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subscribeMovie review: Precious was fucking depressing
posted: 12.12.09 at 02:00 AM
filed under: review
There are some movies that I would not watch if I were single.
Precious: Based on the Novel “Push” by Sapphire is one such movie. I tend to prefer comedies or movies with explosions and gunplay. When the two elements are combined, I am riveted. Typically, I am not a fan of straight-drama movies, particularly if the film did well at Sundance and critics are raving about it.
One the country has reached a consensus that a dramatic movie is a “must-see,” I tune it out entirely. Perhaps this makes me a tad bit less cultured, but the contrarian in me appreciates the awestruck and confounded look on people’s faces when I explain that I never saw Million Dollar Baby or Slumdog Millionare.
Sarah Jessica Parker, attention whorse
posted: 12.08.09 at 11:30 PM
filed under: entertainment
I am not one for celebrity worship.
I find the mundane gossip reported by TMZ and Perez Hilton to be quite uninteresting. I am not concerned about the latest litter that Octomom has whelped, Brad and Angelina’s formidable army of young foreigners or the latest Vegas vixen to proclaim that she once served as the warm and moist fuck-socket for Tiger Woods’ talented seed.
Unfortunately, boqueen has a fleeting interest in such affairs, so I occasionally find myself sitting on the couch as the blaring picture box dishes out the latest Hollywood “news.” In such situations, I attempt to shut down brain activity to prevent accidental absorption of the ceaseless drivel. My attempts are typically futile, which explains why wretched words such as “Kardashian” and “Gosselin” have penetrated my skull and become a part of my lexicon.
Terrible fucking music from the summer of 2009
posted: 09.02.09 at 11:15 PM
filed under: entertainment
It pains me to admit that the summer is officially over.
In many ways, Chicagoans were cheated this year. June was cool and rainy, so summer weather didn’t begin in earnest until early July. Due to the fact that Mother Nature is a vicious raving cunt, Chicago residents enjoyed a total of approximately six and a half weeks of summer weather.
Before I finish writing this post, the leaves will have turned to warm colors and the city will begin salting the streets. Due to the abrupt change in weather, I would like to take this opportunity to reflect on the summer of 2009.
Music plays an important role in defining my memories of past summers. Each year, certain “summer songs” become definitive reminders of the specific year.
The Fatchelor: “More to Love” episode 3 review, part II
posted: 08.12.09 at 01:45 AM
filed under: entertainment
Once again, mizChartreuse and I collaborated on this review of the lastest episode of More to Love, Fox’s reality program, which is essentially a version of The Bachelor featuring fat fucks. Part one of the review can be found on mizChartreuse.com.
bokeen:
After a enchanting evening listening to Danielle talk incessantly while shoving gobs of food into her gullet, Luke hand-picked Heather as his next date. Luke felt sympathetic for Heather, as she had become seasick during last week’s group date on a yacht. She was too busy blasting vomit over the side of the boat to spend any quality time with Luke, so he treated her to an afternoon date so that she could learn more about the bachelor’s mundane existence.
Combined, the couple weighs more than 500 pounds. Transporting such heavy freight is a logistical nightmare. They were both packed into large crates and a loaded semi-trailer truck. Upon being unloaded and unpacked, Heather was delighted to find that she and Luke would spend the afternoon horseback riding.
Things that I hate that everyone else seems to think are so fucking wonderful
posted: 08.05.09 at 10:30 PM
filed under: personal
As a highly opinionated person and a prolific writer on the Interwebs, I feel that it is my duty to express my disdain when I think something sucks.
Some opinions have become a part of conventional wisdom. For example, we all can agree that The Jimmy Fallon Show is horrendous. Likewise, it is not difficult assemble a group of individuals and reach a consensus that The Beatles are one of the greatest rock bands ever. While these are subjective statements, they have become generally accepted as fact.
There are times when my opinions are at odds with conventional wisdom. Whether in the realm of music, movies or fashion, there are many things that most people enjoy that I find abhorrent.
I proudly present a brief list of such items, entitled Things that I hate that everyone else seems to think are so fucking wonderful.
The Fatchelor: “More to Love” review, part II
posted: 08.05.09 at 01:30 AM
filed under: entertainment
Fellow blogger mizChartreuse and I collaborated on this review of More to Love, Fox’s reality program, which is essentially a version of The Bachelor featuring fat fucks. Part one of the review can be found on mizChartreuse.com.
bokeen:
The vast majority of reality show contestants are detestable characters, willing to nosh on live bugs at Joe Rogan’s behest or give Bret Michaels a tugger for their shot at worldwide fame. However, the participants in More to Love are a particularly morose lot of individuals.
The chunky contestants competing for Luke’s hoof in marriage are shamelessly willing to exploit their obesity on national television. In the show’s first episode, the women were not only characterized by name, home town and occupation, but by their height and weight as well, as if it were a boxing match.
Side note: You actually wonder if a reality show could exist with a slender fellow vying for the heart of a cubby broad? It could happen: the bachelor would have to be a black dude, and the contestants would be fat, white girls. That is how the universe works.
Angry Letters follow-up: Funny show, horrifying bill
posted: 07.28.09 at 09:30 PM
filed under: angry letters
My angry letters normally don’t get responses.
Two weeks ago, I sent a message to Bert Hass, manager of the chain of Zanies comedy clubs. I complained about the terrible service and the club’s practice of adding gratuity for parties of five or more.
Much to my surprise, Hass replied the following day. As promised, his message is featured here.
Angry Letters, part II: Funny show, horrifying bill
posted: 07.16.09 at 10:00 PM
filed under: angry letters
One shouldn’t get pissed off at a comedy club.
The second entry in my series of angry letters concerns my expensive but entertaining experience at Zanies Comedy Club in Vernon Hills, Illinois. This message was emailed to Bert Haas, General Manager of Zanies’ four locations.
In the unlikely event that Mr. Haas responds, I will post his response as well.
No Doubt I’m too old for this shit
posted: 07.14.09 at 09:30 PM
filed under: entertainment
While I am a self-proclaimed douchebag, I am a pretty good boyfriend.
For boqueen’s birthday, I bought tickets to see her favorite band, No Doubt, play in Tinley Park. boqueen was born in late May, so it was a gift of delayed gratification. After weeks of anticipation, the show finally arrived on Saturday.
As a bloke in my late 20s, concertgoing is not a regular experience for me. When I was a younger lad, concerts were a regular part of my summertime experience. As I grew older, I became farther removed from radio play and popular music. I feel like an old man: I cannot recognize, nor enjoy, the vast majority of music that is played on the radio today.
Pop in a Sublime, Michael Jackson, Ice Cube or even a Beatles record, and I am good. Tune in to a Top 40 radio station, and I am lost. This is precisely why boqueen, who is several years younger than me, refers to me as “Captain Greyballs.”
Don’t compare Michael Jackson to Elvis, you fucking retard.
posted: 07.01.09 at 11:00 PM
filed under: entertainment
For a brief moment, I thought that Michael Jordan was dead.
“MJ is dead,” boqueen announced as I awoke from my afternoon nap. Instantly, my mind pictured pushing off of Bryon Russell in Utah before draining a jumper to win the 1998 NBA Finals. As Jordan watched his shot sink through the net with his hand extended in the air, I wondered whether we were talking about the same person.
“MJ?” I slowly repeated.
“Michael Jackson,” boqueen replied, fully understanding my confusion.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, my syllables prolonged by disbelief, “he was only 50.”
