Category: Weekly Reviews

 

The Long (Miserable) Weekend

 

Friday the 13th certainly kicked off a horrific weekend, at least for me.

Tomorrow I’m flying to Florida to see a gravely ill relative, perhaps for the last time.

A few miles from here, a “No Kings” protest (riot?) is about to commence.

The shooting of lawmakers (above) occurred this morning in the suburb where I work my 9-5 job, just a few miles from where I sit typing this review.

It’s gray and drizzly outside.

How is your weekend?

 

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Setting aside depressing news for a minute, let’s see what Sabrina Carpenter is up to. I have no idea who she is. A singer, I guess. But she seems to want my attention:

 

 

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Speaking of selling sex, why does Hollywood have a thing against pubic hair on starlets?

Below are clips of an actress named Kate Groombridge in a movie called Virgin Territory. First, I’ve posted the final scene. Next, I’ve posted the raw, original scene which did not make the final cut — apparently because of Groombridge’s pussy hair.

 

 

 

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A.I. Pride Month!

 

People I respect — mostly intellectuals and Neanderthals — are insisting that it’s just a matter of time before artificial intelligence puts an end to us. That’s depressing.

I’d rather focus on the joys of A.I. For instance, I like the pictures it makes for me. I asked it to create a picture of a haunted house, and it gave me this:

 

 

 

I asked it to describe The Grouchy Editor, and it came up with this, which we thought was rather flattering:

 

 

Then I got horny and began thinking of Lauren Cohan, an actress I’ve admired since The Walking Dead premiered many years ago.

 

 

I had never seen a good picture of her butt. The closest she came to showing me her butt was in a 2006 movie called Van Wilder: The Rise of Taj, where we all got to see this:

 

 

Those panties are pretty flimsy. You can clearly see the contours of Lauren’s gluteus maximus. Surely, A.I. could erase those panties? I made a request and got this:

 

 

See how wonderful A.I. can be?

At least until it destroys us.

 

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Like Joe Biden, I have prostate cancer. 

Joe Biden doesn’t know me, does not feel sorry for me.

I don’t know Joe Biden, but I do know of him. I don’t feel sorry for him.

I’m sure there are many elderly men in our prisons suffering from cancer. No one feels sorry for them.

Joe Biden belongs in a cell along with those elderly prisoners.

 

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Democrat Woes

 

 

My unsolicited advice to Democrats trying to appeal to, presumably, straight young men: Tell idiots like Pedro Pascal to sit down and shut up.

 

 

 

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I’ve been watching Sherlock & Daughter. I had hopes for pure, escapist fun.

Silly me.

The most recent episode featured a young man attempting to impress Daughter by taking her to a women’s suffrage meeting. At said meeting Daughter proceeded to lecture young man about the harsh treatment of indigenous peoples in America and Australia.

I half expected her to bring up global warming, even though the show takes place in the 19th century.

You cannot escape wokeness.

 

 

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Poker Face

 

Lately, I keep seeing movies and TV shows that are pretty good …  but not great.

Here is a sampling from the past week, along with my humble opinions on what went wrong with the shows. Hint: It’s rarely bad acting or direction; it’s usually a problem with the script or story development.

 

Poker Face, season two

 

I enjoyed Natasha Lyonne in season one. Critics loved the return to a format out of fashion since Columbo went off the air: We see the crime and offender in the first 15 minutes, then watch as our heroine solves the mystery. It’s not a whodunit, but rather a how-will-she-catch-the-culprit.

Season one felt fresh, a welcome throwback to rumpled, lovable Peter Falk’s Columbo. Charlie (Lyonne), also lovable and rumpled, saw that justice was done.

What went wrong — Columbo was deceptively sharp. He lulled his prey into a false sense of security and then, relying on his little grey cells, nailed the bad guy. Charlie, on the other hand, relies on a gimmick: her “bullshit” detector. For some absurd reason, she always recognizes the big lie. That’s gotten old. Another problem: like Columbo, Charlie is comical. But the humor is too over-the-top now, including random shootouts and chases with bad guys who are out to get our girl.

 

 

The Changeling

 

George C. Scott plays a widower living in a haunted house near Seattle. Roger Ebert had this to say in 1980: “Scott makes the hero so rational, normal and self-possessed that we never feel he’s in real danger; we go through this movie with too much confidence.”

Sorry, Roger, but I disagree. I thought it was refreshing to shake up the usual ghost-story set-up — young, trembling female terrorized by evil spirits — and instead, give us a cantankerous, middle-aged man. If George C. Scott is unsettled, is it any wonder that the audience is, too? The first hour of the movie is scary-good fun.

What went wrong — When George leaves the house in the second half of the film, the story goes off the rails. (I, too, frequently go off the rails by resorting to cliches like “off the rails.” But I digress.)

None of us know what happens after death. When screenwriters attempt to explain too much, their answers are usually far-fetched.

They should have left George in the house.

 

 

Black Bag

 

Here is director Steven Soderbergh lamenting the box-office failure of his clever black comedy about British spies: “This is the kind of film I made my career on. And if a mid-level budget, star-driven movie can’t seem to get people over the age of 25 years old to come out to theatres — if that’s truly a dead zone — then that’s not a good thing for movies. What’s gonna happen to the person behind me who wants to make this kind of film?”

Black Bag has clever dialogue, good acting, and an amusing plot.

What went wrong — I’m not sure. I suspect the fact that the characters, although interesting, are not particularly likeable, might have something to do with it.

 

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Enough critical nit-picking. Let’s praise something. Let’s praise a girl who knows how to shake things up.

Apparently, the angle above wasn’t sufficiently close to Ary Tenorio’s buttocks. So they tried it again:

 

 

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I can carp all day about the dangers of “third-stage feminism,” but only a (relatively) young, attractive woman can get by with truth-telling like this.

 

 

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The more we learn about the Biden administration in particular, and Democrat leadership in general, I’m tempted to ask myself: “How could tens of millions of people (useful idiots) vote for these awful Democrats?”

But I can’t, in good conscience, be too judgmental of those voters.

I voted for Bill Clinton in 1992. By the time he ran for a second term, I’d had enough of him and voted for Bob Dole. Apparently, I learned my lesson.

I voted for Barack Obama in 2008. I thought his election might help racial healing in the country. In 2012, I voted for him again. Apparently, I did not learn my lesson.

The media, biased and lying, doesn’t make things easy for the average voter. None of us are invited to backroom meetings with powerful donors where the big decisions are made. We are forced to rely on unreliable media for information.

Sometimes we learn our lesson, sometimes we don’t.

I think the Democrat voters are wrong right now. But I suppose, if Trump steers us into World War III, I will be the one who once again failed to learn his lesson.

We live and learn. Or not.

 

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Ever surf the Internet and stumble across a pic of someone you know — in her birthday suit?

Yeah, me too. Twice now.

I won’t say her name. But you want to see, so here she is in all her glory (not sure who the naked knee belongs to):

 

 

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The Return of the Pussy

Poor Rosa Parks. From the back of the bus to the front of some panties.

 

If the Met Gala is any indication, looks like the pussy is back.

These things run in cycles. For example, 1992, the year in which Sharon Stone flashed the world her privates in Basic Instinct, was a year of the pussy.

2021, on the other hand, was the year Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez asked the world (aside from booty man Alex Stein) to admire her backside at the Met Gala (below).

 

 

But now, apparently, thanks to Halle Berry and singer Lisa, the pussy is back.

I mention all of this merely as a public service. That, and I wanted to post some pictures.

 

 

 

 

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Civil War?

 

It should be common sense, and this is hardly an original thought on my part, but it seems to me that we need the left and we need the right.

Stereotypically, the left is composed of dreamers. Also stereotypically, the right is composed of practical thinkers.

Problems arise when one side dominates the other and seeks to impose its worldview.

In recent years, the left has gained control of just about every institution, and Biden imposed liberal policies on everyone.

Trump is the backlash. I don’t want Trump to dictate every social policy in perpetuity any more than I want the left to do the same.

 

I’d rather think about pussies.

 

 

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I’ve been feeling a bit black-pilled this week. First, I got news that a close relative is not doing well, thanks to Alzheimer’s and that disease’s physical and mental toll.

Then I made the mistake of watching a Tim Pool podcast in which the panel discussed the likelihood of A.I. dismantling human civilization.

And now I’ve come down with a nagging toothache.

All of this means I am not in the mood to care about Trump or his enemies. 

 

I need a pick-me-up.  I need something pleasant and mindless.

I need to watch this:

 

 

 

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Don’t blame me. I just told A.I., “picture of one man in the locker room with women.” See below.

 

Quiet Before the Storm?

 

As expected, Trump’s second term has been, uh, eventful.

But there are two events I keep waiting and waiting … and waiting for: The release of the infamous Epstein list, and a decision from the Supreme Court on these immigration rulings by lower-court judges.

If I had to guess, I’d say there are two likely reasons for the Epstein-list delay: 1) the feds let the list be destroyed, and Pam Bondi doesn’t want to tell us that, or 2) Trump himself is on the list, and they don’t know how to spin it.

As for the Supreme Court, I blame wishy-washy, image-conscious Chief Justice John Roberts. He knows he’ll get hammered, whichever way the court rules, and he doesn’t have the balls to do the right (or wrong) thing. Roberts desperately needs to stop reading his press clippings.

 

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I wasn’t sure before, but with all the judicial warfare on Trump, it seems clear that we are, indeed, in “the fourth turning.”

 

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You go (away, please) girls!

 

I took in an NBA playoff game on ESPN the other night. Two of the three studio hosts were women. The announcing crew was composed of two men and a woman. Do the math: 50 percent female in a domain that used to be exclusively male.

This is why, although I do support women in their battle against transexuals in their locker rooms, my support is only half-hearted.

Male sports, which used to be a refuge for men to — at least briefly — escape the omnipresence of females in their lives (sorry ladies, but that’s true), have been invaded in the name of “progress.” Yet when the sacred women’s locker room is invaded by biological males (see creepy picture at top), well, we can’t have that!

Looks like hypocrisy to me. Big time.

 

 

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Black Mirror, Season 7

 

Black Mirror creator Charlie Brooker, sadly, seems to read his own reviews and respond to the critics who praise certain episodes.

“San Junipero,” a season-three entry about two lesbians with a heartwarming ending, was hailed by reviewers in 2016 and so, season seven has another episode, “Hotel Reverie,” about two lesbians with a heartwarming ending.

“USS Callister” from season four delighted Trekkies and so, this season we get a sequel, “USS Callister: Into Infinity.”

What we don’t get anymore is originality, like we did when Black Mirror was a small British show in seasons one and two. Before Netflix entered the picture.

 

My grades for the six new episodes:

“Common People” — dark, depressing, timely, and thought-provoking. Just like the good old days. Grade: B

“Bete Noir” — great start to this one, but a silly ending. Grade: B-

“Hotel Reverie” — too long, and too obvious. It checks the “wokeness” boxes, though. Grade: C

“Plaything” — so-so episode, I think. I’ve already forgotten most of it. Grade: C

“Eulogy” — the best new episode, thanks largely to the ever-dependable Paul Giamatti. Grade: B+

“USS Callister: Into Infinity” — for die-hard Star Trek fans and computer-game nerds only. I grew so bored with the convoluted story and cartoon characters that I had to pause and take breaks. Beam me the hell out, Scotty. Grade: D

 

When Netflix took control of this formerly great series beginning with season three in 2016, it was the start of a long, slow decline.

Black Mirror is still a watchable show. The premises are intriguing, the acting usually fine, and Netflix does spend money on the productions. But the storytelling thrill is long gone.

 

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Trump vs. the Courts

 

The left saw no problem when millions of aliens crossed into our country illegally.

But now they expect each of 10-20 million illegal aliens to receive “due process” hearings? That will take a hundred years, and the left knows it.

If the Supreme Court doesn’t stop the madness, Trump should just ignore all of these radical-left court rulings.

If it was continually stymied by the courts, that’s what the left would do.

 

 

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Awwww … Bill and Donald are bonding. Does this mean there’s hope for the rest of us?

 

OK, that’s enough brotherly love. Time for …

 

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… Dumping on Dems

 

I’m from Minnesota, where we are used to second-place finishes. I’m referring to the Vikings, who finished second a record four times in Super Bowls. I’m talking politicians, where two Democrat politicians, Hubert Humphrey and Walter Mondale, took dumps in presidential elections.

But nothing is as embarrassing as this clown Tim Walz, who is governor of our misbegotten state:

 

 

By the way, Minnesota’s state bird is the loon. What does that tell you?

 

More Dumping 

 

We used to run an “Asshole of the Week” posting. I’m thinking the arrogant East Coast judges pictured below qualify as “Assholes of the Year.” At least so far.

(Yes, I realize there are more, but I’m too lazy to find pictures of them all.)

 

 

 

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