LEND ME YOUR EARS… EYES TOO, WHILE YOU'RE AT IT:

Wait… what? When the hell did THAT happen?
I didn't hear anything about it! 

Funny the thoughts that run through your head when you're out in the yard picking up your dog's poop. Thoughts like: 'When did she eat corn? Why am I doing this with my bare hands? And — because the rule of threes applies here —when was the last time anyone gave a shit about Rolling Stone Magazine?' (See the above pic for the answer to question #3.) Now you might think that last one was kinda out of place given the circumstances and normally you'd be right. But this isn't you we're talking about, is it? No, we're talking about me, the one who just recently realized I got homeless people leaving kernel-turds in my backyard and that my right hand that will never be clean enough to eat with again.

Seeing as the aforementioned mag would rather put pictures of terrorist assholes on their cover these days instead of really shocking us with stories about music, (GASP) I figured I'd give it a shot. So here I sit, trying to manipulate my trackpad and keyboard using only my left hand while simultaneously trying to eat a Hot Pocket with my feet. I do all this, toil away so in an effort to tell you all about this band I got addicted to recently called Amon Amarth.

The members of Amon Amarth, seen here from the
sacrificial virgin's point of view. 

They're this melodic Viking/death metal band from Sweden whose music can best be described as what one would imagine Game of Thrones would sound like as a musical but without all the gratuitous nudity. Take a look and a listen to them HERE if you'd like. And it's on YouTube so I apologize if you run into an ad.

Did ya listen? Did ya, huh? I know, right? Guy's voice just kinda goes right through you and leaves a big hole on its way out the other side. And that song isn't even anywhere near as heavy as they can get. Some of their later stuff has been known to cause miscarriages in women who weren't even pregnant to begin with. Now I realize that there have been a few bands like them who use the whole Viking symbolism thing to promote a racist agenda but these guys aren't about that. At least, I'm pretty sure they're not. But seeing as I can barely understand anything the lead singer is saying, gimme a sec while I check the lyric sheet on that one.

Let's see… serpent rises… mighty wrath… destiny… fate… Ragnarök… Ragnarök…Ragnarök some more. Nope, nothing about chasing my black ass back to Africa with a stick, so we're good.

Anyway, I was listening to their latest release, Deceiver of the Gods the other day at the office and one of the young guys that I work with inquired about what I had going on in my headphones that was causing me to thrash my noggin about as I was. Poor kid didn't recognize proper head banging when he saw it. When I gave the lad a listen he recoiled in horror as though he'd just heard the sound of his grandmother's ghost taking one in the mouth from the spirit of John Holmes. (A pretty fair description of track #9, Coming of the Tides.)

When I asked the youngster about his musical tastes, what was going on with his playlists I learned that he's into… um — How can I say this so as not to offend? — Crap. Yeah, that about says it all, he listens to crap. And again, I don't mean to offend any of you who might also be into crap, but I don't know how else to refer to the likes of Mumford and Sons, Of Monsters and Men, Vampire Weekend, Arcade Fire, Bon Iver and a whole host of other artists who look and sound like the bastard spawn of an improbably awkward three-way between Michael Stipe and the Indigo Girls.

This would be one of the above mentioned bands, but I'm too disgusted to find out which.

What the fuck happened to the youth of America? I know they're not all into that folk/pop/shit/rock, but if these or any other bands like them can even fill a single coffee house for more than seven minutes then we are in serious trouble as a species. 

Shit, look at all those people! We are so screwed.

How will crappy music bring about the end of humanity? Well I'll tell you, seeing as me telling you things is what this blog's all about in the first place. Right up there in the title for God's sake. Look, you know how signals from here on Earth travel out into space and float out there forever and in theory will one day be heard by whatever life is out there? Theoretically, as you sit here reading this, somewhere out past the Big Dipper there's an alien catching the opening chords to Smoke on the Water on the cybernetic implants in his audio-hole and he's thinking: "Terk lackt derma neft twanto forgs." Which translated from his native tongue means "Shit, those Earthlings are pretty badass." However, that's all gonna change in about seventy-five years or so when they start getting Of Monsters and Men videos on the outer arm of the Milky Way. Then mankind is getting anal probed… and NOT in a consensually experimental way either. 

"Is that guy on the end playing an accordion?
Oh Earth is just asking for it now."

We're going to want to avoid that eventuality at all costs because aliens don't believe in safe words. And apparently, neither do discount dominatrixes that you find on Craigslist. (NEIN MEANS NEIN, MISTRESS HELGA!) Switching gears away from the subject of being pucker-probed, because, you know… OWWWW, let's talk about kids. (Because THAT'S not an awkward segue.)

Ever since my son was born I've kinda wondered… why the hell does he look like the guy who used to read our meter? But beside that I've also wondered what sort of music he's going to be listening to in the future that I might find objectionable? Let's face it, that's a teenage right of passage, listening to music that your parents hate and don't understand. My parents listened to shit like Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Al Green and most of whatever Motown was pumping out back in their day. All good stuff, don't get me wrong, just not MY stuff. Then one night in 1984 I come home from my first concert experience with one of these stretched across my fat frame.

Unfortunately it got ruined during the subsequent exorcism. 

The parents freaked a bit and we had the requisite words that are shouted in such a situation. 

MOM: "How could you?"
ME: "You just don't understand!"
DAD: "Not in THIS house!"
ME: "But this is MY music, Dad!"
SIS: "Hey guys, what's with all the shouting?"
DAD: "Shut up, Meg!"

Okay wait… that last bit didn't really happen. I think some Family Guy dialogue just crept into the mix. It's what I get for blogging with the TV on. Lemme just turn that off.

Point is, the 'rents were against that stuff because it scared them. And I'm sure that if a few years from now my kid is up in his room with the door closed, listening to some fucking happy/merry music at top volume and his room is plastered with posters of a bunch of asexual trolls in color coordinated capri pants, I'm gonna be scared too. Especially if I walk in and catch him on the floor with the girl from across the street… fully clothed, sipping Chai tea and paying full attention while she tells him all about her feelings, hopes and dreams and how they all have something to do with the less than spectacular day she's having at the time. Hell yeah I'm gonna be scared! But where my Mom and Dad were afraid for their baby boy's soul, I'm gonna be afraid for my son's manhood. And before any of you living alternative lifestyles think I mean to say I'm afraid he's gonna be gay… wrong. I don't care about that shit. I'd be afraid for his actual manhood, I'd be scared of him losing his balls, having his sack shrivel up and fall off from overexposure to ukulele driven jams. 

The Bumble Boys rockin' the park with their hardly-ever requested hit, Free Balls. 

However, there is hope for the future of my boy's tackle box… hell, for ALL our son's tackle boxes, everywhere. And that hope is Mathcore. What is Mathcore, you may ask? Again I am legally obligated to tell you for free because it's right there in the blog's name. Mathcore is… uh… well… let's see… if your brain had a taint, then mathcore would punch you in it. 

Yeah, it's a lot like that.

Mathcore is a form of metal music once known as Noisecore, that uses unusual time signatures, crazy riffs and neck breaking changes to produce an off-kilter sound that has been referred to by some as "technically brutal". That definition came from Wikipedia so you know it very well MIGHT be true. Check HERE and allow pioneers of the genre, Dillinger Escape Plan to give you a little taste.

Plays a lot like a soundtrack to a home invasion, doesn't it? But it does tend to grow on you if you give it a chance. I've listened to the DEP's latest release a couple times and it's not all that… HOLY SHIT, AM I ON FIRE? WHERE'D ALL THESE TALKING FLIES COME FROM? SANCTUARY!!!!!

Okay, so maybe there's a teeny bit of brain damage, was gonna eventually happen anyway, what with the syphilis and all. (Yeah, thanks for that too, Helga!) But still, mathcore has balls to spare so if (hopefully) the kid wants to get into that rather than crap, then I got no problem with it. I'll just pretend to hate it for his sake. Don't wanna deprive him of the chance to be angry with me for being too old and out of touch to understand. Just so long as he doesn't pick up a guitar and try to play that stuff himself because mathcore can really go shit-shaped when it's attempted by amateurs. 

"Last summer alone, over 700 garage bands tried to play mathcore…
and Allstate can't do shit for 'em." 

Still, I suppose burning balls are better than having no balls at all… said no one ever before this moment.

BREAK'S OVER:

That's it Tebow, now you go fill that with Gatorade, keep TFB hydrated
and don't be worryin' none about actual football. We're good, we got this.

So… been a while. I see Tim Tebow became a Patriot while I was away. Also the Aaron Hernandez thing happened. And James Gandalfini's dead. And most recently George Zimmerman… whatever. How you been? You look real good. Seen Man of Steel yet? Well why not? Been out for a few weeks now. The fuck you waiting for? Well whatever, I don't care. See it, don't see it, makes no difference to me. Not here to talk about that shit anyway. Just thought I'd ask about it since I'm giving a nod to the real Superman… the one true man of steel, the Christopher Reeve version.

"If I squint really hard I can just about see the remains of my real parents."

Yeah, that's the Superman I know and love, played by an American, born and raised in NYC, bitches! Not like this new guy Henry Cavill whom, according to IMDB.com was born on the Bailiwick of Jersey, a British Crown Dependency in the Channel Islands, just off the coast of Normandy, France. For those who have no idea what that means or where the hell that is, allow me to illustrate with this helpfully handy map.

Understand now? Good. 

But like I was saying before I stopped to give you that free geography lesson… (BTW, you're welcome.) I'm thinking about the real Superman because of that time in the second movie where he went MIA for a while so he could spend a couple days going balls-deep in Lois Lane's filth patch while General Zod was basically doing the same to the rest of the country. 

"Oh God… okay, I can deal with this… SHIT! I know, kiss her so hard she forgets
that any of this ever happened. Yeah, that sounds reasonable." 

Turned out all right in the end though. Supes got back on the job and saved the day by going all Chris Brown on Zod. And later he gave Lois that roofie kiss that every man in the world wishes he could learn to do. Just before the credits roll he shows up at the White House with a new skylight to replace the one Zod broke when he dropped by and kicked the President's dog into orbit. Not sure if Superman ever retrieved the First Pooch from space, or if any of that shit ever really happened since I was pretty high when I saw the movie back in 1980… and every other time since. But I do recall what he says to the POTUS. The line goes something like: "Good afternoon Mr. President. Sorry I've been away so long. I won't let you down again." 

"And if it's not too much trouble… could I borrow a couple of interns?" 

Now don't take any of that to mean I'm going to apologize for my absence or anything. I doubt anyone even noticed I was gone. Had a lot of shit happening, you know, what with the whole "real life" thing. (Stupid reality!) But I'm back now and we can start spending time together again if you'd like. And while I can't promise to not go away again, I can promise you that I'll be here at least until the end of this…

BE BACK SOON:

Well I'd love to be able to tell you that I have a billion things going on these past couple weeks and that's what's kept me from making proper and timely updates. But the truth is I'm just a lazy bastard. Okay, that's not altogether true, I am in the process of moving and all that packing and loading and driving and then unloading and unpacking does tend to eat into one's funtime. 

But on the bright side, the area I'll be squatting in for the foreseeable future puts me back on the grid and regular updates should be coming again soon. (As if anyone even cares.) 

In the meantime, Star Trek Into Darkness opens this week so we have that to look forward to. 

Oh you're NOT looking forward to it? Well what about this shot from the film of actress Alice Eve in her undies? 

Looking forward to it now? Damn right you are.

DON'T STOP…

"Ah ah ah… watch it, Ron."

SHUT UP, OLD PHOTO OF FORMER JOURNEY LEAD SINGER, STEVE PERRY! 

Sorry, kinda angry at that dude because legally I'm not allowed to use the word Believin' in conjunction with those other two words in the header. Basically it's all a mess to do with Perry's being pissed about the ongoing lawsuit in which I claim that he stole the song from me after hearing me sing it on open mike night at a little dive bar in San Francisco back in 1979. So what if I was only 11 years-old at the time? So what if I had never been to San Francisco and wouldn't have been old enough to sing in a bar anyway? So what if my story is complete bullshit? Who the fuck are you, Gloria Allred? 

Fuck! 

But we're here today to talk about beliefs. (Ha ha! Can't stop me from using THAT word! Suck it, Perry!) If you were one of the very few people to happen by here and catch my ramblings last week then you recall me going on and on about Anne Frank — Yes, we're talking about HER again. But only for a moment so bear with me.

Talking about the tragedy of that young girl's life — and the subsequent tragedy of Justin Bieber setting foot in her museum — put in mind a quote that appears toward the end of her diary which reads in part… "It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” Shortly after that entry the diary comes to an abrupt end as she and her family and most of the people who sheltered them were captured and Anne died of typhus in Auschwitz sometime in February, 1945.

Well… that certainly was depressing. Still, all this leads me to consider the things that I believe. Contrary to our young Miss Frank, inherent human goodness ain't anywhere on my list. And when the subject of my beliefs comes up it always reminds me of a wonderful scene from the 80s hit Bull Durham starring Kevin Costner and Susan Sarandon (Whom I would still cut off a finger to sleep with. Not MY finger of course but still…) Classic scene where Sarandon (as ball slut Annie Savoy) asks Costner (as ball player Crash Davis) what he believes in. In answer to the question, Costner pontificates for two minutes about believing in everything from vaginas to the Kennedy assassination. (And I believe that the former definitely had something to do with the latter.) After speaking his piece, he abruptly exits and leaves Sarandon to deal with a situation that can best be delicately described as… juicy panties. 

Yeah you WISH that was all rainwater
down there, Susan! 

Now I'm not saying that exposure to my beliefs are going to leave you all dripping down under. In truth, 99% of those who are exposed will most likely suffer no end of horrible side effects the likes of which can only end in madness, death or Dutch citizenship. I mean, I just went from Anne Frank's death to Susan Sarandon's moist crotch in one paragraph. So yeah, my opinions are not good for your health, mental or otherwise but arousal will not be one of your 99 problems. However, for that rare 1% that do find themselves even the slightest bit damp after picking up what I'm about to put down… well I'm sorry but you disgust me and after a brief and altogether frightening sexual affair, I can never associate with you again. Trust me, it'll be for the best.

So now that you've all signed the proper release forms I guess we can get started. What's that? Didn't sign any forms? Well Allred's already on her way here so she can take care of any legal mumbo-jumbo should the need arise. Until she gets here though, we'll just have to proceed with caution and good faith as we wade hip deep into the murky waters of…

WHAT I BELIEVE!

I believe in BOOBS! That one probably could've gone without saying. And apparently it went without a picture. WTF?

I believe that any woman who's ever claimed some decadent food item to be "… better than sex" is either a really shitty lay or she's never been fucked correctly… because she's a really shitty lay. And for the record, no man has ever made such a claim.

She's really enjoying that eclair. And no, you don't wanna know how she took it in.

I believe that natural childbirth must stink like an alien autopsy. I know, it's a beautiful miracle and there's this tremendous outpouring of emotions and all. But you know what else is pouring out of that miracle? A secret blend of eleven different bodily secretions that when sniffed out of context would remind one of a Carnival Cruise ship returning to port. It's a wonder that delivery rooms are able to keep paint on the walls.

I believe that bacon is the truest sign of God's love for us. Better luck next life, Muslims, Jews and Vegans.

I believe that every time 'Real Housewife' Nene Leakes and comedian Steve Harvey speak, they're each guilty of committing a verbal hate crime. And on occasion when the two of them speak to one another, the English language blows a rape whistle that never gets a response. 

Translation: ???????????????????????? [SYSTEM FAIL]

I believe that the commercial where those two nerds create a crude robot to feed them Cheetos is total bullshit because any nerds with such talents would undoubtedly use those skills to build a sex-bot. Said nerds would later wind up in the ER with a wildly fabricated story explaining exactly how one broke his dick, why the other has fire retardant foam up his ass and why there's a concerned Dyson with a face sitting in the waiting room.

I believe in… TAWM FAHKIN' BRADY! 

(B-Strong, Boston!) 

I believe that Usher fucking sucks! He sucks as an entertainer and since he's the one that discovered Justin Bieber — yeah, HIM again — then he sucks for that as well. So fuck him twice! And fuck The Voice as well for giving him a weekly forum for sucking. 

You ain't half the judge Cee Lo Green was…
literally and figuratively! 

I believe that if I ever got my fat ass involved in a three-way with Melissa McCarthy and Rebel Wilson, the gravitational forces unleashed by our slapping masses would rip the moon from its orbit and in turn unleash worldwide tectonic hell. Still, I'm gonna make that dream happen so you should all get your emergency plans and go-bags ready. 

And if I can persuade Adele to join us then none will survive the fatocalypse.
Sorry in advance, Life-As-We-Know-It. 

I believe that tanning salons are a wholly racist enterprise started by people who wanted to neither hire nor serve black people.

I believe that Betty Draper needs to be written out of Mad Men already! For God's sake, bitch wasn't interesting when she was married to all-American hero Don Draper, and being his "better half" was the only reason to give a shit about her. Now that they've been divorced for two seasons do we really need to be reminded she exists? I don't care that she's gotten remarried, gained 100 pounds, had a cancer scare and yet through it all she's still useless. Kill her off in a bizarre hair dryer accident and bring the kids to live with daddy. That way we can possibly get into some drama about daughter Sally running away to turn tricks on the streets of NYC because she hates Daddy's new wife, Megan. And perhaps little brother Bobby meanwhile feels just the opposite and regularly raids his stepmom's hamper for dirty pretty things to help him through puberty. You know, good old-fashioned, wholesome story telling. 

Actually, Bobby might be on to something. Where's she keep that hamper again? 

I believe that toward the end of his second term, President Barrack Obama will loosen up and drop a record nine uses of the word 'motherfucker' into his final State of the Union Address. I also believe that the FCC won't be able to do shit about it. Because he's the motherfucking POTUS, that's why, motherfuckers! 

I believe… THERE! ARE! FOUR! LIGHTS! 

(Where my Trekkies at?)

I believe that when Law & Order creator Dick Wolf was in high school he must have hated sitting through attendence. 

"All right everyone, stop laughing. I'm looking for Wolf, Dick.
Is there a Wolf, Dick here?" 

I believe that the Kentucky Derby would be more interesting if the National Thoroughbred Racing Association took a cue from NASCAR and changed it to the Kentucky 500. Bunch of horses thundering around a 2.5 mile track for 200 laps before stumbling to the finish line and exploding in a bloody pulp. Now that's what I'd call the sport of kings.

I believe that a perfect spinoff for The Walking Dead would be The Walking Wounded. A gripping drama about a group of folks trying to survive in a world where a cure for the zombie plague has been found, but now all the former undead just shamble around bitching about their missing limbs and lack of healthcare. 

I smell a hit! Or is that rotting flesh? Yup, definitely rotting flesh.

I believe that HAN SHOT FIRST! 

(Star Wars nerds in the house!)

And lastly, I believe that things such as the magic of a child's laughter, the majesty of a sunset and the simple pleasure of a porch swing don't matter anymore just like everything else on this list since Earth was obliterated last week! All of this is just my mind killing time while my flash-frozen body is in transit to the planet Proxima 8 where me and what's left of the human race will serve our new alien overlords. Well some of us will actually serve the overlords and some of us will BE served to them.

So that's it I guess, you're all dead to me now and I'm on my way to either a lifetime of intergalactic servitude or a brisk dry-rub followed by seventeen hours of slow roasting until I'm fall-off-the-bone delicious.

I believe I'll go great with a nice Pinot.

DIARY OF A WWII KID:

Okay, so Anne Frank's not the most cheerful way to begin a post, but here goes. 

Kind of a late night ritual around the Savage household, 11:00 pm rolls around and the TV gets flipped over to the E! Network to catch Chelsea Lately. Not one of my prouder admissions, also not my fault since it's not by choice on my end. (MARRIAGE IS ALL ABOUT COMPROMISE!) Still, only have to suffer through the first fifteen minutes because the wife only likes the panel portion of the show, not enough of a fan to deal with the interview segment. If you've never seen Handler's interview skills in action… fucking keep it that way, you lucky bastard! But here's a quick rundown of the way the show's second half usually goes: 

HANDLER: "My guest tonight is a blah blah blah…please welcome ( insert celebrity name here )."

Guest enters, they hug, they kiss, they sit.

HANDLER: "Thanks for coming."

GUEST: "Oh thanks for having me."

HANDLER: "You look great."

GUEST: "Thanks, so do you."

HANDLER: "Oh stop it. So… let's talk about me. Me. Me. Me. I drink a lot. More me. More me. Me some more. I like it when black men ransack my vagina. Speaking of me… Me again. Hold up a sec while I throw it over to the Mexican midget I keep on a charm bracelet for laughs. By the way, did I mention me?"

"So T.I., you're saying your name doesn't stand for Twelve Inches? Well that's disappointing." 

You can totally see how her twenty person writing staff is earning their keep. So last night was no different and even seemed to be a welcome change from all the Boston Marathon coverage. That shit was just… whatever… fucking people can't even run safely anymore. We're ready to go anytime you are, Black Jesus! 

Anyway, first topic up on last night's panel was the Justin Bieber/Anne Frank flack. Seems those two kids have gone and found themselves involved in a Twitter war and… No wait, Olivia Wilde got into the Twitter beef with Bieber. What was Anne Frank's deal again? Oh yeah, WWII, Nazis and all that. Had that brief cameo in the third Indiana Jones movie.

"The grail has to be there, son. Anne drew the map in glitter
and marked the location with a smiley face." 

While recently visiting Amsterdam, Bieber stopped by the Anne Frank House and wrote the following in the guest book: "Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a Belieber." For those who don't know, (like me until a couple hours ago) Beliebers are Justin's diehard fans. And you'd be hard pressed to find a more rabid bunch of crazies anywhere other than a midnight showing of the Twilight films. Actually, they probably share the same fan base. 

Nothing that a strong father figure and a blanket party couldn't fix.

Handler weighed in on the issue with her panel and eventually got into a very loud disagreement with panelist Michael Yo on one particular bone of contention; whether or not Anne Frank listened to the radio up in the attic where she and her family were hiding from the Nazis. Yo's opinion was that Anne DID listen to the radio and he referenced her famously published diary as source material for this belief.

Handler however, was of a mind that Anne Frank DID NOT listen to the radio because she would not have been able to make a sound during that time. Apparently Handler thinks that the Franks lived in the crawlspace above Hitler's personal residence and had to be silent 24/7. And to back up her argument she stated that she knew she was right because she's a Jew and that a Black/Asian like Yo shouldn't try to argue Jew stuff with her. 

Wrong Black/Asian dude, Google! Whatever,
I'm sure they all look alike anyway. 

Now while it's true that Handler is a Jew, (I guess) she's also an idiot for using the race card in that way to back up her argument, especially when you consider this quote from Anne's diary entry of June 15, 1943.

"It is really true that as the news from the outside gets worse, so the radio with its miraculous voice helps us to keep up our morale and to say again, 'Chins up, stick it out, better times will come!'"

No mention of whether or not she would've liked Bieber though and of course no reason there would be unless her radio could pick up signals through time. (And that would be pretty sweet.) But that's no longer here nor there since we've clearly gone off the rails on this one. In my humble opinion though, I would have to say yes, she would have been a Belieber since she was a fucking 14 year-old girl and that's his whole fucking fan base. Also, she was hiding from Nazis in a fucking attic! She would've loved Bieber or any other ridiculous thing that offered a momentary escape from that hell. The unedited version of her diary probably contains pages of ink devoted to the sheer thrill of new smells. 

She really wrote this. Swear to God… zilla.

Although to be fair, I suppose that Handler might very well have been joking during the whole bit. Gotta admit, I'm not sure, kinda hard to tell because I wasn't paying close attention. Most of the time when her mouth is moving, I'm just thinking about what she looks like naked… same as when I watch The View. 

I like to start with Elisabeth Hasselbeck and then slowly work
my eyes left over to… BLLLLAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH! 

So I guess I kinda might owe Chelsea an apology for calling her an idiot before. Unless she wasn't joking and really thinks being a Jew automatically validated her argument. Then she actually is an idiot. Then again, she's the one with the TV show, millions of fans, Twitter followers and fat bank, while I'm alone in a basement, broke and pretending anyone cares what I think. So really, who's the idiot? 

"It's okay Ron, you're black so just climb in my vagina and all is forgiven." 

Oh if only it were that easy, Sugar. I'd make you go back.

FREE BLADE!

Wesley Snipes was released Tuesday from federal prison after serving his three years for tax evasion. So congratulations Mr. Snipes. Get on out there, breathe the air, walk in the sunshine, enjoy that freedom and then get your ass to work on White Men Can't Dance Either. It's what the public wants.

I was gonna caption the photo to say something about how hard it must have been for him on the inside, but that picture was taken BEFORE he went in so… damn. He must look like a gargoyle by now. Posting a pic of him today might just turn us all to stone.

SAM'S CLUB:

"Ya'll shut the fuck up now and pay attention! Ron's talkin', dammit." 

Thank you Old Samuel Jackson. March 28th is just around the corner and I couldn't be happier. Why's March 28th gonna be such a good day for me? Well I'm glad that I pretended that you asked. Friday, the 28th of this month will see the big screen release of G.I. Joe: Retaliation, a film I've been waiting like nine months to see. Seriously, I kinda liked the first one (he said opening himself up to an ungodly amount of ridicule) and this one actually looks pretty good too. Had planned to see it last summer, before it got pushed back from its original release date of June 29th, 2012.

Contains so much testosterone that women and
children are warned to stay the hell home.

The reason the studio suits gave for the push back was something all to do with retooling and reshoots and reorganizing and synergy and brand awareness and a bunch of other buzzword bullshit. Most of us outside of Hollywood figured they were flinging crap around to try and mask the fact that they were scared shitless about putting a comic book/action film into the mix against the likes of The Avengers, The Dark Knight Rises and The Amazing Spider-Man. And even though the flick would have indeed gotten its camouflaged taint handed to it by those first two films, they needn't have worried about Spider-Man because that movie chugged bug nuts. 

Out of costume, not avenging a damn thing, still raking in the dollars. 

But conspiracy nut that I am, I have a theory about the even deeper meaning behind the suits' decision. Wanna hear it? Well your lips say 'NO' but your eyes… still say 'NO'. That being the case, I'm gonna tell you anyway. The real reason is the secret beef between Samuel L. Jackson and Channing Tatum. Think I'm crazy? Well I am, but that has nothing to do with it. Just put the God damn phone down and hear me out! Ever notice how Channing Tatum seems to be in almost everything these days? Guy has a movie in theaters almost once a month or so it seems. 

A small sampling of the amount of cinematic poon this guy's been getting. I hate that lucky bastard.

And back in the summer of 2012 he would have hit the multiplexes again with G.I. Joe: Retaliation — herein to be called GIJ:R for the sake of me not wanting to type all that shit out no more. But then suddenly the suits pulled GIJ:R back from the big box office beatdown it had coming to it for thinking it could go up against Samuel (Mr. Jackson if you're nasty) and his avenging crew. And I believe that Mr. Jackson (because I'm nasty) had a little something to do with that decision. 

Just click HERE in case you forgot how that shit turned out for him. Classic. 

Check it out. To date, Mr. Jackson has been in 137 movies since making his film debut in 1988. That's 25 years of being a badass motherfucker both on and off screen. Now the record for most feature films by an American actor is held by another badass of the silver screen, John Wayne. Wayne starred in 142 movies during his 50 year career. And the distinction there is that those were all starring roles. While Mr. Jackson's 137 outtings were not all starring roles, he has amassed quite a catalog of feature parts in half the time as The Duke did. 

Not all the films were great, some were even downright vomit-like. But I ain't gonna tell HIM that.
(I'm looking at YOU, Star Wars prequels.)

And with no sign of slowing down at 64 years old (Black don't crack!) Mr. Jackson is sure to eclipse the Duke sometime in the next decade becoming the most prolific American actor of several generations. I stress the word 'American' because the true record is held by some ass driver from Bollywood named Adoor Bhasi. Bhasi appeared in nearly 550 movies before his death in 1990. But since I don't feel like outsourcing another damn thing over to India, we'll just keep such concerns in the good old US of A. Besides, since all of Bhasi's movies together probably didn't even make enough money to pay for the goodie bags given out at this years Academy Awards ceremony, then they don't really count for anything. AMERICA, FUCK YEAH!

Bhasi, seen here… or maybe not since even
Google isn't sure who the hell the guy was. 

So back to that former stripper punk, Channing Tatum. Dude started his film career in 2005 at the age of 25 and has since starred in 33 movies. At this rate, by 2030 when he reaches his 25th year in cinema he will have been in roughly 110 movies and only be 50 years old. (Or perhaps not because I suck at math.) Still, even if all my numbers are off (and they probably are) he's still on pace to best Mr. Jackson because he's 34 years younger and has time on his side. 

And dreaminess, he's also got dreaminess on his side. Damn him! 

That's why GIJ:R got bumped last summer, because Mr. Jackson did the math (probably better than I did) and came to the same conclusion as me. Tatum is a threat to Mr. Jackson's cinematic superiority and therefore must be stopped at all costs! Oh sure, bumping GIJ:R back a few months didn't really help matters, just delayed things. And the film still counts no matter when it gets released, but that wasn't the point of the exercise. Using his badass motherfucking cinematic Jedi abilities to keep Tatum's movie from seeing a summer release was just Mr. Jackson's way of firing a warning shot. Letting Tatum know that he could be fucked with if he didn't slow down and stop messing around in the record books where he shouldn't be. Sure you're probably thinking, "But Ron, Tatum was in 21 Jump Street AND Magic Mike during the summer of 2012, so your theory is bunk." 

"They've got you there, Ron. Your theory sucks worse than my acting."

SHUT THE HELL UP, CHANNING TATUM! Except for that thing about your acting, that was pretty insightful. I said that Mr. Jackson got GIJ:R bumped to send a message. Anyway, it doesn't look as if that message was received so we can all expect Mr. Jackson to start using more extreme methods in the near future. 

I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Jackson wasn't even at this very moment developing a way to send his spirit through time and space to communicate with his younger self and warn himself about the threat to come. Such an event would allow Mr. Jackson to take advantage of the ironic twist of fate that in 2005 found a young Channing Tatum in his feature film debut, within arm's reach of Mr. Jackson on the set of the basketball bio-pic Coach Carter. 

There he is Mr. Jackson! Right there! See the arrow? Get him! Get him! 

Thus armed with knowledge of the future, the younger Mr. Jackson will undoubtedly see that Tatum meets with an unfortunate accident and thereby never lives to threaten his dominance or his place in history. Of course if/when that happens, the resulting cascade effect will most definitely alter the space/time continuum, changing events to such a degree that I would have already seen Magic Mike star Chris Hemsworth as Capt. Duke Hauser in GIJ:R this past summer and we wouldn't even be talking about… um… talking about… who the hell was I talking about again? I was gonna blog about something and then I just… can't recall. Something to do with Samuel Jackson and… someone. Knowing me it was probably something to do with boobs. But what would the star of Snakes on a Plane have to do with boobs? Unless it was something like Boobs on a Plane. 

Close enough.

Hey, ever notice that Chris Hemsworth's been in quite a few movies since he made his film debut in 2009?

Just sayin'.