Sometimes on Sunday mornings when most of my neighbors are at church, I lay in bed and ponder things that piss me off so that I can appropriately focus my hostility for the upcoming week. Well, I don’t actually do this anymore, but I used to. It necessitated a hangover and since I no longer experience those, my Sunday mornings usually find me in a reasonably peaceful state of mind. So in keeping with my carefully-honed image of a blogger seeking enlightenment, I’ll refer to the upcoming rants as a catharsis that will hopefully leave me with fewer things upon which to focus my hostility for the upcoming week. These are matters about which I haven’t heard too many others publicly express their rage, so they may also serve as reminders to those who read them that they ought to be more pissed off about these things. Please rise from your pews and line up to receive some unleavened wafers of anger at the altar of Curmudgeon.
Golf: Some Scottish douche bag of antiquity invented the world’s most boring and pretentious “sport” that was tailor-made for its future function as an activity engaged in by rich and powerful assholes as a smokescreen for the fact that they are secretly discussing new ways in which to hoard the planet’s wealth and subjugate the masses through political treachery. Calling it a sport is quite generous since most of the aforementioned dickslaps are about as physically fit as Sally Struthers and hence frequently avoid the only physical aspect of the game — walking — by having some kid drive them from hole to hole in a motorized cart. In the early 90s, George Carlin delivered a wonderful rant about the disgusting amount of space taken up in the US by golf courses and the fact that all of this real estate could be much better utilized to construct residences for the homeless and indigent. But considering the nature of most of the people who play golf, Carlin’s words obviously fell on deaf ears. The majority of people who play golf obsessively don’t give a rat’s ass about the homeless. I know, I know, there are exceptions. One of my oldest and closest friends carries an unwieldy set of golf clubs with him even if he’s only coming to town for a weekend visit. President Obama was also quite a golf enthusiast, though to his credit, he managed to avoid wearing orange pants and a pom-pom adorned tam while doing so. But these exceptions only serve to confuse me. I cannot understand the appeal of dressing up like a clown to swat a little pock-marked ball in the general direction of slightly bigger holes dug into an oversized lawn and then walking (or carting) after it just to do it again. A fairly recent series of commercials for the blood clot medication Xarelto featured former (and late) golf pro Arnold Palmer, unfunny comedian Kevin Nealon, and some NASCAR driver whose name escapes me. Apparently, when these three walking comas weren’t golfing, telling lame jokes and driving cars for the amusement of rednecks, they liked to relax by playing golf, telling lame jokes and discussing the benefits of old people medicine. I think these ads somehow prove my point, so I’ll leave it at that. Fuck golf and fuck you for playing golf. Don’t even get me started on those who derive entertainment from watching others play golf. That’s a topic that would demand a post of its own.
The Mummy 2017: Remakes of classic films are usually ill-conceived. I’m not sure if Hollywood studio heads are just being lazy when recasting and reshooting movies like Ghostbusters, Psycho and Carrie or if they genuinely believe that they can create a film whose appeal exceeds that of the original. Either way, it’s a questionable trend. But imagine if you saw a trailer for an upcoming remake of The Godfather. Having greatly enjoyed the original, you decide to shell out $10 at the local multiplex and give it a shot. Popcorn in lap, you watch about an hour and a half of a reasonably faithful take on Francis Ford Coppola’s cinematic masterpiece. Suddenly, the entire plot bizarrely shifts gears and you find yourself staring at a remake of the second half of The Breakfast Club for the remainder of the movie. You might think that perhaps the theater’s projectionist broke the spool and spliced half of the wrong film to the reel in his haste to repair the damage. This was precisely the experience I had when a friend recently made me watch the Tom Cruise-helmed remake of The Mummy. Good sport that I am, I begrudgingly acquiesced to pissing away an hour and a half of my life staring at Cruise employing his advanced Operating Thetan level in the tasks of running and punching and shooting and grunting and flashing his toothy smile at the screen. The first half of the film, though patently awful in every way, at least attempted to follow the plot with which it was ostensibly working. Then, at about the halfway point, we suddenly find Tom and his cookie-cutter glamorous stick-in-the-mud female foil in a London laboratory talking to Dr. Jekyll. Yes, the same inner monster-harboring Dr. Jekyll of Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic novel. Even considering how low were my expectations right out of the gate, this sudden plot twist caused an audible “what the shit?” to escape my lips. Who wrote this fucking shit-melange of a script? Was this another of L. Ron Hubbard’s lost “works of genius” that David Miscavige seems to unearth every few months to sell at a 5000% markup to his gullible underlings? From this point on, I couldn’t make sense of anything that was taking place on the screen. Shortly before the ending credits, we find Tom back in the belly of some Middle Eastern pyramid having one last epic sexy fight with the seductively murderous mummy. Spoiler alert: Tom wins the fight. I just don’t understand how he found his way back to a plot that had been preempted for at least 45 minutes with an inexplicable Dr. Jekyll diversion. By now, most of you are well aware of my derision for Tom Cruise and of course, that’s what made the preceding rant a joy to compose. But I honestly could have leveled the same criticism on the stew of unrelated pre-existing literary characters that was 2003’s League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. If you must engage in the cheap business of film remakes, at least stick to one at a time, okay?
Words and Phrases The Use of Which Should Be A Crime: Interface. Multi-tasking. I know, right? Anything ending in -gate that doesn’t begin with Water. FOMO. YOLO. Cisgender. MAGA. Winning! Kanye’s new track “dropped” on Tuesday. Swipe right (in any context other than Tinder). It’s a miracle! It’s a nightmare! Cosplay.
Thanks for letting me get all that off my chest. I wish you all a peaceful, joyous and contented week.