It's more of a 'meet you in the ally behind The Acadami and try and steal drunk student's money and valuables.' We've got this good system where she walks out to the sidewalk and does a couple of turns and all the bloaks are like, "Holy hell it's that chick who sings stuff!" Then I give them all a love tap with my lead pipe, Chloe and we're sound as a pound! Last time we made a little error in judgment though. We pulled our little operation on a few undercover beat cops and they did not go down so easily. After what can I guess be called a scuffle I managed to chesse it but I kinda, sorta let my lady-friend take the fall. It's not my fault she can't run in heels. (Boom!) She can get by just fine on 8-inchers when she's prancing around on stage but Ohhhh no as soon as it matters she goes and chicks out on me. She hasn't dialed me since.
Not that I'd want her to call me though. She's a great singer and she's packing wicked stems but when she speaks the sound is not pretty. She won't like me telling you this but I'm just going take the plunge and say it. She curses. A lot. I mean a freaking lot! Not a big deal, you're thinking? Well she does it all the time and it's usually very rank. In front of kids, seniors, at church, all the time! I mean my god. She once slammed the chips right out of this old woman's hands, spit in her mouth and told her, "If you think you can strut my beat and not be in it bloody barney than you're just a daft old slapper!" She said this just for fun! She laughed about it later that day! This girl is a monster. I still don't understand what the fuck she was talking about. The Welsh are so weird.
So when it comes to the review portion of this blog and I'm just going to sock it to all her material and not just one particular song. During our time together I've been pitching her song ideas and lyrics and poems and all manner of awesome stuff. Solid Gold, yo. Alas, my pall Duffy is having none of it. Not my song about rainbows. Not my love ballad about Mustang convertibles. Not my thirteen minute folk/metal opus about the water table under my Grandpa's old house in the country. I don't get this chica. All her tunes are about subway stations and abstract feelings of love and mercy and sorrow. Those aren't tangible things! You can't write songs about feelings, it doesn't make any sense! Where's the marketing possibilities in something as random and clumsy as love?! Nowhere. You can't make an action figure about 'your sobby little breakup at Warwick Ave.' It's just stupid, Duffy. Now if you used my idea about the robot having sexual relations with a 1970's muscle car then we're getting into saturday morning cartoon territory! REAL artists like the Jonas Brothers would jump all over that tasty plum.
In conclusion Duffy, when you finally seduce your way to the Welsh equivalent of a 'get out of jail free card' and are ready to see my powerpoint presentation about your new line of DUFFY FORCE ALPHA SQUAD lunch boxes then give me a jingle. Until then you're going to have to find someone else to mug drunkies with.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Welcome to the high stress world of cooking for strangers. If you've ever worked in an eatery or a restaurant of some type then you probably already know what terrible slave labour it involves. Crying babies, stacks of dishes, crotchety cooks making terrible food. It's rotten like the tomatoes they use in the gumbo! But for once, I can relate to you commoners reading this.
I used to sling hash at this little grease pit in France called 'Restaurant-Le-Voilier'. Man-o that place was, "How you say..." shit hole. I tried soooo hard to make this little place reek of class and all it reeked of ... well it wasn't class and it wasn't pleasant, (It was more like dog poo). I'd scream so loud at the rest of the kitchen staff that I'd literally make some of the weaker ones cry. But still they couldn't get it right. The Orange Pressee was hardly that. Pulp the size of baseballs! And the Foie Gras? Don't even get me started on how puny they made it. I swear it's like they weren't force-feeding those ducks fast enough. Well I tell you when you serve poor "Assiette de foie gras de canard," it's not the bird or the cook who suffers. It's the patron.
The worst were the croissants. The croissants were way too brown for my liking but when I'd spend 15-75 minutes trying to peel off that top layer of crust with a paring knife the manager would be all, 'Blah blah blah I'm French! Blah Blah People are leaving because it's 2pm and they still haven't gotten their breakfast! Blah Blah Blah we need liberating some more!'
God I hate terrible bosses. Jacque, (probably French for "Jack-in-the-shitbox") wasn't even a manager! He was an assistant. But all that aside, I'm not reviewing eateries I'm slamming bad movies! Which brings me to this weird little cartoon everyone's been chatting about. If you can even call a two-hour cartoon a movie in the first place. That's like putting lipstick on a dog and trying to take it to prom. It doesn't work no matter what back story you give her.
So late one warm, May night I'm in the kitchen slaving over some spaghetti carbonara and i just can't get the egg yolk right. We all know it doesn't take a rocket scientist to yolk an egg but the cream sauce was too viscous and it just wasn't working. Jack-ass marches in, fiddling with his tiny mustache and throws the sauce in my face. He tells me it's been almost an hour and that he'll do it. So I get sent to serve a party of people that have come in.
They're a bunch of American snobs falling over how good this flick 'Up' is and how 'It's going to change the way 3-D flicks are going to be done' and all that megalomaniacal yank bullshit. Oh they're clapping and patting themselves on the back and it's all making me sick. So naturally when I'm waiting a table without really being asked to I but in.
'I've seen Up!' I ask him, 'That was the one with an old geezer and a fat kid pulling a floating house through a jungle, right?'
This squirrelly little poindexter sighs, 'Yeah that's the one. What did you think?'
I don't like his tone so I demand that he and everyone else at his table produce some ID. His passport reads "PETER DOCTOR".
'Fuck you, you're not a doctor!' I scream in his puny little face. 'And I have seen Up it's terrible! The worst cartoon movie ever made!'
I really hadn't seen it at all but this dude was just rubbing me the wrong way and I really wanted to make him cry. And that's exactly what I did. After only five or so Paris minutes* of stickin' it to this "PHD in terrible movie taste" he's at my feet sobbing like a baby. In front of all his buddies no less! I was about to leave the poor guy alone and try and put the sexy moves on his hot lady-friend named Ratzenberger but then someone at the table had the absolute nerve to ask me for more toast! MORE TOAST?! Bitch please.
'The trouble always is,' Giacchino explained to me, 'not how to get enough caviar, but how to get enough toast with it.'
As if! So I slammed that dirty sloo in the face with my iron fist of doom and stormed out. I swear to god after all that stress I'm never working in a diner in the south of France ever again and I'm never, never, never going to go see that movie Up! Well I might go work at Baoli down the road, (hotter waitresses) but I'm still never going to see Up.
*A Paris minute is slightly longer than a regular minute, a lot longer than a New York minute, is a little more high-strung and has a little more armpit hair.** It also has terrible taste in fine art.
**A lot more armpit hair in the winter.
Friday, June 19, 2009
I know what you're all thinking right now. You're thinking "Jeff man. you are literally the raddest duder on the planet! How are you going to review bad DVDs if you only watch the best?! Cause you're the coolest!" Well keep your bras on ladies although you do make a valid point. That being said I should tell you that not only do I not own any bad movies on DVD or BluRay but I don't own any DVDs or Blus at all! I don't need to.
I get 99% of my movie watching done when I'm at my supermodel/girlfriend's places. You see I end up having way to much erotic time with them and sometimes I just need to say 'Hey! Beby-Cakes! Hold up a second. Let's rest a while, you know? I can't keep this pace up forever! Toss on a movie and fetch me a beer and a tequila slammer.' That's exactly how it goes.
So the last time I flew up to Prague to chair a conference on why N'sync should get back together this exact situation came up, like it always does. After enjoying a few dozen blowies Colette tosses on some shitty movie called 'Wrestling' or 'The Wrestler'. No wait. It was 'Wrestle-Man'. Yeah that was it. So I sit back and expect a great super-hero flick like Daredevil or Ghost Rider. You know, a freaking classic. Well let me tell you, bub. Wrestle-Man sucked!
It features Mick Rourke as an aging wrestler trying to deal with what a colossal fuck-up he's become. That's it. No car chases, no gun-fights and not one scene where he turns into some sort of mutant ghost and fights crime. I mean what kind of action movie is this?! (And they only mention 'Call of Duty 4' once which is an immediate 'throw-up in my mouth' on the scale of things that make me sick. )
The closest thing it had to sex was a series of awkward lappers by some man-lady that Wrestle-Man had some sort of weird crush on. Whoever played the tran did a great job though. I mean those booblies looked real, (but lets face it, you could tell what was what with that one). Manthing was the only thing that was really good about the film anyways. I mean after all that plastic surgery it could act happy, it could act sad and most intriguing of all it could really work that pole. Talk about making the movie-goers questions how their brains work sexually. I mean it was hot.
So all-in-all it's going to take a while before Colette gets back in my good books for showing that piece of trash movie. I just hope Mickey stays away from the super-hero genre for good cause mercy that last one was a stinker! Now John Cena. There's a Mrestle-Man!
Here's the skinny, baby-cakes.
So calling this blog a series of 'reviews' isn't exactly accurate since we all know that everything talked about here is going to be total seagull crap. A sticky white liquid with no mass or substance that the bird itself cares so little about that it doesn't even stop flying to deliver it to your windshield. It's not like when you go to the multiplex and check out the latest Wayan's Bros. flick or something and you say to your fifteen year old secret girlfriend, "I don't care what you thought, Becky. I thought that was total dog dirt."
No. This is worse than dog dirt. The things we'll be looking at on this blog are the worst kind of animal dirt. At least a dog sniffs around a while and does a few laps around the back lawn or living room floor before delivering it's own smelly hunk of justice. At least it appears to be trying. Seagulls are so oblivious to what's cool or hip or even just plain good that they cruise by without a care in the world thinking they're 'all that' just cause they've been given the opportunity to fly. Bastards. But after a few dozen freedom fries, (topical) and losing a leg somehow we know what's what with them. We know.
When I read a movie review in a paper or on the interweb it's all about finding out whether or not I should waste my mom or girlfriend's (whomever is there at the time) hard-earned cash going to see it or not. Well with this blog it's pretty much a guarantee that nothing reviewed will be worth leaving a decent porn site to waste time on. We're all just going to have a dandy of a time together poking fun at the worst of the worst. Cause isn't that what the internet is really all about? Besides pornography and tweeting?
Oh right, follow me on Twitter you nerds! (Cause EVERYONE is doing it!)