Showing posts with label Bad Film Night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bad Film Night. Show all posts
Wednesday, 25 February 2015
Friday, 22 August 2014
Black font, black background, total DARKNESS (and no spaceship, spaceship SPACESHIP!!!)...
YES!
This is REAL music.
Dark
Brooding
Important
Groundbreaking.
(check out the lyrics)
Darkness, no parents!
Continued darkness, more darkness, get it?
The opposite of Light!
Black hole, curtains drawn
In the basement, middle of the night
Blacked out windows
Other places that are dark!
Black suit, black coffee
(You get it, that's just the first verse)
Darkness, no parents!
Super-rich - kind of makes it better...
Friday, 18 October 2013
F/X good but weird and silly...
So, you've discovered an alien spaceship, deep in the Arctic wastes. Within, there lies a most amazing discovery - a lifeform beyond imagining.
And what do you do with such a discovery?
Why, send a crew up into geo-stationary orbit to artificially inseminate spiders with space monster DNA in the hopes of breeding a Queen spider that will generate bullet proof webbing to get your armour light years ahead of The West.
As you do. When you're not fighting off or imprisoning Somalian & Greenpiss Pirates who ram your ships and try to board your vessels.
But lo and behold, would you Adam and Eve it - once bred, your alien arachnid hybrids run amok, and eat your crews faces off!
And on top of that, space debris from meteor shower collisions would decide to smash into your space station and send a cage of killer spiders tumbling to Earth.
To New York no less! Home of the oversized invasionary monster. Through the streets and into the subway goes the mutant multilegged mostrosities, and before you know it, some hitherto unknown cavern is taken over as a nest.
Of course, the Tube Station Manager only knows something has crashed, and the trains need to get back up and running in time for rush hour, so you naturally send down your best engineer.
Who promptly gets bit and falls on The Third Rail.
Naturally, our Hero of a station manager can't believe his experienced engineer would be such a gormster to step on the third rail, so visits the coroner, who's pulling eggs out of the engineer. Damn good luck his wife is a Heath Inspector, so he can take a couple of eggs for assessment.
And naturally, his wife his all moody, as he's missed his daughter's 12th1 Birthday, and comets crushing the tube and monsters impregnating engineers is a poor excuse. And she has the final divorce papers to hand.
But all she can deduce is that there is no contaminatory bacteria in the eggs.
So naturally you go down into the subway with a team of military folk, and promptly get et by oversized spiders, and so the area's cordoned off.
But what's this... the Ruskies have teamed up with The US and are intimidating the coroner and going through her eggs... but... oh noes! They can't find the Queen egg, coz as luck would have it, it's in the grubby paws of The Healh Inspector!
So, once more the brilliant Russian Intelligence comes to the fore.
Nick the eggs back out of the Health Inspectors car, inject Tube Manager's mate with spider eggs (and let him die in the street) and quarantine the Tube Manager/Health Inspectors daughter. Oh, and put the Queen into the spiders nest (ooooh, they grow bigger in Earth's atmosphere!)
Failing to see the flaws in this plan, the streets are soon overrun with human sized space spiders(Where are they coming from? I thought we had them contained?), as within the nest the Spiders spin webs over the CCTV so they can't be watched. Disaster is surely on the way!
But, the family must be reunited, and they can't get to their daughter because of the armed soldiers around the quarantine zone... quarantine zone being their high-floored apartment, rather then the subway with the Spiders in.
So, mom and dad take to the subway, as it luckily links directly to their apartment block!
Well, it would, it it wasn't populated by space spiders trying to eat your face off, who chase you out into a warehouse. Where, like Ripley, you take them on with a Caterpillar P-5000 Powered Work Loader, I mean - a forklift truck!
And after you've spent ages spearing spiders and disarming guards withing yards of your door... you ends up being surrounded and arrested.
Whilst your child escapes the apartment and legs it to hid in a toy shop, you're taken to the Sentry Point outside the gate. Tied up, you watch all the soldiers get their faces et off - even the Top Brass bloke, until the spiders all scuttle off so the Russian Scientist can free you. You help your wife out of the back of the jeep, taking the opportinity to grope up your co-stars preposteroulsy oversized busom in tight top, ...
...just as the Giant Queen Space Spider bursts out from under the sidewalk and eats the Russian all up!
Roaring like a behemoth beastie from beyond the stars (or the Cloverfield beastie), the gargantual monster steps on the babysitter to death, before putting a foot/claw through the toyshop window to tumble your daughter into the basement!
Not only are most of the spiders bullet-repellant, the Queen is missile repellant! Boom boomy boom! And follow the daughter into the Toyshop basement (which is also the subway for some reason).
Thankfully, the daughter finds a small alcove the Queen is too big for, being a great big fuck of giant spider. So it seals her in with it's thick, sticky, bullet-proof webbing. Damn - it's so thick, sticky and bullet-proof, you can't break through!
Thick, sticky and bullet-proof it may be, but when mom & dad come to the rescue, they can just peel it apart and let her out.
Oh noes - here comes the Queen! OK, distract it from your family! Pick up a pole and poke the arachnid as your spouse and offspring escape! Make it chase you to an old, abandoned train and seek safety!
Crapola! It's monstrous mandibles can tear through metal! Bugger! Oh wait - what's that on the terminus wall in front of the drivers cab? DANGER! FLAMMIBLE GAS! Of course! What else lies at the end of the trainline, except pipes, cannisters and valves of explosive flammable gas!
So, sift away the æons of dusty detrius, and turn on the decrepit engine! Wow, it has power! The controls are a bit stiff, but we gets it in reverse! Back down the track at speed, chased by a Giant Mutant Space Spider! Ha! It's stuck in the tunnel entrance! BRAAAAAAKE! And... forward!
Tie the forward lever down with yer shirt, dive onto the platform, the train charges down the tunnel, smashes into the spider, hurtles headlong down the tunnel and splats the spider into the end of the line wall, igniting the gas and flambéing the ferocious menace.
Awww... the family reunites on the streets, as the soldiers shove dead spiders into the back of a jeep.
All's well that ends...
...y'aaargh! Space Monster Spiders survived on streetlights! Save us from a sequel!
1 12? 12? IF SHE'S 12, I'M JIMMY BLOODY SAVILE! LET ME JUST PAUSE IT AND CHECK IMDB... YEP, SHE'S 19. 19!!!, NOT 12 AT ALL!
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
Revolutionary biscuits of Italy...
Nay...
Revolutionary Guardsmen of Nabisco
Rise up out of your box
You have nothing to lose but your waaaaaaaayfers
Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom!
Sunday, 21 July 2013
John West! Fish ain't peaceful there...
Sharknado! Mansquito! Mega Pythons & Gatoroids.
Everyone laughed.
But who's laughing now?
The prophets of Piranhaconda were mocked for giant beasties terrorising Tiffany and devouring Debbie Gibson.
And now Fiction becomes Fact, as we have the first attack from...
Monstrous fish from beyond the deep, rising up to capsize captains who would net them, and serve them up in tin cans with a bit of sweetcorn (or cucumber).
You know what that means - Tuna Wars! Fred West vs Prince! Can anyone save Eduardo Wobblechops?...
..oh wait, this is B-Movie Roger Corman SyFy type stuffs....
Can anyone save Cathy "Heaving Busoms" Dennis (or insert any other young pop tart from the late 80s/early 90s ready to debase her career for another shot at fame).
Everyone laughed.
But who's laughing now?
The prophets of Piranhaconda were mocked for giant beasties terrorising Tiffany and devouring Debbie Gibson.
And now Fiction becomes Fact, as we have the first attack from...
Monstrous fish from beyond the deep, rising up to capsize captains who would net them, and serve them up in tin cans with a bit of sweetcorn (or cucumber).
You know what that means - Tuna Wars! Fred West vs Prince! Can anyone save Eduardo Wobblechops?...
..oh wait, this is B-Movie Roger Corman SyFy type stuffs....
Can anyone save Cathy "Heaving Busoms" Dennis (or insert any other young pop tart from the late 80s/early 90s ready to debase her career for another shot at fame).
Tuesday, 25 June 2013
Evangelion 0.00: You Can [Not] Copy...
Yay!
F&F finally got good!
Pretties! Plot! Action!
About time too.
Like Hallowe'en, it's probably best to forget the intervening episodes ever happened!
Right, now for Atlantic Rim. Another classic from The Asylum which is clearly not a low-budget rip off of Guillero Del Toro's Pacific Rim. No, not at all!
This is about three deep sea monsters that hatch in the Atlantic, and battled against by people in piss poor power ranger battledroid suits.
As opposed to Kaiju traversing a dimensional portal in the Pacific, and battled against by people in mecha-robot suits.
Totes different!
Mwah ha ha ha ha!
F&F finally got good!
Pretties! Plot! Action!
About time too.
Like Hallowe'en, it's probably best to forget the intervening episodes ever happened!
Right, now for Atlantic Rim. Another classic from The Asylum which is clearly not a low-budget rip off of Guillero Del Toro's Pacific Rim. No, not at all!
This is about three deep sea monsters that hatch in the Atlantic, and battled against by people in piss poor power ranger battledroid suits.
As opposed to Kaiju traversing a dimensional portal in the Pacific, and battled against by people in mecha-robot suits.
Totes different!
Mwah ha ha ha ha!
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
Pauly put the Kettle on...
Put please, Suki, don't take 'em off again! Keep yer clothes on - no-one wants to see that ill-fitting binkeneeni over your wasted frame. And put a helmet over your distorted visage - coz my helmet ain't going anywhere near that!
I'm currently being subjected to that there The Fast And The Furious filums (as you know from last weeks bloggery).
Fast and Furious? Fat and Furry Arse, more like! Or just plain Fugly.
Now, all know what a comedically lecherous slimeball Xym is. Most films will find Xym often exclaiming one of the following ejactulations:
"Oh my!"
"Now we're talking!"
"When's her obligatory nudie shower scene coming up!"
"Want!"
"I'd buy that for a dollar!"
etc, etc.
However, much to Lady C's surprise, a singular lack of vocal emissions remained unuttered by Xym.
But we all agreed why.
Cars - nice. Women... urgh! Seems the basic requirement to be a ho in Fast & Furious filum is to wear minimal clothing, and be a misshapen munter!
"You can talk, Xym, you corpulent troll. You're no adonis or oil painting, you know!" (← reader's voice. And yes, The Xym does know, spank you very much!)
Yeah, well. I know what I likes, and I likes quite a wide range of Pretties. In fact, it's often incorrectly claimed that Xym likes "anything in a skirt . or with tits". which isn't true at all (see previous blogs). But the Fast & Furious cast of alleged Sexy Ladies just doesn't do it for Xym. Perhaps if they cast Helena Bonham-Carter in it...
Anyhoo, we started with 2 Fast 2 Furious, which featured Suki.
Who just looked wrong. Face, body, arms - actually, you know that there author Whitley Streiber who kept being bumprobed by space monsters, and created the now stereotypical spindly space monster with the overelongated arms, pipe cleaner legs, skeletal body, triangular face and wangy triangle eyes? That's her, that is!
And there was no other pretties at all in it! Even the undercover cop woman (not Eva Mendez, the one tapping the corrupt cop. Not the corrupt cop who's the racer, the corrupt cop working for the gangland boss with a penchant for a double cross. Although despite this corrupt cop double crossing the gangland boss, the gangland boss is double crossing the other corrupt cop... who in turn is also double crossing the gangland boss... where was I again? Oh, right...)
Even the not-Eva Mendez undercover cop woman looks like a bad trannie in drag!
Ok, so there's Eva Mendez... who just didn't appeal to Xym at all, looking like a right miseryarse in an inappropriate outfit.
But then we're on to Fast And Furious: Tokyo Drift, which is a truly appalling filum. Filled with dreadful, dreadful teen ickiness.
OK, so it's set in a Japanese school, where all kids are about 25, but still have an ugly cast. There's maybe one or two passable Pretties in the entire movie, but the lead Yakuza kid...
...flatface! It's the only thing you think whenever he's on screen. Especially when in profile to emphasize how flat the front of his face is!
Most people have rounded brows, protuding noses, pursed lips, a chin ...this bloke - FLAT! It's like someone's taken Wallace (out of Wallace and Gromit) and spent some time ironing his plasticine face. Or sanded it down with a face sander. Or stuck his head in a trouser press, or one of them huge hydraulic presses like in Terminator at the end, and his facial frontage was somewhat suppler than the rear of his cranium, and squished it all down flat.
No wonder he was an angry young man (I mean triad yakuza schoolboy racing driver King Of the Drift who was too thick to notice he was being double crossed by a double crossing double crosser) having to live with the flattest of flat faces of the manta-ray persuasion. or something.
On the plus side, I think I've found a new drinking game out of it! Settle down with several bottles of boze ter t'baby (nice broon boze, mind, to go wi' t'bombay mix) and down a shot when:
● Token black sidekick calls whitey driver Bro' but mispronounces it Breh or Brah
● Shot of foot flooring the clutch as gear change is made
● Camera angle from floor as a pair of impossibly thin legs stride past until a micro
skirt is revealed
● Camera follows Dat Ass until it pans over to someone leaning over a bonnet just
pulling on a ratcher
● Camera pans past someone in a most improbable and uncomfortable pose, clearly
meant to be a "model shot"
● Camera flies through the car components until it reaches a canister of NOS
● Someone presses a turbo button and looks really shocked at the result (depsite
being a frequent racer who uses the NOS turbo frequently)
● White Guy is coerced into proving himself
● A deal is made
● Someone points out they only ride for pink slips
● The moment intial enemies becomes friends
● There's a double cross or unexpected twist.
● Some dumbass does something dumb
● A car crashes into a parked car
● A crowd of people have to part or run out of the way of the race
● You think How the fuck can they afford all these cars? where do they get the
money to repair them?
● You think How come all the roads are totally empty when there's a race, and
fairly light traffic to weave around in rush hour when chased by Da Cops?
● You think They alll have quite unique and identifyable cars? Why are they
never identified or arrested by Da Police?
● You think Why has no-one called an ambulance, or gone to help the driver
when one car crashes? Why does no-one cares when a car goes over a cliff,
and just keeps watching the race and congratulate the winner?
● You think Why are there no fit birds in this movie?
Pretty sure you'll be legless after 20 minutes (Which I pretty much wished I was, 20 minutes into Tokyo Drift!)
Oh well, only 3 more to go... and apparently, the first three are the worst, so hopefully things'll get better. One hopes...
I'm currently being subjected to that there The Fast And The Furious filums (as you know from last weeks bloggery).
Fast and Furious? Fat and Furry Arse, more like! Or just plain Fugly.
Now, all know what a comedically lecherous slimeball Xym is. Most films will find Xym often exclaiming one of the following ejactulations:
"Oh my!"
"Now we're talking!"
"When's her obligatory nudie shower scene coming up!"
"Want!"
"I'd buy that for a dollar!"
etc, etc.
However, much to Lady C's surprise, a singular lack of vocal emissions remained unuttered by Xym.
But we all agreed why.
Cars - nice. Women... urgh! Seems the basic requirement to be a ho in Fast & Furious filum is to wear minimal clothing, and be a misshapen munter!
"You can talk, Xym, you corpulent troll. You're no adonis or oil painting, you know!" (← reader's voice. And yes, The Xym does know, spank you very much!)
Yeah, well. I know what I likes, and I likes quite a wide range of Pretties. In fact, it's often incorrectly claimed that Xym likes "anything in a skirt . or with tits". which isn't true at all (see previous blogs). But the Fast & Furious cast of alleged Sexy Ladies just doesn't do it for Xym. Perhaps if they cast Helena Bonham-Carter in it...
Anyhoo, we started with 2 Fast 2 Furious, which featured Suki.
Who just looked wrong. Face, body, arms - actually, you know that there author Whitley Streiber who kept being bumprobed by space monsters, and created the now stereotypical spindly space monster with the overelongated arms, pipe cleaner legs, skeletal body, triangular face and wangy triangle eyes? That's her, that is!
And there was no other pretties at all in it! Even the undercover cop woman (not Eva Mendez, the one tapping the corrupt cop. Not the corrupt cop who's the racer, the corrupt cop working for the gangland boss with a penchant for a double cross. Although despite this corrupt cop double crossing the gangland boss, the gangland boss is double crossing the other corrupt cop... who in turn is also double crossing the gangland boss... where was I again? Oh, right...)
Even the not-Eva Mendez undercover cop woman looks like a bad trannie in drag!
Ok, so there's Eva Mendez... who just didn't appeal to Xym at all, looking like a right miseryarse in an inappropriate outfit.
But then we're on to Fast And Furious: Tokyo Drift, which is a truly appalling filum. Filled with dreadful, dreadful teen ickiness.
OK, so it's set in a Japanese school, where all kids are about 25, but still have an ugly cast. There's maybe one or two passable Pretties in the entire movie, but the lead Yakuza kid...
...flatface! It's the only thing you think whenever he's on screen. Especially when in profile to emphasize how flat the front of his face is!
Most people have rounded brows, protuding noses, pursed lips, a chin ...this bloke - FLAT! It's like someone's taken Wallace (out of Wallace and Gromit) and spent some time ironing his plasticine face. Or sanded it down with a face sander. Or stuck his head in a trouser press, or one of them huge hydraulic presses like in Terminator at the end, and his facial frontage was somewhat suppler than the rear of his cranium, and squished it all down flat.
No wonder he was an angry young man (I mean triad yakuza schoolboy racing driver King Of the Drift who was too thick to notice he was being double crossed by a double crossing double crosser) having to live with the flattest of flat faces of the manta-ray persuasion. or something.
On the plus side, I think I've found a new drinking game out of it! Settle down with several bottles of boze ter t'baby (nice broon boze, mind, to go wi' t'bombay mix) and down a shot when:
● Token black sidekick calls whitey driver Bro' but mispronounces it Breh or Brah
● Shot of foot flooring the clutch as gear change is made
● Camera angle from floor as a pair of impossibly thin legs stride past until a micro
skirt is revealed
● Camera follows Dat Ass until it pans over to someone leaning over a bonnet just
pulling on a ratcher
● Camera pans past someone in a most improbable and uncomfortable pose, clearly
meant to be a "model shot"
● Camera flies through the car components until it reaches a canister of NOS
● Someone presses a turbo button and looks really shocked at the result (depsite
being a frequent racer who uses the NOS turbo frequently)
● White Guy is coerced into proving himself
● A deal is made
● Someone points out they only ride for pink slips
● The moment intial enemies becomes friends
● There's a double cross or unexpected twist.
● Some dumbass does something dumb
● A car crashes into a parked car
● A crowd of people have to part or run out of the way of the race
● You think How the fuck can they afford all these cars? where do they get the
money to repair them?
● You think How come all the roads are totally empty when there's a race, and
fairly light traffic to weave around in rush hour when chased by Da Cops?
● You think They alll have quite unique and identifyable cars? Why are they
never identified or arrested by Da Police?
● You think Why has no-one called an ambulance, or gone to help the driver
when one car crashes? Why does no-one cares when a car goes over a cliff,
and just keeps watching the race and congratulate the winner?
● You think Why are there no fit birds in this movie?
Pretty sure you'll be legless after 20 minutes (Which I pretty much wished I was, 20 minutes into Tokyo Drift!)
Oh well, only 3 more to go... and apparently, the first three are the worst, so hopefully things'll get better. One hopes...
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
It's good, but it's not right...
What the... L4Y3R C4K3 is not about cake at all! No sir!
It's a highly convoluted, confusing, thing about gruff, gravelly voiced cockneys who say "Fuck" a lot.
Even Dumbledore, despite talking like Dumbledore throws in a few Fucks here and there!
Even mild-mannered Kingsley Shacklebolt, who can't deny Dumbledore's style, still throws on his Ministry Of Magic Dress and hat!
Turns out that the "Layer Cake" in question is a pile of shit. Literally!
According to Dumbledore, you start out with a thick layer of shit, then a thinner layer of shit, then another, until you can't remember there's shit in yer cake. Scarlet Johannsenn has red in her Heath, and Dumbledor has shit in his cake. There's a metaphor there somewhere. Or a metaphwoar, in Black Widow's case.
Anyhoo,. it all ends with them sat round with slices of shitcake.
Made no sense at all to me - but it DID explain why Bruce Willis was poncing about town in his dressing down on the hunt for unlimited women of sexual escapades. For Daniel Craig was abducted half way though in his dressing down and take to an office. So that explains that.
But after that, it's Fast And Furious in the ready money round!
Oooh Michelle Rodriguez! I wonder if she'll deviate from her usual one-dimensional character of Pouty Puerto-Rican With An Attitude Problem Who Likes To Duff People Up...
But in this, she plays a Mechanic/Racer Pouty Puerto-Rican With An Attitude Problem Who Likes To Duff People Up (as opposed to Marine Pouty Puerto-Rican With An Attitude Problem Who Likes To Duff People Up and Street Vendor Pouty Puerto-Rican With An Attitude Problem Who Likes To Duff People Up).
But it was much better than that dessert disaster!
It's a highly convoluted, confusing, thing about gruff, gravelly voiced cockneys who say "Fuck" a lot.
Even Dumbledore, despite talking like Dumbledore throws in a few Fucks here and there!
Even mild-mannered Kingsley Shacklebolt, who can't deny Dumbledore's style, still throws on his Ministry Of Magic Dress and hat!
Turns out that the "Layer Cake" in question is a pile of shit. Literally!
According to Dumbledore, you start out with a thick layer of shit, then a thinner layer of shit, then another, until you can't remember there's shit in yer cake. Scarlet Johannsenn has red in her Heath, and Dumbledor has shit in his cake. There's a metaphor there somewhere. Or a metaphwoar, in Black Widow's case.
Anyhoo,. it all ends with them sat round with slices of shitcake.
Made no sense at all to me - but it DID explain why Bruce Willis was poncing about town in his dressing down on the hunt for unlimited women of sexual escapades. For Daniel Craig was abducted half way though in his dressing down and take to an office. So that explains that.
But after that, it's Fast And Furious in the ready money round!
Oooh Michelle Rodriguez! I wonder if she'll deviate from her usual one-dimensional character of Pouty Puerto-Rican With An Attitude Problem Who Likes To Duff People Up...
But in this, she plays a Mechanic/Racer Pouty Puerto-Rican With An Attitude Problem Who Likes To Duff People Up (as opposed to Marine Pouty Puerto-Rican With An Attitude Problem Who Likes To Duff People Up and Street Vendor Pouty Puerto-Rican With An Attitude Problem Who Likes To Duff People Up).
But it was much better than that dessert disaster!
Friday, 15 March 2013
I say Holmes...
Is that a veritable giant tentacular monstrosity of the cephalopodic variety?
Oh, come now Watson! Forget the Archituthis Dux, velociraptor, robots and dragons. I feel if you look towards the gardens, so patiently tended by the teenage Ms Hudson as a wanton french maid, you may see such a sight to challenge your very sense of reality.
Egad, Sherlock. That's naught but a lawn peacock, parading it's plumage for the all ladies to... good heaven's Holmes! it just exploded! Let's rewind it, and watch it again!
and again!
and again!
And so, my Dear Watson, does the now legendary Banging Nail In Wall trailer not now pale into insignificance?
Indupitably Holmes. Now, let's stick Date Movie on and have a right laugh!
Oh, you poor, deluded fool Watson. Be my guest, but don't day I didn't warn you. From the title alone, I deduce a veritable borefest of unamusing jocularity with minimal plot. Be it on yourself to endure this turgid miracle of the moving picture age.
What ho, Holmes! This young maiden appears to be sexing herself with some form of mechanical apparatus!
Phwoar! Shove over Watson! Queen and God bless Nikolai Tesla! The mechanical minge orgasmic simulation device! Whatever will our Steampunked age come up with next!
Oh, come now Watson! Forget the Archituthis Dux, velociraptor, robots and dragons. I feel if you look towards the gardens, so patiently tended by the teenage Ms Hudson as a wanton french maid, you may see such a sight to challenge your very sense of reality.
Egad, Sherlock. That's naught but a lawn peacock, parading it's plumage for the all ladies to... good heaven's Holmes! it just exploded! Let's rewind it, and watch it again!
and again!
and again!
And so, my Dear Watson, does the now legendary Banging Nail In Wall trailer not now pale into insignificance?
Indupitably Holmes. Now, let's stick Date Movie on and have a right laugh!
Oh, you poor, deluded fool Watson. Be my guest, but don't day I didn't warn you. From the title alone, I deduce a veritable borefest of unamusing jocularity with minimal plot. Be it on yourself to endure this turgid miracle of the moving picture age.
What ho, Holmes! This young maiden appears to be sexing herself with some form of mechanical apparatus!
Phwoar! Shove over Watson! Queen and God bless Nikolai Tesla! The mechanical minge orgasmic simulation device! Whatever will our Steampunked age come up with next!
Tuesday, 5 March 2013
I eat cameltoe...
So sang Wizard Of Oz's X-Factor all-singing all-dancing dog Toto Coelo in it's top ten hit "(they nommed my brains down in) Africa".
After taking one of my Pretties & her immediate family our for a Milestone Birthday Pedros, we all piled back to watch appallingly poor movies.
So, no change there then!
After the inevitable musical exposure, we tried to decide upon a film. Which seems to involve rejecting any suggestions and scrolling through LoveFilm a lot.
Fantastic titles abound. I can't remember most, but they were of the ilk:
The Man Whose Brain Screamed!
Terror Is A Man!
The Hand That Fingered The Flange!
It Came From Beyond The Fridge!
Student Sucking Vampires!
You get the drift.
Anyhoo, we tried one, which was some olde monochrome shambling face eating zombie affair - something about P.S.C.
Which I thought stood for Prostitute Shagging Cannibals, which was an entirely plausible plotline. I could wtite that! If James "Funnyman (allegedly)" Cordon can get away with Lesbian Vampire Killers, surely we can come up with a screenplay about flesh-hungry unga-bunga bone-in-nose voodoo witch-doctors humping ladies of the night!
Anyhoo, Paulina seemed to think it was Prostitues Shagging Camels1.
Which promptly became Prostitutes Shagging Cannibals With Camels.
Which inevitably became Prostitutes Shagging Cannibals With Cameltoes.
I'm writing the script now...
1 ALWAYS A ONE TO LOWER THE TONE IS OUR PAULINA. "WHAT SHALL WE WATCH? SKYFALL? BEETLEJUICE? DESPICABLE ME? WHAT YOU PUT ON NOW PAULA? SEX KITTEN SLICE AND DICE WITH EXTRA NUDIE SHOWER SCENES WITH HINTS OF BEASTIALITY? WE WANTED TO WATCH MCLOVIN' DOING HIS DANCE IN PARANORMAN, AND YOU STICK ON THE SERIAL KILLING STRIPPER? FUCKING DICK. WHAT ARE YOU, A FUCKING PRICK, YOU COCK."
After taking one of my Pretties & her immediate family our for a Milestone Birthday Pedros, we all piled back to watch appallingly poor movies.
So, no change there then!
After the inevitable musical exposure, we tried to decide upon a film. Which seems to involve rejecting any suggestions and scrolling through LoveFilm a lot.
Fantastic titles abound. I can't remember most, but they were of the ilk:
The Man Whose Brain Screamed!
Terror Is A Man!
The Hand That Fingered The Flange!
It Came From Beyond The Fridge!
Student Sucking Vampires!
You get the drift.
Anyhoo, we tried one, which was some olde monochrome shambling face eating zombie affair - something about P.S.C.
Which I thought stood for Prostitute Shagging Cannibals, which was an entirely plausible plotline. I could wtite that! If James "Funnyman (allegedly)" Cordon can get away with Lesbian Vampire Killers, surely we can come up with a screenplay about flesh-hungry unga-bunga bone-in-nose voodoo witch-doctors humping ladies of the night!
Anyhoo, Paulina seemed to think it was Prostitues Shagging Camels1.
Which promptly became Prostitutes Shagging Cannibals With Camels.
Which inevitably became Prostitutes Shagging Cannibals With Cameltoes.
I'm writing the script now...
1 ALWAYS A ONE TO LOWER THE TONE IS OUR PAULINA. "WHAT SHALL WE WATCH? SKYFALL? BEETLEJUICE? DESPICABLE ME? WHAT YOU PUT ON NOW PAULA? SEX KITTEN SLICE AND DICE WITH EXTRA NUDIE SHOWER SCENES WITH HINTS OF BEASTIALITY? WE WANTED TO WATCH MCLOVIN' DOING HIS DANCE IN PARANORMAN, AND YOU STICK ON THE SERIAL KILLING STRIPPER? FUCKING DICK. WHAT ARE YOU, A FUCKING PRICK, YOU COCK."
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Soon you will pass through my body, and be nothing but my shit...
After unfounded accusations of dancefloor gropacious snoggage with Pretties1, and thusly abondoned to Fend For Myself in a sea of Lara Crofts, Alice's, Leeloo's, Harley Quims and other diverse Pretties of an alluring nature, it's time for Hallowe'en Partay part II.
The Alphini birthday boy, saddled (Savilled?) in pumpkin, afore becoming a horny Devil, and ending up pissed with wonky antlers.
Or something.
Anyhoo, as Mr Migraine slept off the bollocknaise, it's left to Xym to entertain further Pretties.
Firstly, we like the Pretty Eyes whilst watching a film based on crows portrayed by ravens with images of eagles. Not to mention the titless wonders with their gravity enforced frontage.
And then, it's time for longpig nommage. And you know you're in for a good time when the credits have characters named "Gratuitous Lesbian #1".
And then, I has to sit back, being force fed green cake, chocolate cake, three fingers, scampi fries, bacon fries, choccie biscuits and whole bags of crisps.
Without a drink!
1 I MEAN, HONESTLY - THIS IS THE XYM. CHANCE'D BE A FINE THING. A FAREWELL HUG AND A PECK ON THE NECK AND IT'S SUDDENLY BESAVILE-ING THEM LIKE GARY GLITTER IN A VIETNAMESE SWEETIE SHOP! NOT TO MENTION THE MOLESTATIONARY MOTORBOARDING. MOLESTATION INDEED! WHAT'S WRONG WITH A RAIL NETWORK BOARDING AREA FOR BLIND TUNELLING RODENTS? I SUPPOSE "WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE MY MOLESTATION" IS MORE APPEALING THAN "WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE SOME PUPPIES". ESPECIALLY IF A MOLESTATION IS LIKE A PS3 FOR THE AFOREMENTIONED WORM EATING BURROWERS BENEATH. OR SOMETHING.
The Alphini birthday boy, saddled (Savilled?) in pumpkin, afore becoming a horny Devil, and ending up pissed with wonky antlers.
Or something.
Anyhoo, as Mr Migraine slept off the bollocknaise, it's left to Xym to entertain further Pretties.
Firstly, we like the Pretty Eyes whilst watching a film based on crows portrayed by ravens with images of eagles. Not to mention the titless wonders with their gravity enforced frontage.
And then, it's time for longpig nommage. And you know you're in for a good time when the credits have characters named "Gratuitous Lesbian #1".
And then, I has to sit back, being force fed green cake, chocolate cake, three fingers, scampi fries, bacon fries, choccie biscuits and whole bags of crisps.
Without a drink!
And then I has to sit though David Tennant and Kevin Webster as Lady C engages in under-blankie ladyfappage.
 |
| Kevin Webster Corrie Mechanic |
 |
| Colon Farell Camp Vamp |
Fun Timez.
1 I MEAN, HONESTLY - THIS IS THE XYM. CHANCE'D BE A FINE THING. A FAREWELL HUG AND A PECK ON THE NECK AND IT'S SUDDENLY BESAVILE-ING THEM LIKE GARY GLITTER IN A VIETNAMESE SWEETIE SHOP! NOT TO MENTION THE MOLESTATIONARY MOTORBOARDING. MOLESTATION INDEED! WHAT'S WRONG WITH A RAIL NETWORK BOARDING AREA FOR BLIND TUNELLING RODENTS? I SUPPOSE "WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE MY MOLESTATION" IS MORE APPEALING THAN "WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE SOME PUPPIES". ESPECIALLY IF A MOLESTATION IS LIKE A PS3 FOR THE AFOREMENTIONED WORM EATING BURROWERS BENEATH. OR SOMETHING.
Wednesday, 19 September 2012
What's that cumming over the hill...
Ooooh!
Oh, no Xymmetry, apart from Sahara safari beastial markings! For no matching stripe, but instead the furry shell of the Leopard-tortoise!
See Xym in the bush, foraging as his follicles blend into beastly background as he hunts a fox!
Or somet'ing.
Anyhoo, new plumage is taken off to the soul-deadening atmosfear of ye Cherry Tree. Oh, ye singularity of staff slowly serving suppers of cider1 as the endless quiz of 40 questions in three hours drags on...
...but not last night! Oh no!
Firstly - previous winnings are missing! What? No record of our 8 pints of celebratory quaffage? I demands my drinklets! And lo, inebriation was provided.
And sit...
And sit...
And sit...
And sit...
And Ooooohhhh... new quiz format! Revamped from being Shit to... A Bit Less Shit But Still Shit! Here, take our participational pennies, and enroll us whilst we persuse Round #2's Images Of Pop Tarts.
What's that? We're the only team here so far? I know the misery of past drawn-out quizzes have alienated just about everyone until just 2 teams remain (with 1 or 2 random quizzing feasters each week), but just us three? Oooh - that means we win the Top Prize!
No, Mr Quizmeister - don't go and check. We win! Simples! Look, we've done Round #2, so we're in! No don't ask if Management will offer to refund our £1 entry fee - we wants our winnings!
And sit...
And sit...
And sit...
And sit...
And Ooooh, hello Quizmeister! Has anyone else turneded up then? No? Why, we all gets great big fat feck off meals then! Whey-hay! What's this? Our £1s back? Boo! For Shame!
Oh well, we'll quaff up and sod off then!
Ah, here's me taxi. Oh, goodbye Landlady? What's that? "Sorry about the quiz. But I've just been SACKED. Dunno if there'll be a quiz in a couple of weeks, who knows, I don't, I don't care, they just SACKED me!"
Oh dear. Oh Damn. Oh more false Xympathy... HA! Serves you right for drawing out the quiz to try and dehydrate everyone in order to squeeze more hard earned pennies out of their pockets and into your coffers in exchange for beverages you miserable old witch!
Oh dear. Oh dear, Oh dear. No more quizzes then. Ain't that a shame!
No more having to trek all the way out to Costessey on a bus to sit in silence for an hour, before other team members arrive, then have to scoff a feast whilst consuming free beer, then the awful, soul-destroying slowness of the quiz that seems to last a million years (instead of just 3 hours) before the long taxi back and realising you've missed Derren Brown's Svengali and the finalé of Hell's Kitchen...
...still, at least my Tuesdays are now free again for the Bad DVD nite, and I have a Killer Cock movie...
...and yes, I mean Killer Cock as in non-Chicken cock. A murderous manhood. A detatched dongler. A self-aware, slaughterous schlong separated from the body and on the prowl.
Where the fuck do you find this Shite, Xym?
This one I picked up in Poundland!
Yes, family favourite Poundland are selling a DVD about a disembodied psychotic todger on a murderous rampage!
I wonder if they still sell Poundland Porn...
1OTHER BEVERAGES ARE AVAILABLE.
Tiger, tiger, carving stripes,
In the follicle forest of Xym's hair-sides,
What has hairdresser's hand & eye,
Mapped in fearful Xymmetry?
Oh, no Xymmetry, apart from Sahara safari beastial markings! For no matching stripe, but instead the furry shell of the Leopard-tortoise!
See Xym in the bush, foraging as his follicles blend into beastly background as he hunts a fox!
Or somet'ing.
Anyhoo, new plumage is taken off to the soul-deadening atmosfear of ye Cherry Tree. Oh, ye singularity of staff slowly serving suppers of cider1 as the endless quiz of 40 questions in three hours drags on...
...but not last night! Oh no!
Firstly - previous winnings are missing! What? No record of our 8 pints of celebratory quaffage? I demands my drinklets! And lo, inebriation was provided.
And sit...
And sit...
And sit...
And sit...
And Ooooohhhh... new quiz format! Revamped from being Shit to... A Bit Less Shit But Still Shit! Here, take our participational pennies, and enroll us whilst we persuse Round #2's Images Of Pop Tarts.
What's that? We're the only team here so far? I know the misery of past drawn-out quizzes have alienated just about everyone until just 2 teams remain (with 1 or 2 random quizzing feasters each week), but just us three? Oooh - that means we win the Top Prize!
No, Mr Quizmeister - don't go and check. We win! Simples! Look, we've done Round #2, so we're in! No don't ask if Management will offer to refund our £1 entry fee - we wants our winnings!
And sit...
And sit...
And sit...
And sit...
And Ooooh, hello Quizmeister! Has anyone else turneded up then? No? Why, we all gets great big fat feck off meals then! Whey-hay! What's this? Our £1s back? Boo! For Shame!
Oh well, we'll quaff up and sod off then!
Ah, here's me taxi. Oh, goodbye Landlady? What's that? "Sorry about the quiz. But I've just been SACKED. Dunno if there'll be a quiz in a couple of weeks, who knows, I don't, I don't care, they just SACKED me!"
Oh dear. Oh Damn. Oh more false Xympathy... HA! Serves you right for drawing out the quiz to try and dehydrate everyone in order to squeeze more hard earned pennies out of their pockets and into your coffers in exchange for beverages you miserable old witch!
Oh dear. Oh dear, Oh dear. No more quizzes then. Ain't that a shame!
No more having to trek all the way out to Costessey on a bus to sit in silence for an hour, before other team members arrive, then have to scoff a feast whilst consuming free beer, then the awful, soul-destroying slowness of the quiz that seems to last a million years (instead of just 3 hours) before the long taxi back and realising you've missed Derren Brown's Svengali and the finalé of Hell's Kitchen...
...still, at least my Tuesdays are now free again for the Bad DVD nite, and I have a Killer Cock movie...
...and yes, I mean Killer Cock as in non-Chicken cock. A murderous manhood. A detatched dongler. A self-aware, slaughterous schlong separated from the body and on the prowl.
Where the fuck do you find this Shite, Xym?
This one I picked up in Poundland!
Yes, family favourite Poundland are selling a DVD about a disembodied psychotic todger on a murderous rampage!
I wonder if they still sell Poundland Porn...
 |
| Yes... that's a man choking on another man's cock... |
 |
| Hold on... weren't them kids looking for One Eyed Willie in The Goonies? The Fratellis? The Pæedo Tellies more like! "Come 'ere kids! I want some of yer booty, now show us your hidden One Eyed Willie..." |
1OTHER BEVERAGES ARE AVAILABLE.
Thursday, 26 July 2012
Nefertiti, Cleopatra and one chalice...
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
It's a knobout (purrr-om prom prom prom)...
Well, todays Blog would normally have covered last night's depravitations.
I would scar thy mind with the foul mouthed ranting from Joe Pasquale, squeaking abuse of the "Fuck of you fucking minge" variety.
I would poison thy mind with images of popular door-to-door entertainer Keith "Cheggers" Chegwin, dancing about in lather & chains & tight leather brief in his gay sex-dungeon.
I would further blind thee with images of a nudie Cheggers chopper, as his miniscule1 Tarzan's vine swings about the place in one-off gameshow Naked Jungle.
But not today. For today I have rantage.
I live in England, yeah. Now, England has an educational system. This system has a number of schooling levels you go through. To whit;
1. Nursery School
2. Primary School
3. Secondary (Modern) School
4. Grammar/Comprehensive School
5. (Sixth Form) College
6. Polytechnic/University
Now, our education system is so crap now, that some chavvy gormsers insist they go to High School. In England!
No - you don't, you cretinous fuckwit. AMERICA has High Schools. You go to a secondary school. Maybe even a Grammar or Comprehensive. And, despite what educational tellyshows such as Hannah Montana tell you, you're in the fucking 4th form, or Year 12, or something. NOT bloody "3rd grade", you illiterate titwank!
Jesus!
Now, this brainwashing of the mentally retarded has seeped into the School Disco. Remember them? Ah, the School Disco. The Leavers party. Seems like all the girls are preparing for the school disco.
Only they're not. They're preparing for their Prom. Their big "coming out" bash. Must have overelaborate ball gown!
No you fucking ain't! That's what AMERICAN's have! Not us Brits! The Proms in Britain is a classical Music festival in the Prince Albert Hall - not some popular American Lose-Your-Virginity fest.
Tell you what - don't heep banging on that immigrants should take a British Culture and Heritage test coz YOU'RE BLOODY PISSING ALL OVER THAT CULTURE/HERITAGE WITH AMERICAN TRAVESTIES! Fuck off over to America if you can't follow British Culture - deport yourself and live like them Yanks in their "High Schools". Yeah - you moan about these so called Muslims, flouting English culture and laws, whilst you undermine that argument by shitting over your own heritage by replacing it with American crap!
It's a slippery, dippery slope. First it's "High School", now we have a "Prom". Not long beore each Term becomes a "Semester", and then Headmaster/Headmistress will become a "Principal"...
..and then...
...oh then...
The dreaded Sorority and Frat Houses, populated by cunty twats of twattyness!
Non-stop pool parties at houses where parents are always away for the weekend (and by weekend, I mean ALL THE TIME). Inexhaustable supplies of beer. The non-Stop roasting of strippers by Frat Boys bonding together. The Sorority Girls shagging the Jocks and being generic bitches to each other.
And then, it's only a matter of time before someone accidentally gets killed... in some abandoned house... on an Initiation Day... and they cover it up... and one by one, someone stalks them and kills them all off in diverse and improbable ways for an even more improbable reason.
Mind you, any Brit who claims to be going to a "Prom" in England deserves such a fate. Next British person who blathers on about their teenage daughters all-important non-British "tradition" can have a free punch in the tits and a kick up the clit.
I don't care how beautiful your daughters are, or how proud you are of them. I don't mind that. Just shut the fuck up about them going to the sodding Prom, coz we do not have them in England. It's an American thing. School Disco or Ball, that's what they're going to. Not a buggeryfucking prom night.
Bloody Prom indeed!
1THAT'S MINISCULE - NOT, AS PRETTIES THOUGHT MUSICAL, AS THEIR DEPRAVED SEXUAL FETISHES DWELT UPON HIS PINK OBOE AND THEIR WISH TO AKE IT IN THEIR MOUTHS, SPIT ON IT AND GARGLE-Y GAG ON IT LIKE LIKE HE WAS A FAT RUSSELL BRAND. OR LES DENNIS. OR SOMETHING.
I would scar thy mind with the foul mouthed ranting from Joe Pasquale, squeaking abuse of the "Fuck of you fucking minge" variety.
I would poison thy mind with images of popular door-to-door entertainer Keith "Cheggers" Chegwin, dancing about in lather & chains & tight leather brief in his gay sex-dungeon.
I would further blind thee with images of a nudie Cheggers chopper, as his miniscule1 Tarzan's vine swings about the place in one-off gameshow Naked Jungle.
But not today. For today I have rantage.
I live in England, yeah. Now, England has an educational system. This system has a number of schooling levels you go through. To whit;
1. Nursery School
2. Primary School
3. Secondary (Modern) School
4. Grammar/Comprehensive School
5. (Sixth Form) College
6. Polytechnic/University
Now, our education system is so crap now, that some chavvy gormsers insist they go to High School. In England!
No - you don't, you cretinous fuckwit. AMERICA has High Schools. You go to a secondary school. Maybe even a Grammar or Comprehensive. And, despite what educational tellyshows such as Hannah Montana tell you, you're in the fucking 4th form, or Year 12, or something. NOT bloody "3rd grade", you illiterate titwank!
Jesus!
Now, this brainwashing of the mentally retarded has seeped into the School Disco. Remember them? Ah, the School Disco. The Leavers party. Seems like all the girls are preparing for the school disco.
Only they're not. They're preparing for their Prom. Their big "coming out" bash. Must have overelaborate ball gown!
No you fucking ain't! That's what AMERICAN's have! Not us Brits! The Proms in Britain is a classical Music festival in the Prince Albert Hall - not some popular American Lose-Your-Virginity fest.
Tell you what - don't heep banging on that immigrants should take a British Culture and Heritage test coz YOU'RE BLOODY PISSING ALL OVER THAT CULTURE/HERITAGE WITH AMERICAN TRAVESTIES! Fuck off over to America if you can't follow British Culture - deport yourself and live like them Yanks in their "High Schools". Yeah - you moan about these so called Muslims, flouting English culture and laws, whilst you undermine that argument by shitting over your own heritage by replacing it with American crap!
It's a slippery, dippery slope. First it's "High School", now we have a "Prom". Not long beore each Term becomes a "Semester", and then Headmaster/Headmistress will become a "Principal"...
..and then...
...oh then...
The dreaded Sorority and Frat Houses, populated by cunty twats of twattyness!
Non-stop pool parties at houses where parents are always away for the weekend (and by weekend, I mean ALL THE TIME). Inexhaustable supplies of beer. The non-Stop roasting of strippers by Frat Boys bonding together. The Sorority Girls shagging the Jocks and being generic bitches to each other.
And then, it's only a matter of time before someone accidentally gets killed... in some abandoned house... on an Initiation Day... and they cover it up... and one by one, someone stalks them and kills them all off in diverse and improbable ways for an even more improbable reason.
Mind you, any Brit who claims to be going to a "Prom" in England deserves such a fate. Next British person who blathers on about their teenage daughters all-important non-British "tradition" can have a free punch in the tits and a kick up the clit.
I don't care how beautiful your daughters are, or how proud you are of them. I don't mind that. Just shut the fuck up about them going to the sodding Prom, coz we do not have them in England. It's an American thing. School Disco or Ball, that's what they're going to. Not a buggeryfucking prom night.
Bloody Prom indeed!
1THAT'S MINISCULE - NOT, AS PRETTIES THOUGHT MUSICAL, AS THEIR DEPRAVED SEXUAL FETISHES DWELT UPON HIS PINK OBOE AND THEIR WISH TO AKE IT IN THEIR MOUTHS, SPIT ON IT AND GARGLE-Y GAG ON IT LIKE LIKE HE WAS A FAT RUSSELL BRAND. OR LES DENNIS. OR SOMETHING.
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
In an octopussy ladygarden in the shave...
...when she'd dead.
Honestly, some spelunking spunkbanks deserve everything they get!
First of all, the miserable old trout get some other bint drownded. Then she gets all uppity. Then she gets someone else deaded. Then she refuses to wear a dead chicks lyra outfit in case she gets another bird's flangebatter all over her minge. Then she gets stuck - ha! But the haggard ole trout refuses to be aqually corpsified. Funny how NO-ONE ELSE wants to go back and make sure she's OK.
But she gets out of the tight hole, and promptly has to be stripped all nudie and put under a blanket and be shagged into warmth by her boyfriend. All because she couldn't bear the touch of another womans quimjuice against her One Armed Bandit Fingering Slut Machine.
And then, THEN, she moans. And moans. And moans.
And not because she's being nobbed up the wrong'un beneath the bacofoil. Just general whiney whingeness!
And then, the dozy mare can't even be arsed to tie her hair back! So, inevitably, it gets stuck in the wheels. "Don't use yer knife - you'll cut your rope!"
So the silly sod uses her knife, promptly cuts her rope, and falls into the mælstrom, sucked off into the icy depths.
And good riddance too!
Only to resurface later, when her boyfriend nicked all the breathers to locate her body, for a spot of secretive necrophilia in the dark caverns!
Cave diving?
Maggoty muff diving, more like!
Honestly, some spelunking spunkbanks deserve everything they get!
First of all, the miserable old trout get some other bint drownded. Then she gets all uppity. Then she gets someone else deaded. Then she refuses to wear a dead chicks lyra outfit in case she gets another bird's flangebatter all over her minge. Then she gets stuck - ha! But the haggard ole trout refuses to be aqually corpsified. Funny how NO-ONE ELSE wants to go back and make sure she's OK.
But she gets out of the tight hole, and promptly has to be stripped all nudie and put under a blanket and be shagged into warmth by her boyfriend. All because she couldn't bear the touch of another womans quimjuice against her One Armed Bandit Fingering Slut Machine.
And then, THEN, she moans. And moans. And moans.
And not because she's being nobbed up the wrong'un beneath the bacofoil. Just general whiney whingeness!
And then, the dozy mare can't even be arsed to tie her hair back! So, inevitably, it gets stuck in the wheels. "Don't use yer knife - you'll cut your rope!"
So the silly sod uses her knife, promptly cuts her rope, and falls into the mælstrom, sucked off into the icy depths.
And good riddance too!
Only to resurface later, when her boyfriend nicked all the breathers to locate her body, for a spot of secretive necrophilia in the dark caverns!
Cave diving?
Maggoty muff diving, more like!
Sunday, 22 April 2012
Incey Wincey Willis predicts a water drought...
Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!
Yea, ye ancientte onnes arise forre ye starres are right!
Although why content yourself with just 4 sacrificial lambs when you want to awaken to tear the Spheres asunder, I don't know.
But from one end of excellence depicting Redneck Zombie Torture Families (not to mention riffing upon many another classic), there is the other end.
An end with more eye opening incredulities of increasing disbelief that culminates in one of the more disturbing mental images to replace innocent teenage hand gestures.
To whit; The Rapey Spider.
You don't know Rapey Spider? Where you place one hand on top of t'other and crawl it about the table like, well, like a rapey spider, basically! Well, I'll never associate it with such innnocence again.
Not after watching Antfarm Dickhole.
Now, I watch a lot of shit. Me & my chums watch some of the most god-awful dreadful so-bad-they're-good films. Antfarm Dickhole is not the worst, but definately one of the most excruciatingly mental films I've seen since Peter Jackson's Bad Taste.
Words cannot begin to say how woefully awful the acting is - not to mention the appalling puns!
It's the tale of ANT-drew and ANT-ony (women are called ANT-oinette, ANT-Marie...) who are 30 somethings who are often bullied in the forest (don't ask). Now, after a somewhat lame punch from a passing bully, Antdrew is knocked unconscious. And as he lies comatose on the forest floor...
...a pack of army ants crawl up his leg, down his dickhole, and take up residence, nesting in his nutsack.
So, once he wakes up, he goes home, where his nudie girlfriend does a dance and gives him a blowie... only for him to jizz ants into her gob, which (during a rather elongated writing on the floor with maximum close up flange shots) end up reducing her to a pile of bones.
Passing out, he thinks it's all a dream... 'till he wakes up and sees the bones. Going for a walk, he's attacked by a bully, and the ants defend their nest. Thinking the bullies have put ants in his pants for a joke, he laughs as the 'joke' backfires, and the bully is et to death. In the park. In front of everyone.
So, he goes home and starts tossing himself off.
As you do.
Suddenly, a giant ant crawls out the top of his cock mid hand-shandy!
And so he takes his revenge. Primarily on the bullies girlfriends. Trapping one in a car, he shags the exhaust pipe to jizz ants into the car to kill the bitch (who somehow becomes totally naked during the attack). When another is in the shower (in her pants) he wanks thru the window and jizzes ants in to kill the showering slattern.
It gets worse.
Exactly why the reporters are all in bikinis, in the forest, with a tendancy to get nekkid quite a lot, I'm not sure. The same goes for the scientists investigating. Although Antdrew has to sunbathe fully clothed (because he's now so confident due to the ants in his pants), a bikini clad bint is sent in to seduce him so she can pour red ants down his nobend to neutralise the threat.
Not to mention running around/sitting/dozing in the public park with his cock hanging out. Nor the bit where the ants return to their nest with a banana, and it gets stuck halfway down his cock. And the Parkie only gives him a telling off for running about the park with his cock flapping about with a banana sticking out of it!
Exactly how the ants leave Antdrew and end up in his mates missus's minge is a bit vague, but Antony ends up a pile of bones after mingemunching his missus [Ant-onella]?
And then, for no reason at all, a woman heading for the shower is webbed up by a giant spider.
That rapes her.
Yes. You read that correctly. A giant spider spurts an improbably strong legs-held-wide-open quimshot web to tie her down, before mounting her missionary style and shagging her. And snogging her with it's mandibles.
The epilogue suggest she gives birth, for in the epilogue, a bullied teen spurts sticky stuff over a bully. Revenge of The Manspider.
Honestly, you ain't seen nothing till you've watched, open-mouthed in disbelief, a huge spider fucking a woman.
The mind veritably boggles!
Check out the quality:
Yea, ye ancientte onnes arise forre ye starres are right!
Although why content yourself with just 4 sacrificial lambs when you want to awaken to tear the Spheres asunder, I don't know.
But from one end of excellence depicting Redneck Zombie Torture Families (not to mention riffing upon many another classic), there is the other end.
An end with more eye opening incredulities of increasing disbelief that culminates in one of the more disturbing mental images to replace innocent teenage hand gestures.
To whit; The Rapey Spider.
You don't know Rapey Spider? Where you place one hand on top of t'other and crawl it about the table like, well, like a rapey spider, basically! Well, I'll never associate it with such innnocence again.
Not after watching Antfarm Dickhole.
Now, I watch a lot of shit. Me & my chums watch some of the most god-awful dreadful so-bad-they're-good films. Antfarm Dickhole is not the worst, but definately one of the most excruciatingly mental films I've seen since Peter Jackson's Bad Taste.
Words cannot begin to say how woefully awful the acting is - not to mention the appalling puns!
It's the tale of ANT-drew and ANT-ony (women are called ANT-oinette, ANT-Marie...) who are 30 somethings who are often bullied in the forest (don't ask). Now, after a somewhat lame punch from a passing bully, Antdrew is knocked unconscious. And as he lies comatose on the forest floor...
...a pack of army ants crawl up his leg, down his dickhole, and take up residence, nesting in his nutsack.
So, once he wakes up, he goes home, where his nudie girlfriend does a dance and gives him a blowie... only for him to jizz ants into her gob, which (during a rather elongated writing on the floor with maximum close up flange shots) end up reducing her to a pile of bones.
Passing out, he thinks it's all a dream... 'till he wakes up and sees the bones. Going for a walk, he's attacked by a bully, and the ants defend their nest. Thinking the bullies have put ants in his pants for a joke, he laughs as the 'joke' backfires, and the bully is et to death. In the park. In front of everyone.
So, he goes home and starts tossing himself off.
As you do.
Suddenly, a giant ant crawls out the top of his cock mid hand-shandy!
And so he takes his revenge. Primarily on the bullies girlfriends. Trapping one in a car, he shags the exhaust pipe to jizz ants into the car to kill the bitch (who somehow becomes totally naked during the attack). When another is in the shower (in her pants) he wanks thru the window and jizzes ants in to kill the showering slattern.
It gets worse.
Exactly why the reporters are all in bikinis, in the forest, with a tendancy to get nekkid quite a lot, I'm not sure. The same goes for the scientists investigating. Although Antdrew has to sunbathe fully clothed (because he's now so confident due to the ants in his pants), a bikini clad bint is sent in to seduce him so she can pour red ants down his nobend to neutralise the threat.
Not to mention running around/sitting/dozing in the public park with his cock hanging out. Nor the bit where the ants return to their nest with a banana, and it gets stuck halfway down his cock. And the Parkie only gives him a telling off for running about the park with his cock flapping about with a banana sticking out of it!
Exactly how the ants leave Antdrew and end up in his mates missus's minge is a bit vague, but Antony ends up a pile of bones after mingemunching his missus [Ant-onella]?
And then, for no reason at all, a woman heading for the shower is webbed up by a giant spider.
That rapes her.
Yes. You read that correctly. A giant spider spurts an improbably strong legs-held-wide-open quimshot web to tie her down, before mounting her missionary style and shagging her. And snogging her with it's mandibles.
The epilogue suggest she gives birth, for in the epilogue, a bullied teen spurts sticky stuff over a bully. Revenge of The Manspider.
Honestly, you ain't seen nothing till you've watched, open-mouthed in disbelief, a huge spider fucking a woman.
The mind veritably boggles!
Check out the quality:
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Wrist & razor bow string violence...
Apologies for the continuance of the blog hiatus, for The Xym hath been busy catching up on work, projects and televisual treats.
And now the fat boy is ill.
Oh, so very ill.
Cough! Splutter! (Cor, an exploding front door!)
So futher bloglitude may be delayed as I snuggle up on the sofa in my Jack Skellington fleecey throw with a mug of milky coffee and a box of tissues, ploughing through flameybummed insecture, easily mistaken for mountain hooterage, 5 wobbly headed warblers, simian seekers of enlightenment and the reign of bovine munchery.
However, time must be taken to marvel at Norfolk Nazi's of Third Reich Yarmouth, terrorizing people in their string vests with electro-dildos in the gob as they parade round in their pants and tights.
Whart the facking heoulll? Give me the Spear Of Vaginas ewe cawksuhkahr! Get that fahking thing oot moy face, ewe pervahrt!
And that was just Saturday! Further visual carnage lacking thesbian ability is the delight of Sunday Night!
Filth based preposterous rock nonsense! A pretext for boobifications of the highest order and the lezzing up thereof. Truly, 10 minutes of Goth Porn is enough for anyone - betentacled rapage by cartoon gothicles due to self-Rohypnolization, and more juggage than a jugged up juggler juggling jugs in jiggling jugfest of jugs.
Not to mention the most gratuitous of Obligatory Nudie Shower Scene.
But the creme de la gateaux is yet to come! The finest trailer in the world! A kid by a door... A face of an him-out-of-supernatural-resemblance... a slamming door... then... a single tap of a nail into the wall.
Oh, the terror! The terrible, terrible, terror!
And of course, being in a shuttered living room, it had to be watched. G'aaah! Trans-dimensional window displacement and the playing of Ye Olde Musick Of Ye Spheres through a french tarts arms. Not to mention Le Harry Potteur getting nobbage from Ye Olde French Serving Wench as some French trollop dissolves into spunky concrete for a young French lad to dip his balls into (who's actually her French husband when he grows up)
And back home to watch some Old Skool 80s classics - Ah, Angela's dance to Stigofthedump Martyr . Gloriously atrocious acting, wonderfully appalling script, Spectacularly bad FX! Oh, the joys of so bad it's brilliant!
"I'd rather take Stooge."
"What? You gotta be kidding!"
"You heard the lady! She wants a REAL man guarding her charms!"
"But... Stooge is a fat pig!"
"Maybe I'm in the mood for pork tonight!"
"OINK! OINK!"
And now, The Xym is all woeful in the snuffles and headaches and coughage that is The Plague. And (I got the poison, I got) the remedy to be ready for Nephage on Sat is to infect the workers during the day, and spend the evenings up at The Great Northern & Packards Saw Mill.
Norwich really needs a One Eyed Jacques, with all my Pretties contained therein.
Maybe I'll have to have a word with Starbucks... get my St Stephens perving perch converted to a brothelesque boudoir for my harem to frequent in as little dress as possible.
Or just a little dress.
With big black leather boots.
Or something...
And now the fat boy is ill.
Oh, so very ill.
Cough! Splutter! (Cor, an exploding front door!)
So futher bloglitude may be delayed as I snuggle up on the sofa in my Jack Skellington fleecey throw with a mug of milky coffee and a box of tissues, ploughing through flameybummed insecture, easily mistaken for mountain hooterage, 5 wobbly headed warblers, simian seekers of enlightenment and the reign of bovine munchery.
However, time must be taken to marvel at Norfolk Nazi's of Third Reich Yarmouth, terrorizing people in their string vests with electro-dildos in the gob as they parade round in their pants and tights.
Whart the facking heoulll? Give me the Spear Of Vaginas ewe cawksuhkahr! Get that fahking thing oot moy face, ewe pervahrt!
And that was just Saturday! Further visual carnage lacking thesbian ability is the delight of Sunday Night!
Filth based preposterous rock nonsense! A pretext for boobifications of the highest order and the lezzing up thereof. Truly, 10 minutes of Goth Porn is enough for anyone - betentacled rapage by cartoon gothicles due to self-Rohypnolization, and more juggage than a jugged up juggler juggling jugs in jiggling jugfest of jugs.
Not to mention the most gratuitous of Obligatory Nudie Shower Scene.
But the creme de la gateaux is yet to come! The finest trailer in the world! A kid by a door... A face of an him-out-of-supernatural-resemblance... a slamming door... then... a single tap of a nail into the wall.
Oh, the terror! The terrible, terrible, terror!
And of course, being in a shuttered living room, it had to be watched. G'aaah! Trans-dimensional window displacement and the playing of Ye Olde Musick Of Ye Spheres through a french tarts arms. Not to mention Le Harry Potteur getting nobbage from Ye Olde French Serving Wench as some French trollop dissolves into spunky concrete for a young French lad to dip his balls into (who's actually her French husband when he grows up)
And back home to watch some Old Skool 80s classics - Ah, Angela's dance to Stigofthedump Martyr . Gloriously atrocious acting, wonderfully appalling script, Spectacularly bad FX! Oh, the joys of so bad it's brilliant!
"I'd rather take Stooge."
"What? You gotta be kidding!"
"You heard the lady! She wants a REAL man guarding her charms!"
"But... Stooge is a fat pig!"
"Maybe I'm in the mood for pork tonight!"
"OINK! OINK!"
And now, The Xym is all woeful in the snuffles and headaches and coughage that is The Plague. And (I got the poison, I got) the remedy to be ready for Nephage on Sat is to infect the workers during the day, and spend the evenings up at The Great Northern & Packards Saw Mill.
Norwich really needs a One Eyed Jacques, with all my Pretties contained therein.
Maybe I'll have to have a word with Starbucks... get my St Stephens perving perch converted to a brothelesque boudoir for my harem to frequent in as little dress as possible.
Or just a little dress.
With big black leather boots.
Or something...
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Kolonkraft for slumbers...
Due to Chineseland being extra speedy upon deliverance, I had the special impromptu pleasure of adorning Pretties with fancy fashionista accoutrements.
However, Sleeping Beauty subjected us to narcoleptic visual entertainment of preposterous nonsense.
Shuffling shamblers of the resuscitated deceased is normally one of them Entertainments you hear about, but following the endless tedium of Colon meandering about for ages with nowt happening makes 94mins seem like 94years!
After 55mins of slow dullness, we stuck it on Fast Forward at 2x speed... and even at twice the speed it's painfully, painfully slow.
And what is it with reanimatory hordes? Gormsters let them into parties, and yet they can be held at bay at the bottom of the stairs by holding a couple of milk pans in front of you!
I know fairies are afeared of Iron, but I was unaware that Zombies suffered from Panophobia!
Although Panophobia is not a fear of pans. It's a fear of everything. As is pantophobia, which is neither a fear of pants or the cry of "it's behind you". That's Paranoia. There really should be a technical term for an irrational fear of pans wielded by a porker gormster. But if there is, I don't know what it is, and I'm dead clever I am.
Anyhoo, bereft of pans, slight flailing of the arms appears to keep the brainmunchers at bay. Unfortunately not at Michael Bay, who's had his brain et by Zombies ages ago (how else do you explain Transformers II?).
And after keeping them at bay with some ludicrous waving, naturally the only way to get et is to try and storm through the horde... and inevitable fall slowly backwards as they descend over you to gobble yer guts.
And don't even get me started on ye olde Catapult Of Doom (with currency based ammunition. Ah, that's where the £45 spent on the movie went!)
And then there's the mahoosive plot hole... unless there's deleted scenes of temporal displacement with the chronological traversement and paradoxial infection.
The Dragosani effect! Sister infects missus who infects her colon, who in turn later meets his uninfected missus (who's thrown into a zombie sex cellar to become a new necropheliac pleasurecorpse), and his uninfected sister whom he bites, until she turns all dead and groany.
And then he goes home, and somehow, the zombie sister goes into the past to begin the cycle again (at the
same time the pre-zombie missus presumably jumps into the future for a bit).
All that for a pair of Respect My Authoritah shades with damn girlie patterning upon the frame.
However, Sleeping Beauty subjected us to narcoleptic visual entertainment of preposterous nonsense.
Shuffling shamblers of the resuscitated deceased is normally one of them Entertainments you hear about, but following the endless tedium of Colon meandering about for ages with nowt happening makes 94mins seem like 94years!
After 55mins of slow dullness, we stuck it on Fast Forward at 2x speed... and even at twice the speed it's painfully, painfully slow.
And what is it with reanimatory hordes? Gormsters let them into parties, and yet they can be held at bay at the bottom of the stairs by holding a couple of milk pans in front of you!
I know fairies are afeared of Iron, but I was unaware that Zombies suffered from Panophobia!
Although Panophobia is not a fear of pans. It's a fear of everything. As is pantophobia, which is neither a fear of pants or the cry of "it's behind you". That's Paranoia. There really should be a technical term for an irrational fear of pans wielded by a porker gormster. But if there is, I don't know what it is, and I'm dead clever I am.
Anyhoo, bereft of pans, slight flailing of the arms appears to keep the brainmunchers at bay. Unfortunately not at Michael Bay, who's had his brain et by Zombies ages ago (how else do you explain Transformers II?).
And after keeping them at bay with some ludicrous waving, naturally the only way to get et is to try and storm through the horde... and inevitable fall slowly backwards as they descend over you to gobble yer guts.
And don't even get me started on ye olde Catapult Of Doom (with currency based ammunition. Ah, that's where the £45 spent on the movie went!)
And then there's the mahoosive plot hole... unless there's deleted scenes of temporal displacement with the chronological traversement and paradoxial infection.
The Dragosani effect! Sister infects missus who infects her colon, who in turn later meets his uninfected missus (who's thrown into a zombie sex cellar to become a new necropheliac pleasurecorpse), and his uninfected sister whom he bites, until she turns all dead and groany.
And then he goes home, and somehow, the zombie sister goes into the past to begin the cycle again (at the
same time the pre-zombie missus presumably jumps into the future for a bit).
All that for a pair of Respect My Authoritah shades with damn girlie patterning upon the frame.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Hey, there's a fag bank out there...
Now, by rights I should regail you with tales of last night. Of hot pretties in pajamas, of unspeakable porridge that doth insidiously speak, of walking, breathing walls, of Stateside sweeties, of a plentitude of norkage and sapphic shower snoggery, of demon shaggery, and converse of much mirthitude.
Instead, the talk of the town is that NYC has banned smoking in parks, beaches and golf courses.
Presumably that Mayor has been told off* by his dental nurse for his yellowing teeths, and took the now legenday Extreme Measures.
Ahyhoo, smokers are all up in arms, and their fags all up in flames (at one end) at being unable to smoke as they stand around watching the incessant rapeage that Central Pork is famed for.
Of course, everyone's arguing over libery and rights, so you've got to find a happy medium.
Not Doris Stokes, though, the miserable old trout!
Non-Smokers want their fresh air, Smokers want to pollute the fresh air! And so a new, more viable solution has been put forward:
New York's a city made of islands, so why not just have smoke free islands and one smoker's island? Like a colony.
Trouble is, they already tried that. I saw a John Carpenter documentary on it.
The Founding Fathers sent Blake and his leperous smokers off to a colony, then lured them off the rocks so that Blakes gold could be melted down into a cross and buried alive in a church wall.
Now, every 100yrs, Blake and his cancer coughing coffin dodging impotent seamen return in a plume of fag smoke that covers the township and they have at the descentants with various archaic maritime tools.
I, for one, won't advocate giving them Fag Island and drowning them en-route, for fear of their return and opening up my cryonic chamber and using it as a freezer for their fisheries as they fillet me up in revenge.
Or something.
* OR, MORE LIKELY, TOLLED OFF. NO WONDER HE HAD TO SEE THAT GUYKNACKEROLOGIST ON NEW YEARS DAY IF HE'S GETTING THE AIDES OFF SOME CAMPANOLOGICAL CRUMPET GIVING HIS BELL ROPE A GOOG TUGGING!
Instead, the talk of the town is that NYC has banned smoking in parks, beaches and golf courses.
Presumably that Mayor has been told off* by his dental nurse for his yellowing teeths, and took the now legenday Extreme Measures.
Ahyhoo, smokers are all up in arms, and their fags all up in flames (at one end) at being unable to smoke as they stand around watching the incessant rapeage that Central Pork is famed for.
Of course, everyone's arguing over libery and rights, so you've got to find a happy medium.
Not Doris Stokes, though, the miserable old trout!
Non-Smokers want their fresh air, Smokers want to pollute the fresh air! And so a new, more viable solution has been put forward:
New York's a city made of islands, so why not just have smoke free islands and one smoker's island? Like a colony.
Trouble is, they already tried that. I saw a John Carpenter documentary on it.
The Founding Fathers sent Blake and his leperous smokers off to a colony, then lured them off the rocks so that Blakes gold could be melted down into a cross and buried alive in a church wall.
Now, every 100yrs, Blake and his cancer coughing coffin dodging impotent seamen return in a plume of fag smoke that covers the township and they have at the descentants with various archaic maritime tools.
I, for one, won't advocate giving them Fag Island and drowning them en-route, for fear of their return and opening up my cryonic chamber and using it as a freezer for their fisheries as they fillet me up in revenge.
Or something.
* OR, MORE LIKELY, TOLLED OFF. NO WONDER HE HAD TO SEE THAT GUYKNACKEROLOGIST ON NEW YEARS DAY IF HE'S GETTING THE AIDES OFF SOME CAMPANOLOGICAL CRUMPET GIVING HIS BELL ROPE A GOOG TUGGING!
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Vanilla Slice, Ice Nazi...
Them there Scott Of The Ants-All-Over-His-Arctic Roll types are a funny old lot.
There you are, playing twister and shoving your ladybum into fatboys faces (NOT, I stress, fatboys fæces, which is something two women do with a cup, apparently) when suddenly, a knock-knock-knockin' on the cabin door comes ole Biggie Shackleton.
And what does Kodiac Jack want with the nubile young teens?
A cup of coffee and a fag, and a bit of exposition about the lurkage of frozzen germanic zombies of the Third Reich persuasion!
And then what? He derides the caffeine beverage then strops off and sets up a glowing golden beacon of a tent and stuff his cakehole with hot soup! Hot soup! He didn't even need the coffee, the leeching git!
Anyhoo, he must have accidentally left a packet of owl beaks behind, for no sooner as fatboy announces he's "going outside for a shit", it's down the hatch and instant nymphomania. There he is, mid-dump, when he's straddled by a strumpet and shagged on the shitter!
And as a modern, protective, loyal type, once he's chucked his muck, he's off back inside to brag about his nobbage, leaving the wench alone in the outdoor toilet shack, to be yanked into the cesspit by nipsy obsessed Nazi's hiding in the toilet.
Must be a German thing.
Anyhoo, once faced with an army of skin-shedding SS reanimatory types, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do...
...stay and protect the cabin, and send the gals off to trek back to the car.
Odd thing about corpsified concentration camp colonels - they race at high speed at you, then once there, queue up for a one-on-one punch up. Except the high speed racing must take it out of 'em, coz when it comes to the führers fistifcuffs, they can only swing their arms really slowly, thus allowing Our Hero to overcome superior numbers.
"Yikes! I's been bit!"
"Don't worry - you's a jew! They won't want a zombie jew in their ranks!"
True - and perplexingly, these Nazi zombies have a soft spot for jewboys, for rather than subject them to The Final Solution, as long as you hand over the pennies from the cellar that have been there for, like, a million years, that they can't be arsed to pick up themselves, you're free to go, regardless of your Torah based theology and the turkish delight snipperies.
Unless, of course, you drop a dubloon on yer glovebox. Then you're for the high jump.
Which is always safely avoided by the judicious use of falling into a deep bed of feathery snow.
Aw, bless.
There you are, playing twister and shoving your ladybum into fatboys faces (NOT, I stress, fatboys fæces, which is something two women do with a cup, apparently) when suddenly, a knock-knock-knockin' on the cabin door comes ole Biggie Shackleton.
And what does Kodiac Jack want with the nubile young teens?
A cup of coffee and a fag, and a bit of exposition about the lurkage of frozzen germanic zombies of the Third Reich persuasion!
And then what? He derides the caffeine beverage then strops off and sets up a glowing golden beacon of a tent and stuff his cakehole with hot soup! Hot soup! He didn't even need the coffee, the leeching git!
Anyhoo, he must have accidentally left a packet of owl beaks behind, for no sooner as fatboy announces he's "going outside for a shit", it's down the hatch and instant nymphomania. There he is, mid-dump, when he's straddled by a strumpet and shagged on the shitter!
And as a modern, protective, loyal type, once he's chucked his muck, he's off back inside to brag about his nobbage, leaving the wench alone in the outdoor toilet shack, to be yanked into the cesspit by nipsy obsessed Nazi's hiding in the toilet.
Must be a German thing.
Anyhoo, once faced with an army of skin-shedding SS reanimatory types, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do...
...stay and protect the cabin, and send the gals off to trek back to the car.
Odd thing about corpsified concentration camp colonels - they race at high speed at you, then once there, queue up for a one-on-one punch up. Except the high speed racing must take it out of 'em, coz when it comes to the führers fistifcuffs, they can only swing their arms really slowly, thus allowing Our Hero to overcome superior numbers.
"Yikes! I's been bit!"
"Don't worry - you's a jew! They won't want a zombie jew in their ranks!"
True - and perplexingly, these Nazi zombies have a soft spot for jewboys, for rather than subject them to The Final Solution, as long as you hand over the pennies from the cellar that have been there for, like, a million years, that they can't be arsed to pick up themselves, you're free to go, regardless of your Torah based theology and the turkish delight snipperies.
Unless, of course, you drop a dubloon on yer glovebox. Then you're for the high jump.
Which is always safely avoided by the judicious use of falling into a deep bed of feathery snow.
Aw, bless.
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