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G.I. Joe: Rise of Cobra is on Netflix Instant View. Who wants to watch it with me? The Ninth Doctor, the Mummy, and Joseph Gordon-fucking-Levitt fight a Wayans brother, the dude from Step Up, Gaila, Darth Maul, and Dennis fucking Quaid. It is the most awesome badness you will ever see.
***
You know how people keep saying that Power Girl's boob window is completely ridiculous? Well then... is Blake Lively a superhero? That's not a rhetorical question, I'd really like to know.
***
I don't really care for the Trav McGee series enough to do more than take them out from my local library. I know they're period pieces and so they're not going to be politically correct or even polite, but even by the standards of the time, McGee pisses me off by making himself out to be a feminist when he's really quite reactionary. He makes a lot of talk about being a romantic and only getting with women he loves, but what this boils down to is serial monogamy -- he fucks a woman for a few weeks, gets bored of her, and then they part on semi-amiable terms. That's not love, that's infatuation. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but he's also completely judgmental of anyone who doesn't go for monogamy. It's all very That Guy, and the worst part is that the text supports it.
Like in The Quick Red Fox, where the central plot is about a drunken orgy that has RUINED EVERYONE'S LIVES. I'm not kidding, there are folks in a mental institution who will never recover, all because they had wild sex. Because, you know, there was girl-on-girl action! Check out this encounter with a woman who has short hair and doesn't wear make-up and her girlfriend. Here, we're meant to see Trav as a manly man telling it like it is. See if you can spot the moment where it goes from that to "total asshole being a total asshole."
"Martha, I want to talk to you alone."
"I bet you do," the big girl behind me said.
"Mr. McGee, this is my friend Bobby Blessing. Bobby, whyn't you go away for a while, okay?"
Bobby studied me. It is the traditional look they reserve for the authentic male, a challenging contempt, a bully-boy antagonism. An attempt to steal my male light. There seem to be more of them around these days. Or perhaps they are merely bolder. The word is butch. Having not the penis nor the beard, they damn well try to have everything else. Like getting paid the same as men. Bitches! One of the secondary sex characteristics they seem to be able to acquire is the ballsy manner, the taut-shouldered swagger, the roostery go-to-hell attitude. They have a menacing habit of running in packs lately. As I observed last Wednesday, when I went to the tavern with my buddies. Don't worry, they were all straight guys. No homo! And the unwary chap who tries to make off with one of their brides can get himself a stomping that stevedores would admire. These are a sub-culture, long extant, but recently emerged from hiding. In their new boldness they do a frightening job of recruiting, having their major successes among the vulnerable platoons of those meek girls who, like Martha Whippler, are abused by men, by the Catton-kind of man, used, abused, sickened, shared, frightened and... at last, driven into the camp of the butch.
Just typing that out, a picture of him appeared in this post. Why am I smoking a cigar?
( This cut shields your virgin eyes from THE HORROR. )
***
You know how people keep saying that Power Girl's boob window is completely ridiculous? Well then... is Blake Lively a superhero? That's not a rhetorical question, I'd really like to know.
***
I don't really care for the Trav McGee series enough to do more than take them out from my local library. I know they're period pieces and so they're not going to be politically correct or even polite, but even by the standards of the time, McGee pisses me off by making himself out to be a feminist when he's really quite reactionary. He makes a lot of talk about being a romantic and only getting with women he loves, but what this boils down to is serial monogamy -- he fucks a woman for a few weeks, gets bored of her, and then they part on semi-amiable terms. That's not love, that's infatuation. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but he's also completely judgmental of anyone who doesn't go for monogamy. It's all very That Guy, and the worst part is that the text supports it.
Like in The Quick Red Fox, where the central plot is about a drunken orgy that has RUINED EVERYONE'S LIVES. I'm not kidding, there are folks in a mental institution who will never recover, all because they had wild sex. Because, you know, there was girl-on-girl action! Check out this encounter with a woman who has short hair and doesn't wear make-up and her girlfriend. Here, we're meant to see Trav as a manly man telling it like it is. See if you can spot the moment where it goes from that to "total asshole being a total asshole."
"Martha, I want to talk to you alone."
"I bet you do," the big girl behind me said.
"Mr. McGee, this is my friend Bobby Blessing. Bobby, whyn't you go away for a while, okay?"
Bobby studied me. It is the traditional look they reserve for the authentic male, a challenging contempt, a bully-boy antagonism. An attempt to steal my male light. There seem to be more of them around these days. Or perhaps they are merely bolder. The word is butch. Having not the penis nor the beard, they damn well try to have everything else. Like getting paid the same as men. Bitches! One of the secondary sex characteristics they seem to be able to acquire is the ballsy manner, the taut-shouldered swagger, the roostery go-to-hell attitude. They have a menacing habit of running in packs lately. As I observed last Wednesday, when I went to the tavern with my buddies. Don't worry, they were all straight guys. No homo! And the unwary chap who tries to make off with one of their brides can get himself a stomping that stevedores would admire. These are a sub-culture, long extant, but recently emerged from hiding. In their new boldness they do a frightening job of recruiting, having their major successes among the vulnerable platoons of those meek girls who, like Martha Whippler, are abused by men, by the Catton-kind of man, used, abused, sickened, shared, frightened and... at last, driven into the camp of the butch.
Just typing that out, a picture of him appeared in this post. Why am I smoking a cigar?
( This cut shields your virgin eyes from THE HORROR. )
