Hey Folks,

Ben here to let you all know that Mr. Wolff will be taking a rant break for the foreseeable future. I’m sure that you are all wondering why we must go rantless on Thursdays, so please allow me to fill you in on the dark events that transpired to bring us sadder hump days. You see, Mr. Wolff is well known for having a collection of the finest looking ladies at his beck and call, and there are some who take great umbrage at our blogger’s menagerie of beauty. It was for this reason that Mr. Wolff’s harem was shanghaied by a cadre of Sasquatches. Upon finding his home disheveled and covered in man-beast hair that was not his own, Mr. Wolff went into a rage, punted the nearest midget a full city block and vowed vengeance against the yeti-kin that would deprive him of nook nook. And so, Mr. Wolff has embarked upon a journey to of ho retrieval and monster whumpery.

No one is sadder about the loss of Mr. Wolff than I. Without him my week will far be less angry, and there will be way fewer pictures of scantily clad celebrities on my computer.Throughout his brief time with us here at Semantink, Wolff has taught me so much, most of which I can’t really talk about in mixed company. If you are a newcomer to the site, or have never gotten a chance to read the writings of Mr. Wolff, I encourage you to take some time and go back and read his excellent work in our blog archive. I also thought that today we could go back and remember some of Mr. Wolff’s finest rants…

Cosplay: In Mr. Wolff’s first full length rant, he touched on the potential for greatness from hot she-cosplayers. He also showed the ugly (and fat) side of cosplay, and showed us all that not everyone was meant to participate in such events. How could we forget this?

Mr. Wolff later found this man and beat him with his own wig.

My favorite line from this rant has to be:

“…my heart is racing and I feel an urgency at the tips of my fingers as if somewhere, an overweight, under-sunned,  gap-toothed, overly-hairy, cankled beast dressed as Super Girl has just killed a child by merely making itself visible.  Damn you poorly-costumed villain.  Damn you to Cosplay Hell…”

Heroes: Mr. Wolff would often focus his rants on the entertainment industry. Movies, books, TV, all were fields he felt (and rightly so) qualified to rant on. In a television-centric blog, Mr. Wolff learned us all on what shows we should be watching, and in the case of Heroes, what shows we should be skipping.

The look in her eyes says “I don’t want to be here”.

I doubt anyone could explain what’s wrong with Heroes as eloquently as this:

“Heroes is like a beautiful woman with a tight premise, supple characters and a nice, round potential — but the crazy b*tch keeps puking on herself!  All she does all day is stick her finger in her butt, smell is and wipe her face leaving a streak across her brow.  Then she throws up on her chest, rubs it all over her body and blows snot out her nose while laughing, snorting and growling uncontrollably.  The potential is there, but she keeps f*cking herself up!!  Somebody please put this b*tch out of her misery.”

Well put Mr. Wolff, well put.

World of Warcraft: In one of his most controversial blogs, Mr. Wolff took on MMORPGers everywhere by ranting against the popular World Of Warcraft. There was a great ammount of vitriol from fans about this post, but in the end, Mr. Wolff made his point. WoW is stupid. Don’t play it, and you won’t be stupid. Continue your basement dwelling ways and risk turning out like this:

Sadly, this paladin will never succeed in his quest to lose his virginity.

I think Mr. Wolff summed it up best:

“…let me just say that I do not condemn WoW, or WoW players.  I don’t think you’re all stupid, useless bags of flesh, rotting in a pile of your own feces — but most of you are.  Grow up, move out of your mother’s basement, get a real job and try finding a member of the opposite (or same if that floats your boat) sex and try, just try, to discover what people did before Warcraft.  Or just trick yourself into thinking your character has some tangible meaning in life and die — I don’t really care.”

It’s like the man drinks thrice distilled wisdom, and then is kind enough to spit it at us.

Sports Illustrated (swimsuit edition): Despite all of his macho talk, Mr Wolff showed that he had a soft side, and a deep respect for women, in this touching piece. He made sure to include the faces of every model he referenced, and even found out their names. Mr. Wolff has been called misogynistic before, but in this blog, he showed the world how much he cared about the opposite sex. Would a misogynist show this?

Thanks Mr. Wolff.

Mr. Wolff even offered us all this generous warning:

“Whatever you do, do NOT go to Sports Illustrated where you would be forced to see a lot more of these “beautiful” models in very little clothing at no cost to you.  And if for some ungodly reason you do go to the site, don’t look at the site alone, like I am or you may be tempted to think impure thoughts and take of your pants. In the dark.  Like me.  Right now…”

God Bless you, Mr. Wolff.

Thank you all for joining me on this bittersweet day of reminiscing. I’m sure that you all are wondering what will be filling in our blog on Thursday moving forward. I will be toting my Comicopea blog over to Thursdays. On Sundays, we will be featuring the works of some of our Semantink writers. I already have some work from MYTHOI writer James Ninness. And one day, if and when he is needed, Mr. Wolff could come back for a guest appearance or two, but not any time soon, Those Sasquatches are some elusive bitches.

1996 was a generally fantastic year for me.  I won a staring competition against a yeti, I bedded three (surprising agile) blond midgets and made them call me “Mad Martigroin,” which they loved, and I skinned the Loch Ness Monster with my teeth.  It was almost a perfect year.  But something happened in 1996 that would grow to become a splinter in the mind of my eternal joy: Scream.  This guy, Kevin Williamson, wrote a script called Scary Movie (later changed to Scream), that was picked up and directed by the master of horror himself, Wes Craven.  Scream itself wasn’t a big problem, but the sequels that followed, well, they twist my balls something uncomfortable, but not in a good way.  I thought the pain was over in 2000, after Scream 3 flopped it’s way to the general public, so if you can, try to imagine my agony when I read that Scream 4 is making a “cinematic” appearance on April 15, 2011, with all the key players involved.

The first Scream movie didn’t bother me… too much.  I thought the gimmicky analysis of horror movies running simultaneous to a film in which plot devices are explained and then flipped, directed by a man whose career was made on said devices, was fun and, at the time, original.  Having said that, it wasn’t great.  It was fun, but not great.  The cast was solid(ish).  I had no grand problems with Ms. Campbell, or Jamie Kennedy, but in my not-so-humble opinion the film owed it’s success to the performances of the villains: Skeet Ulrich and Matthew Lillard, the latter of which, stole every scene he was in.  Well, almost.  The only greater scene-stealing was done by Rose McGowan’s enormous breasts that have sugar coated the dreams of many men ever since.

Scream made $103,046,663 domestically.

Even the quasi-message, that the media has not only a direct role in the mixed messages it sends to youth, but a responsibility to the youth as well, was fine.  Or maybe the message was that mom’s of crazy kids who look like Gavin Rossdale shouldn’t whore about with married men.  Or maybe that married men shouldn’t whore about with the mothers of crazy Gavin Rossdale look-a-likes.  Well, whatever it was, I know it had to do with Gavin Rossdale, but I digress…  The movie was a fun, one-trick-pony that made a ton of money.  Like most films that fall into that category, the studio wanted more and began kicking the shit out of the proverbial dead horse.

Enter Scream 2.  This steamy piece of shit came out but one year after the first (1997, in case you don’t do math) and followed our heroine, Sidney Presscott, as she dealt with the trauma of the first films events while trying to balance school and a new relationship with the cockroach lover from Joe’s Apartment.  Well, as you can imagine, shit gets a bit wacky and once again, the rules of horror are spewed to the audience, but here’s the thing (sarcasm incoming), it’s the rules of surviving a sequel!  Great, huh (end sarcasm)? Somehow these characters figured out that they do exist in a series of films and helped us, the audience, understand what to expect only so they could twist shit on us.  I have to give them credit though, at least they recognized it was a series and not a single, Lord of the Rings–sized, epic.  Kudos for knowing your role.  Predictably things don’t go well for Sidney and the film dissolves into a mediocre whodunnit with an amazing lack of care.  To be fair, it’s rumored that the end of the script was leaked and Craven changed the ending in an effort to be surprising.  So what did we get?  The aunt from Roseanna was the killer.  Really?  Lame.  She was the mother/whore of the first film’s villain and had apparently been knocked off her rocker by her son’s death, deciding to kill Sydney and going undercover as a reporter.  Why didn’t Sidney know who she was?  Where was she during the events of the first film?  How did she even get a role in a major motion picture?  These are questions answered arbitrarily and with great abandon because ultimately, they don’t matter.  This wasn’t a film, it was a quick buck for Dimension Films, but in case you missed the message: The media is desensitizing the youth and we’re all in for some real shit!  And something about Gavin Rossdale’s mom…

Scream 2 made $101,363,301 domestically, so guess what?  3 was coming…

In Scream 3, Sidney Presscott lives in seclusion, but is forced to rejoin Rachel from Friends and her retarded, gimpy boyfriend, when the man who was acquitted of Sidney’s mother’s murder is killed and the cast Stab, the movies made after the events of Sidney’s — you know what?  No.  Some shit happens and the “Ghostface” killer returns.  Done. That’s all you need to know.  Sidney’s half-brother did it.  When did she get a half-brother?  I dunno.  I don’t think anybody really does.  But at some point his mother fooled around with Sidney’s dad and thus ended her dreams of stardom.  But not to worry mom, your son, whom you disavowed, is a big time producer/director with everything he could ever want.  Problem though: he’s a douche and apparently he started this whole mess with Rossdale in Scream, Roseanne-aunt in Scream 2 and now he thought he’d give it a stab (see what I did there?).  Same message as before: Gavin Rossdale will kill you if you mess with his mom in the media!  Booyah!

What a fuckin’ mess.  Scream 3 made $89,138,076 domestically, which wasn’t terrible, but the film cost half that to make, as opposed to the first (15 mil) and the second (20 mil).  So it seemed, until now, that we were done with the Scream series.  I mean, how many other relatives could Gavin have, right?

Now, however, it seems as though the Scream franchise has decided to rise from the grave of mediocrity once more in attempt to cash in on the recent resurgence of remakes, reboots and series rehashings.  Apparently the series will have Cox, Campbell and Arquette leading a younger group through the various plot entanglements and gimmicky climax-devices, which makes sense since Cox is old enough to be a grandma and Campbell isn’t even acting anymore (is she?).  I think the hope is that a younger group can reboot the franchise.  Swell.  Maybe, if we’re real lucky, the three Scream alums will pull a Barrymore and get offed in the opening credits!  Then it’ll be like everything they did in the first 2.5 movies was for not!  I know that would be depressing as far as the story is concerned, but who cares about story when there’s money to be made, right?

Until next time,

Mr. Wolff

Back to Semantink

First of all, know this: pesticide makes Kermit a transvestite.  Moving on…

Next I want to apologize to those of you who missed our time together last week because of The Undergrounds.  I know it was difficult, but trust me, it was worth it.  Benji’s been working with five writers and an artist to put that little web comic together and, well, writers and artists are about the most difficult people in the world to work with, so give the man some slack.  The comic itself is pretty damned funny, especially if you’ve ever spent time in customer service…

Now, to the topic at hand: The Academy Awards.  This Sunday Hollywood is going to blow some smoke up their asses, let it mingle for a while and then burp in our faces with the biggest sham ever, the Oscars.  A group of rich people swooning over one another, ranting about how great they are and how important their work is to the world… Please.  Anyways, these fascists elitists fleshy bags of hot air will, at the very least, entertain us; I’m sure someone will have a nipple slip, somebody will rant about the environment when they win, someone will end up saying something crazy like “midget-mayonnaise” for no reason, and hopefully, if we’re really lucky, somebody with some talent, not connection, will win an award they deserve.  But doubtful.

So, in lieu of the good Sgt. Angle’s picks, I’m here to give you my wishes-that-weren’t, not predictions, for this years Academy Awards in the following categories: Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Cinematography, Best Director and Best Picture.  Shall we?

Best Actor:  Cung Le

I speak a language called FukYooUp!

Last year a little sci-fi gem called Pandorum came out and it was, without a doubt, one of the most fun films in the genre I had seen in a very, very long time.  Not only did the movie have some solid work in the writing, directing and production department, but it managed to surprise me at the end, something films rarely do effectively these days.  One of the actors, real life fighter Cung Le, portrayed Manh, a badass mofo with a huge spear and a foreign language.  Cung Le spent the whole movie flipping, slashing and fighting, something that keeps me interested and holds my attention (I know, weird, right?).  Pandorum itself was fantastic and if you haven’t seen it, you’re doing yourself a disservice.  Cung Le wins because he could fuck any of the Academy’s nominations up, without special effects.

Best Actress:  Sasha Grey

I’d take her serious…

I don’t need to introduce this beauty, but I will anyways.  Sasha Grey has been in some of the more timeless pieces of the last few years, including: Teenage Peach Fuzz 3, Spunk’d 8, The King of Coochie 4, and Soderbergh’s latest (and the film for which she wins this award), The Girlfriend Experience.  In the The Girlfriend Experience, the talented Miss Grey plays an escort, which is acting, because she is not an escort in real life, she is an adult film star — totally different!  The drama deals with the escort managing her clients and her personal life in the days of the 2008 election.  You see?  Politics = drama!  The film scored varying reviews, but I can’t see how anyone would oppose a movie where we follow this fine femme around for two hours, can you?

Best Cinematography:  M David Mullen

If she were a mute, she’d be perfect.

Most of you may not know who M David Mullen is, but you probably know his work as a cinematographer…  Love Pig?  Now Renting?  Lipstick Camera?  No?  Me neither.  But I do know his 2009 release: Jennifer’s Body.  Being a cinematographer is hard work. According to Wikipedia, “The title is generally equivalent to director of photography (DP), used to designate a chief over the camera and lighting crews working on a film, responsible for achieving artistic and technical decisions related to the image.”  So, when you see something beautiful on the screen, don’t thank the director, thank the cinematographer!  In Jennifer’s Body we got two moments of beauté (that’s French for “beauty”): A make out scene with Megan Fox and Amanda Seyfried and a topless Megan Fox — you, Mr. Mullen, are a master of your craft.  Now please understand, I still think Ms. Fox is a moronic piece of white-trash, but she is an extremely hot, moronic piece of white-trash, so there you go.

Best Director:  Zach Snyder

But, where’d he get the mask?

Fuck the haters.  I know he took out the squid and I know that Watchmen is still a better book than movie, but here’s the bottom line:  Zach Snyder took what was, for all intensive purposes, Hollywood’s wetdream/nightmare property and made a damned fine film.  It’s beautiful.  It’s as true as we can hope for any comic book ground through the Hollywood machine.  It gave us an awesome Rorschach.   And if you’ve seen the extended cut with the Curse of the Black Freighter woven throughout, it’s beautifully told cinema.  You can disagree with me (it wouldn’t be the first time), but Zach Snyder deserves a hearty bow-down from all you geeky bitches for pulling off one of the most difficult comic book franchises-to-film ever.  Even if you hate the film you must respect the doors he’s opened.

Best Film:  The Hangover

Really though, who hasn’t woken up with a tiger?

As Comedies go, I don’t ask for much — just make me laugh!  At some comedies I laugh a little, at others, I laugh a lot.  At The Hangover, I laughed my fucking ass off all three times I saw it!  The cast is perfect.  The humor is spot on.  It starts with funnies and never stops — I heard jokes for the first time on my third viewing because I had laughed through them the first two times.  Does this movie make me question what it is to be human?  No.  Am I a better person after seeing it?  Probably not in the existential sense.  But here’s why The Hangover is the BEST film of 2009: It was exactly what we needed — all of us.  2009 could’ve been better in a lot of ways.  I wanted escape.  I got a hilarious romp through the eyes of four not-all-too-smart guys in the land of hedonism and unadulterated pleasure.  I left the theater and I was genuinely happy, more than I can say for some animated/blue-people/depressing films I saw last year…  Oh yeah, and Mike Tyson was in it singing Phil Collins — automatic win.

That’s it kiddies.  Enjoy this Sunday (if you can).  Maybe next year we’ll see some actual talent get an award, like whoever stars in the Burton/Bekmambetov film coming out where President Lincoln fights vampires…

Until next time,

Mr. Wolff

Back to Semantink

[Almost all of the following is a lie.]

As you probably know, I hate the objectification of women.  I believe that women are equals to men in every way and have proven themselves to be formidable opponents of men in every capacity imaginable.  Don’t believe me?  How about the WNBA?  Booyah!  Chalk one up for equality, bitches!

Every year around this time of gloom, when movies are typically less than bad, Hollywood/The Music Industry gives themselves “The Stranger” with a numb right hand called award shows, and, thanks to the weather, snow balls describes testicles across the nation, a little magazine publication called Sports Illustrated likes to show the diverse nature of their mission by releasing something called the Swimsuit Edition — just when you think things can’t worse…  The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition makes vomit.  The classless objectification of women as sex symbols is both insulting and depraved.  It is a classless and highbrow attempt to guise America’s perverted obsession with sex as an “artistic expression” of scantily clad, or sometimes completely swimsuitless, beauties in order to fill Sports Illustrated’s pockets while encouraging men (and some women) everywhere to lust just that much more.

Disgusting.

Just to elaborate upon the extent of my vile loathing for this practice, I’d like to show you just a few of some of the 31 “models” so you can understand just what is at stake.  This, America, is what you deserve, you filthy bitch.

Topography has never piqued my “curiosity” like this before…

This is cover model Brooklyn Decker.  More like Brooklyn Some-one-must-have–decked-her–too-may-time-in-the-face-because-she’s-so-ugly.  Am I right?!?

Where do the freckles stop?

This soulless ginger is Cintia Dicker. Yes.  Dicker.  You sick bastards…

I want to be a fish — any fish, at this beach.

Next up on the lust-list is Jessica White.  White, like the intense fires of  hell, which is where you adulterous heathens are all headed!

So this guy walks into a bar…

Bar Rafaeli is not only named after a den of sin, but, in this picture, wears the golden skin of the serpent.  So now Sports illustrated is offending women and PETA — the bastards.

I hope I’ve made my point.

Whatever you do, do NOT go to Sports Illustrated where you would be forced to see a lot more of these “beautiful” models in very little clothing at no cost to you.  And if for some ungodly reason you do go to the site, don’t look at the site alone, like I am or you may be tempted to think impure thoughts and take of your pants. In the dark.  Like me.  Right now…

I have to go.

Mr. Wolff

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My first “real” job was as a barista at a hole-in-the-wall café in Little Italy.  The paisano who owned the place and shall hitherto be known as Mario, was a fat man with a mean mustache and a proclivity to play with pipes and turtle shells, but I’ll be damned if that Firenze-born god couldn’t make a cup of coffee.  He chose only the finest roasted beans and would, on occasion, send them back if he thought for a moment that they were less than standard.  The water he used to pull shots or strain through grind was filtered in a system designed by him.  Mario took his time with each drink and never rushed.  And when you got your drink, it was worth it.  It was something to be savored — a drink to enjoy and stimulate your senses.  It was, my friends, nectar of the gods.

Maybe that part of my life is the reason I despise Starbucks.

Or, maybe, it’s because this chain of java-whoring, money-mongering modern day slave traders is just about the farthest thing from coffee, yet has somehow managed to corner the coffee world.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; people think McDonald’s serves hamburgers.

As a business venture, Starbucks is brilliant: setting up a bunch of standardized coffee shops across the world that offer the same product, despite your location – if I’m in my local Starbucks I’m gonna get the same Latte that I’ll get if I’m visiting another Starbucks in Chicago.  I can see why it got huge.  It offers a simple solution (standardization) to a group of people (Americans) who can’t handle foreign films, much less be bothered try to understand the difference between a Caramel Macchiato and a Vanilla Latte.

Up to now, the success of this franchise hasn’t bothered me that much.  But lately I’ve come to notice a theme in these stores: What was once a lack of respect for the product they serve has somehow mutated into a warped sense of pride and self-delusion.  People actually think it’s good coffee, and worse still, the people who work there actually think they’re fucking baristas!

Let’s start with the java, it’ll be quick: It’s not good.  The espresso is (nine time out of ten) watery and the roasts are, while respectively diverse in region, uniformly bland in taste.  The only redeeming coffee of the lot is the Organic Mexican Shade Grown, but the French Roast, Italian Roast and House Blends all have one overbearing similarity that makes their flavor distinctions difficult to determine: gross.  That’s right, a big ole cup of black nasty with funktastic nasal spasm and over-roasted tummy junk.  You’re allowed to disagree with me, that’s the beauty of America, but at least try to be honest with yourself and the next time you drink Starbucks Coffee, taste it before you swallow.

This blog is for the drip coffee and espresso drinkers.  I’m not even going to start on you fat-frappuccino-drinking-fucks.

As far as the employees are concerned, know this: I don’t judge most of them — every once and a while I meat a genuinely nice person and I would wager that 75% of all Starbucks employees hate their jobs and sling caffeine to pay the bills – period.  If you fall into that category then please ignore what’s coming…  But to those of you who take an unnatural amount of pride in your work, get over yourself.  You’re not a barista.  Not since the La Marzoco machines left have any of you been a barista.  What you do is similar to what the untalented, zit-faced bastards at Jamba Juice do – you push a button.  You steam some milk and follow the recipe cards given to you at training.  That’s it!  Sometimes, when the beans run low, you fill it – but I know for a fact that is too difficult for some of you!

Do me a favor, the next time somebody comes in to Starbucks to get a drink, don’t act cool.  Act honored.  Because the ultimate truth to your life is this: You work for a company that is the essence of American corporate greed, doing a job that a monkey couldn’t fuck up, serving people who think the terms Short, Tall, Grande and Venti*  make no sense, probably because the closest most of them have ever come to a foreign country is the movie AVATAR!

You, Starbucks barista, are a tool.

Now, to close I’d like to point out that the logo for Starbucks is one of the greatest examples of irony – ever!  A siren.  I know that some of you may not get it, but a siren is a creature of myth that would sell coffee call from jagged cliffs to passing ships.  The sailors would try the frappucinos hear the song, become addicted to caffeine entranced and steer towards the music until their heart exploded from too much espresso or clogged vanilla-bean arteries ships crashed upon the rocks.  The sailors would then rot on the shores, unable to leave.

Enjoy your coffee, captain.

Mr. Wolff

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*Consequently the sizes of Short, Tall and Grande are perfectly sensible and in Europe, would stand for small, medium and large respectively.  But that wasn’t good enough for us Americans – we needed a bigger size and created Venti, or “twenty” in Italian.

Last night was the People’s Choice Awards.  I wouldn’t normally watch it, but a dear friend of mine with a terminal illness and an affliction for fuckery happens to work for the show and asked me to tune in, so I did.  For maybe five minutes.  Then they announced the first winner in the Best Comedy category, which we’ll get to in a minute, and I turned it off.

Now the People’s Choice Awards claims to be a unique show in that they listen to fans (taken from their website):  The People’s Choice Awards celebrates fan favorites in music, movies and television and is the only major awards show where real people — not industry insiders — determine the nominees and winners, setting it apart from other awards shows.

That’s not entirely true…  You see, they don’t speak to all the fans, or go off of a movie’s gross ticket sales, or a TV show’s ratings, or anything like that — they just let people go to the site and vote.  Seems simple and fair, right?  No.  It’s not.  You see, the overwhleming demographic of voters are pre-teens in braces with a hankering to be loud and obnoxious — the rest of us are working or don’t care.  What irks me is that the celebrities who leave with these awards may actually believe they are the “people’s choice.”  SO, in an effort to make things perfectly clear, I’ve decided to go through and address each winner (in the film category only — sorry TV and music, I can’t stomach to even look at you), to let them know whether or not they were chosen by people or mindless, pre-pubescent, acne-ridden germ-incubators, overloaded on hormones teens.

Favorite MOVIE ACTOR
Johnny Depp

No problem, whatsoever, here.  Johnny Depp is one of the most talented actors around.  As far as I’m concerned this guy can’t win enough awards.  He has reinvented himself again and again and again.  My only complaint with Mr. Depp is thus: Maybe a little less Burton — I know you two love each other and I think you make a great team but the formula’s getting a little tired.  I’m sure you’ll be a fantastic Mad Hatter, but it’s just not new anymore.  We get it, you’re both eccentric…

Favorite MOVIE ACTRESS
Sandra Bullock

Sorry Sandie — no can do.  You may have been a qwerky kind of hot in Demolition Man and Speed, but something happened…  Somewhere along the way you started banking off your comedic acting and not your sexiness, which is fine, but you’re not funny.  I’m sure that women across the world would fight against me to defend you, but I’m going to say what all (non-gay) men are thinking: Please stop making movies our ladies want to see.  We’re running out of excuses to miss them.  And “Favorite Movie Actress?”  Not in a million.  You’re just below Tina Fey and barely above that ugly girl from Twilight.

Favorite ACTION STAR
Hugh Jackman

Oh Hugh, you silly bitch.  I want to love you, I really do.  You brought Wolverine to the big screen and for that I will always be eternally grateful.  But your action movies since the two X-Men films have all been, well, crappy: Swordfish?  Van Helsing?  Ex-Men 3?  Ex-Men Origins: (Not-so) Wolverine?  Sorry bud, but you’re not an action star — not yet.  I would give you the People’s Choice for “Best Manly Actor Who Is Probably Gay.”  Action stars are men like Arnold S, Sylvester S, Jean-Claude Van D, and Bruce W.  You’re nowhere near them.

Favorite COMEDIC STAR
Jim Carrey

Apparently Jim made a movie called Yes Man which isn’t so bad, but that’s the problem with this guy lately — all of his movies are not so bad.  None of them are good.  Remember Ace Ventura?  The Mask?  Hell, even Liar, Liar was giggle-inducing.  Somewhere along the line Mr. Carrey went all Eddie Murphy on your fans and forgot what funny was.  Do us all a favor and take a few years off, find your comedic-qi and get back in the haha-saddle.  Jim, you just won a “Best Comedic Star” award on the People’s Choice Awards — that should tell you you’re probably not funny.

Favorite BREAKOUT MOVIE ACTRESS
Miley Cyrus

I have nothing to say about this little attention whore.  I don’t know what movie she was in that helped her “breakout” (apparently she wasn’t famous before), but nobody in their right mind takes her seriously.  Nobody.

Favorite BREAKOUT MOVIE ACTOR
Taylor Lautner

First of all, he was in Twilight.  If that doesn’t establish this farce of an award show, then maybe the competition he “beat” will:  Chris Pine, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Sam Worthington, Zachary Quinto.  Any one of those men deserves ten times the success of Lautner, if for no other reason than this: they were not in a Twilight movie.

Favorite INDEPENDENT MOVIE
Inglourious Basterds

This movie should win every award it can — it was one of the BEST movies of 2009.  But Independent?  I dunno…  From Wikipedia (which is the most reliable site EVER) “An independent film, or indie film, is a film that is produced mostly outside of a major film studio. The term also refers to art films which differ markedly from most mass marketed films.”  Best film?  Yes, I’d be on board with that.  But Tarantino hasn’t done indie since Reservoir Dogs…

Favorite Comedy MOVIE
The Proposal

This movie beat The Hangover.  If you haven’t seen The Hangover then do yourself a favor and stop reading this immediately, go buy it and enjoy.  If you have seen it but didn’t like it, you’re an idiot.  If you saw it and saw this and thought this was better you probably produce unhealthy levels of estrogen and lack pubic hair.

Favorite MOVIE
Twilight

Fuck these films.

Now I encourage, as always, you to tell me what you think.  Since most of our readers are not drooling morons in high school, I want to know what you think about the “winners” from last night.  I have a serious sense of dread that our retirement homes will be full of Meyers books, Miley music and models-turned actors — the youth of America scare the shit out of me.

The Future of America…

Mr. Wolff

Back to Semantink

Naughty. Definitely naughty.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way — MYTHOI Birth: Vito has just been put out for your undeserving eyes.  Check it out now.  If you don’t, I hope your genitals rot and ruin Christmas.

Speaking of Christmas…

Happy Hippy.

Last week I made a quick trip to the North Pole in my HumV Hybrid (I care about the earth) and you know what I found?  Nothing.  No fat red man with a gaggle of little people making toys, no reindeer, especially not one with a red nose, and not one single toy.  Surprised?  Probably not.  That’s because Christmas isn’t about gifts or lies or any other preconceived notion you may hold in your head.  Allow me to explain my frustration…

Yesterday while ordering my iced coffee from a chain of thankfully dying, yet uniformly standard coffee shops that start with “Star” and end with “bucks” I heard a man, who shall henceforth be titled “Shitstick,” berate a barista with large breasts about her farewell.  She said, “Have a Merry Christmas.”  Well Shitstick wasn’t having that.  He let the pair of her have it, going off on how “corporate America” shouldn’t endorse “Christian” holidays and how offended he was to have such sentiments “thrown in his face…”  I’m sure he would have gone on and on had I not jammed my size 12s up his ass, knocking his double-tall cup of douche all over his person.

He left and I bedded the barista — duh.

The point is this: It’s Christmas.  Fucking Christmas.  This is not a time of year for bitching and moaning, it’s a time of harmony, peace and goodwill towards men.  I know that the word “Christ” in the title scares some of you weaker bastards, but let me spell this out for you: Christmas, in the modern rendition, has nothing to do with  Christ unless you’re a Christian.  It’s okay to celebrate the holiday and NOT be a Christian.  Who cares if Jesus get’s a little more attention?  Really!  Who?  Do you think Santa Claus has a rosary around his fat neck?  No way!  It would hit Mrs. Claus in the face when they bang on the toy tables (and you know they do).

Under the bubbles, Mrs Claus. Under the bubbles…

The world is full of assholes and moments of assholery from decent people all year long.  Can’t we just use Christmas as a way to get the fuck along with everybody?  Just for a limited time?  If Shitstick had just said, “Thanks” then the barista would’ve had a good day, he wouldn’t have douche all over him and I wouldn’t be feeling like the teacher of Special Ed enlightening you tools on the harmonious implications of togetherness.  Let the Christians have Christmas.  Let the Jews have Hanukkah.  Let the Africans who choose it, have Kwanzaa.  And let any other group have whatever it is they want to have on or around December 25th.  As long as it doesn’t cause you any physical harm, let the forest nymphs celebrate the winter solstice.  Just go John Lennon and let it fucking be.

Here’s your homework: On or around Christmas I want you to smile at someone whose beliefs are different from your own and wish them well.  I know it’ll be really hard for some of you, but trust me, you’ll feel better after doing it.  Then I want you to go to your local strip club, get a lap dance and tip well.  That’s my gift to you: tell people you have to because Mr. Wolff said so.

Put your naughty on their nice.

Merry Christmas, bitches.

Mr. Wolff.

Read more @ Semantink.

I’ll admit it out the gate, I’ve always been curious about the gothic subculture.  I’ve never been interested-curious, but always why-in-the-hell-do-people-do-that-curious.  A few years back I even dated a “gothic” girl and truth be told, she was a very sweet girl, but couldn’t seem to satisfactorily explain to me why she wore what she wore (she doesn’t dress the scene any more).  So today I still wonder, what it goth and why does it look so stupid?

Mr. Sinister is goth?

So to attack this issue head on I went to the greatest source of truth in existence today: Wikipedia.  “The goth subculture is a contemporary subculture found in many countries. It began in the United Kingdom during the early 1980s in the gothic rock scene, an offshoot of the post-punk genre. The goth subculture has survived much longer than others of the same era, and has continued to diversify. Its imagery and cultural proclivities indicate influences from nineteenth century Gothic literature along with horror movies and to a lesser extent the BDSM culture. The goth subculture has associated tastes in music, aesthetics, and fashion, whether or not all individuals who share those tastes are in fact members of the goth subculture. Gothic music encompasses a number of different styles. Common to all is a tendency towards a lugubrious, mystical sound and outlook. Styles of dress within the subculture range from deathrock, punk, androgynous, Victorian, some Renaissance and Medieval style attire, or combinations of the above, most often with black attire, makeup and hair.”

Okay, to recap: Goth is everywhere.  Goth came from London.  Goth’s daddy was Punk.  Goth is diverse.  Goth is influenced by gothic literature, horror movies and bondage/discipline.  Goth = black.  Okay.  Got it.  Unfortunately though, this still doesn’t explain the boys I see walking around San Diego with black pants on (that they’ve obviously stolen from a 10 year-old girl), black make-up, various layers of black blouse and a menagerie of bracelets, necklaces and rings that all have symbols you would find in the Necronomicon.  So, I gues my question now is, why would you chose to look so miserably transgendered?

The elusive “Catfish-Forehead” goth — a very rare find…

For the answer to this, I turn to goth.net.  Now this site is ripe with tenn-wisdom, so I recommend anybody go there for a good chuckle, but I refuse to post the excessive blabber in all it’s entirety.  This is the closest thing I got from the page that directly answers me, “There is no specific thing that defines what you need to do or be to fit into the goth scene (except of course the implied black clothing).”  Okay, so according to goth.net, if you wear black you’re goth.  But we all know it’s more than that, don’t we?

I know that a hundred goths asked, “what is goth,” would probably give me a hundred different answers.  Maybe they are confused and need help.  So, let me describe goth as I see it, but please correct me if I am wrong.  When I think goth (in a positive light) I recall of the use of macabre, or socially morbid tools utilized in a way to bring about the rejection of presumed ideas, thoughts or feelings that may or may not be exposed as mere assumption.  A great example of this is the earlier works of Tim Burton, who directed and produced many films that took icons of terror and made them mainstream (can’t wait for Alice in Wonderland); simultaneoulsy challenging society and reorganizing our perceptions of “proper.”  Hell, I’ll even give you Marilyn Manson who seemed to be the Mtv outcast at first, but rose above controversy when challenged as a cause of the Columbine shootings and replying only by asking parents to talk to their kids.  Are his musical proclivities, way of dress and general dialogue on the edge of socially accepted standards?  Hell yes (well, they were…)!  Though through his own extremes, Mr. Manson got a nation to pay attention to their children and to stop gorging themselves on the idea that their children’s problems were not their own.  Kudos to you, sir.

Chewing your tongue is sooo 90s goth…

You see, the term gothic comes from a Roman description of Germanic vandals who ransacked Rome a very long time ago.  The word was renewed in the 19th century to describe literature that filled it’s readers with terror and suspense.  And then, in the 80s, we equate this style with the insurgent punk-rockers who seemed to rise from the gutters and ransack “civilized” society with questions like, “why,” and “how?”  And that brings me to you, the modern gothic.  And I have to suggest that you stop using the word immediately, because you’ve killed it.

Gothic literature. Try some.

You are not challenging anything other than your own mind.  Sure, you may impress your friends every once and a while by learning a big word, or quoting some dead white guy who lived in the 1800s, but be honest…  You’re not “goth” because you’re using morays to challenge the status quo — you’re “goth” because you shop at Hot Topic.  You think you’re being bold by wearing a black corset to the mall (and I’m talking to the boys here), but really, you’re just rebelling against your parents because daddy doesn’t hug you enough, or mommy made you take out the trash.  You are NOT goth.  You are a boy in girls clothing and makeup.  You are noth challenging anything.  You are creating scenarios of segregation in your own mind because, in truth, after all the bitching you do about being an outcast — you love the attention.

Or at least, that’s my opinion.

Well, one nice thing about you little gothic-crazies (suicide girls?), is that you sure are fun to look at.  Here are a few more of my favorites.

Dude, high school is hard enough…

goth zombies.

Goth girls = boobs + confetti hair?

Sometimes you gotta take a b*tch for a walk.

This one is my favorite. All goths should look like this.

And finally, as homage to Tim Burton and Marilyn Manson, a video for your pleasure:

Check out Mythoi — it’s coming out soon…  And don’t forget to comment below, I love your thoughts!

Peace out y’all.

Mr. Wolff