Beast Banner November 2008
ISSUE #132
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Don't call it a comeback

Americans prefer to hang separately

Allan Uthman

Part one of a series
John Dolan

A disturbing chat with BRAD FRIEDMAN about real election fraud and fake election fraud

Take our quiz and find out!

Coping with Global Depression
Saddy McForlorn

The only language we know
Joe Bageant

A most powerful voting bloc
Erich Shulte

Keep your fingers crossed
Scott Thill

Super-wealthy threatened by mere opulence
Rich Herschlag

This time, it's impossible
Allison Kilkenny


ArrowThe Beast Page 5
Pedagogic Stooge

ArrowWaxy Beast: Music Reviews
by Eric Lingenfelter

ArrowKino Kwikees: Movie Trailer Reviews
by Michael Gildea

Your completely accurate horoscope, expressed cryptically by the stupidest, most dangerously hateful & bigoted conservatives on the internet!

[sic] - Your letters


Role Models

Oooh. Yeesh. Ouch. Yeah, just watched the red band trailer for Role Models. Christ on a waffle cone! This is only the 3rd red band trailer I’ve seen and the idea of showing an R-rated trailer instead of one approved for all audiences is actually a really smart move. Instead of the generally defanged representation an all ages preview will offer the R-rated trailers cut the shit and tell you, let’s get down to brass tacks man.

Stifler and Paul Rudd play energy drink reps who fuck up to the point where they can face 30 days in jail or a couple hundred hours community service in some kind of Big Brother program. Stifler ends up with a trash-talking little black kid who likes to draw pictures of Beyonce pouring sugar over his freakishly large dick (that alone has me on the fence) and Rudd ends up with McLovin from Superbad as a socially retarded D&D geek in full attire. So far so good, but I’m guessing that Rudd and Stifler are going to make a difference in these kids’ lives and vice versa, and everything’s going to be nice. Despite the few albeit humorous jokes in the trailer, I don’t really care if characters in a movie learn something about themselves and others. And I definitely don’t care if someone learns what it’s like to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

And you know what else I don’t care about? Intrigue. I see no value in it. Water chestnuts are something else I don’t care about. They’re gross and I’ll bet they’re not even chestnuts. Like white chocolate. Technically white chocolate isn’t chocolate. At least it’s not soy, but still. And how about playing cards at a party? Who cares about that? Is that your big plan for when that can of Pringles and six-pack of Zima run out? If you’re going to or throwing a party for the sole purpose of playing cards that’s one thing. Boring as shit, but still a thing. But if you’re at a party and someone produces a broken-in pack of cards, you should just leave. And you should leave for a few reasons:

1) The party’s about to turn into a complete and total snoozefest. You should really leave. Even if it’s your place. Leave your place with people you don’t like enough to hang out with at the cost of enduring what’s sure to turn into several douchy hands of Texas hold ‘em, Pennsyltuckey fingerbang or whatever. Actually, don’t leave. Just burn the goddamn place down. Doesn’t matter whose place it is. 2) Whoever’s idea it was to play some cards is probably a gambling junkie to the Nth degree and needs help. This is a truly bad and unsavory person you or anyone else you know should not associate with or allow to live. You should really get that fire started right now. 3) That jerk who pulled out the cards is trying to swindle you out of your money and make sure you and your family don’t eat. Don’t put it past the son of a bitch to slip you a mickey and sucker you into a game of chance. Get some oily rags and a nice full gas can and do the necessary to this prick. Burn them good. Burn them for me!

Quantum of Solace

Quantum of Solace is the new James Bond movie and that’s all you need to know. Admittedly, the title sounds like a concept album by some crappy prog-rock band from the ‘70s, but it beats the hell out of other Bond title sizzlers like Octopussy and... I take that back. This title admittedly sucks. Bad. Fortunately, the movie itself doesn’t look that way. Casino Royale did for Bond what Batman Begins did for Batman—took a good character and made him great. This Bond wasn’t completely about hooch, poon and gadgets—he was angrily into all those things! Except the gadgets, unless a defibrillator counts. And he appears just as, if not more, pissed in this new movie.

Quantum of Solace looks like it picks up where Casino Royale left off, and the villain looks like a cross between that mentally defective anemic kid from Road Trip and a young Roman Polanski. Those frail-looking ones are always the most dangerous. It also appears that some variation of SPECTRE may be reestablished for future movies. I thought I saw a thinner George Lucas for a split second towards the end of the trailer. I’m seeing a little too much CG for my liking, but watching someone fall through a 2-story-high glass ceiling and still have the sack to be ready to kill a dude kind of demands it. All I know is I’m there first day.

The Soloist

Have you ever wanted to see what would happen if someone actually reached the point in their lives when they would actually and unmistakably believe the shit that comes out of their mouths? Do you know what I’m talking about? I mean somebody just get so far freaking out there that they could tell you their junk is made of M&Ms and not only do they truly believe it, but they want to prove it to you. So you’ve got that going for you, which is nice. Or not.

Robert Downey, Jr. plays a douchy journalist with a case of writer’s block. Through some undoubtedly random set of circumstances that were vaguely based on a true story, he runs into a homeless mental case played by Jamie Foxx. He wears tinfoil and has the most fucked up hair you’ll ever see. And I lived through the ‘80s, if that tells you anything. Mock your barf cancer indeed! So why suddenly give a shit about the homeless, you ask? Because this homeless guy can play the cello beautifully and is a former child prodigy, dummy! He even went to Juliard, you moron! You’re a goddamn simpleton! I fucking hate you and your stupidity! Get past a 5th grade reading level already, loser!

But the way that Downey and Foxx are going at these roles in the trailer is ridiculous. Downey just got done with a movie that was to an extent a parody of the very shit he’s doing. But both he and Foxx seem to think they’re going to cure cancer with their acting in this movie or something. Maybe Foxx is dressing up as a relative or something, I don’t know. Maybe another Oscar, who knows?

The Transporter 3

Seriously? Another Transporter movie? Really? Come on already! What about fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me? I didn’t get fooled that second time! But I didn’t even go see Transporter 2! Wasn’t that the test? I don’t go see Transporter 2, you realize that I’m too smart to step in the same pile twice and you go make some shitty alcoholic cop drama with Ray Liotta instead. That was the deal! We had a deal goddammit!

As if the first 2 rounds of that slinky, limey blockheaded dingo Jason Statham running around fighting people with random household objects like dirty laundry, remote controls and bottles of baby oil weren’t enough. Now the trailer for Transporter 3 not only tries to throw in some plot twist by sticking some explosive bracelet on Statham to bend him to some eurotrash’s whims as some kind of deadly puppet, but scores it to The Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” Homoerotic Asian influenced fight scenes and all, so bring your baby oil.

I make no bones about my normally silent disdain for Statham, but this guy is the physical personification of the Chuck Norris joke. You know what I’m talking about? Chuck Norris doesn’t sleep. He waits. Chuck Norris can sneeze with his eyes open. Funny for about 5 minutes then you realize that it’s Chuck Norris over and over again. Or Jason Statham. Bring a book and plan for a future methadone habit either way.


Oof! Questions, questions. Do I really need to go see a movie about Australia and the events leading up to their involvement in WWII? And the only question that comes to mind is was Australia actually involved in WWII? I mean, I guess they would have to have been. It wouldn’t be a world war unless the whole world was involved, would it? What would they call it then, World Without Australia War? That’s just fucking awful.

Nicole Kidman and her alabaster hide get increasingly and steadily creepier, but she’s still doable as some woman in this Australian western with Hugh Jackman and his computer generated name as a cowboy. Australia is directed by Baz Luhrmann, who’s famous for amphetamine-laced musicals like Moulin Rouge and general nonsense such as William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Yeah, that guy. Easy, fella.

In the plus column, Australia looks more straightforward and free of shitty gimmicks to reel in any potential audience. On the downside, it’s about Australia! Who cares about Australia besides Australians? Do Australians even care about Australia? I mean, the country is like a deuce, a benign mass or a bad limb that Asia crapped out or broke off. And England traveled halfway around the world to take the place over and make it into a prison colony or whatever? Making a movie about Australia is like basing a sitcom around an abandoned slum or having lunch at a flea market. Who does that and why? Why would somebody eat lunch at a flea market? Whyyyyyy?

Four Christmases

This movie looks like its going to suck more than the service at Pano’s. Forget the fact that you’ve got Vince Vaughn playing himself for the hundredth time, and you’ve got Reese Witherspoon, Miss All-American with that chin of hers that could put an eye out, trying to branch out into a comedic role. And ignore them playing a couple who has to go see each of their warped parents in 4 separate trips on Christmas Day when their vacation gets cancelled. That in itself is the kind of holiday war crime comedy you no doubt would have to expect, given the encroaching season.

But I think I’m going to pull a Palin and talk about something completely different than what I’m here to talk about. But I do promise not to drop the terms maverick, hockey mom or Joe Six-Pack. And for fuck’s sake, I will pronounce my Gs. I am promisinG! But instead I’m going to talk about the douche den that Pano’s on Elmwood Avenue has become. I don’t mind the fact that the place is so dark that they are now required by law to serve opium on the menu. I’m not even going to gripe that the place stinks of pretension on a level light years beyond what was conceivable before remodeling. While we’re at it let’s forget that the Cheesecake Factory should show up, punch whoever redesigned Pano’s in the face and take that page from their design playbook back with interest.

What chaps my glistening chestnut haunches is their shit ass service. I mean, it’s cute seeing these girls trying to be waitresses, but enough’s enough. If I wanted that feeling to last, I’d put clothes on my pets. The service at Pano’s has always been in the toilet to an extent, but never this bad. I went with my family for some dessert about 8PM on a weekday. Just dessert initially, but the menu was actually looking good enough to make us change our minds. Okay, it’s remodeled and I don’t begrudge a place for being busy, but once we sat down, you couldn’t get someone’s attention if you threw a chair through a window or pissed in the hostess’s face. After about 10 minutes, we said fuggit. You can offer up all the hot gnip gnabs with a tart lime hollandaise white wine sauce you want, but if your incompetent, complacent, dumb as fuck, dead behind the eyes wait staff doesn’t have the brain cells required to so much as think of taking a drink order, no one’s going to give a shit how aesthetically pleasing the place is. Then these vacuous twits stand around trying to figure out if they should drool on that grandiose carpeting or drag their knuckles on it. Hell, let’s piss our pants for good measure while we’re at it. The service at this establishment has always treaded the fine line (which they seem to have created themselves) between absolute fucking disappointment and the abysmally acceptable. The only possible justification for this dreadful treatment/service would reside in how intense the hunger that dragged you there initially was. Now that Pano’s looks like a trust fund hipster’s loft, it appears that every day is pants optional day for Pano’s wait staff. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.


As I age, and manage to shed most but not all of my self-importance, I realize that a lot of things that were cool not only are no longer cool, but really weren’t to begin with. Like vampires for instance. With their slinky androgyny, dark wardrobes not unlike flashy European pimps/hookers, and contrasting complexions. Stupid vampires and the even stupider movies made about them. Like Twilight.

This looks really stupid. Some girl who sounds like a dude hooks up with what I’m guessing is supposed to be a really cute vampire. The whole thing looks how an Evanescence song sounds—trying to make the uncomplicated complex with way more effort than the whole goddamn thing is worth. All while doing it as gayly as possible.

So back to the supposed plot: The Dude Girl and Vampire Boy love each other but Vampire Boy’s got some kind of mortal (or immortal—haha!) enemy who starts stalking them both. And the bad guy is stronger than Vampire Boy and do you really want me to go on? Do you need me to continue? It’s making my fucking hair hurt just talking about it—just thinking about it! If nothing else I’ll always have schadenfreude.

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