"Glorious" Basterds

The summer is over and most of us wishes that mutation would occur in our bodies in order to experience a painless death that will vanish us away from this dreary decadent existence. Unless you have watched Tarantino's new flick about Nazis being killed left and right, realizing that the movie has way more content than just brutal murders in humorous fashion, hence orgasmically realizing that there is still some pretty damn good cinema out there.
The word orgasmically does not exist (I just enjoyed the aphrodisiac melody in it, that makes me giggle) but effective, entertaining or epic do. Don't check the dictionary for those. Just watch Inglorious Basterds.
You will sense a hint of Kill Bill's musicality, significant reduction of "f" words, long scenes that aid in building tensed overwhelming expectation, surprising twists, action that is utterly unpredictable, humor, gore, and I don't know what the f@#@! else.
Again, Tarantino defies movie genres with this one. The movie is history/comedy/action/Tarantino in my opinion, which is a delicious recipe. The director is also establishing a revolution going on, which is quite simple: before you would not expect a gun pointing at a person for too long to shoot, because that seemed predictable. But now that the audience does not expect the gun to shoot, the gun does shoot and we ultimately find out that all that time of before-execution talk was as useless as the work of a Portuguese politician. The same takes place in this movie, but adding to guns there is also a baseball bat.
Is that engaging enough?

IMDB rating - 8.7

Rotten Tomatoes - 88 %

My rating - 8. 9

District 9

District 9 is a potential mind fritter for moviegoers. It deliciously succeeds in engaging all those who are willing to refrain from paying too much attention to the lead actor's accent and odd being - a mixture of geekness and meekness and "how the hell did he end up with a woman like that?" - into a world that seems so grotesquely similar, but still magical.
Peter Jackson goes from directing a bunch of non famous low budget horror movies to being the signature name of Tolkien's blaspheming saga of day long movies. And now, this. It honestly feels that Jackson can grab a title such as "Jenna Jameson against the crazy twelve legged freaks" and turn it into something that Buddhists will revere. It is always sweat producing the pressure of turning a plot about aliens under the governmental supervision of South Africa into a mega success, but Jackson brilliantly did it, unless the movie was the reason why those two hundred pounds were lost. Well, maybe not that much.
There might be some discomfort in the way the audience gets used to the documentary style in the beginning of the piece. It looks odd, clumsy, slightly too fast to accompany, but soon the plot reigns and there will be an eighty six percent chance moviegoers will marry the screen. Hopefully there won't be any divorce with the very possible sequence.
District 9 succeeds in entertaining, due to its irreverent fusion of elements: insect looking aliens, metamorphosis, human greed, Nigerian gangs that prostitute their women to the aliens or trade weapons with cat food, typical Hollywood unidentified fucking objects, gruesome imagery such as nails popping off (I doubt Jackson did not watch the movie "The Fly"), blood - either red or black or perhaps a little purplish black- in an environment of surreal spoliation, and swearing in south African accent.
But then, it actually succeeds in its surprising soul reaching preaching, specially when the African opera singing kicks in. People will probably find themselves rooting for the aliens and non sexually attach themselves to their extraordinary extra-terrestrial motives. The best movies are those that turn the audience into the characters, to a point that they feel what Wikus Van De Merke (yes, the name is bizarre) severely suffers in his living Freddy Kruger depressing nightmare, and Christopher's parenthood towards his child, specially because Christopher is a f*** E.T.! That, allied with golden unpredictability and impressive special effects, makes District 9 a district that you must now enter.

As of today:

IMDB rating - 8.8

Rotten tomatoes rating - 88%

My score: 86

Ten reasons to run to the theatre and watch The Hangover

Potentially, probably, twitterly, without having to engage into irritating demagoguery that makes my hairs erect with flabbergasting anger, the funniest movie of the year is The Hangover. Watch it. Make it happen. If you like to laugh until you reach a state of semi-regurgitating/fart producing state, and if you like good acting and an actual literary quality produced plot with twists and surprising turns, this is the movie to be watched. The movie will take you in a journey to Las Vegas from which you never want to come back. So, these are then reasons why you should watch this movie: 1 - You can see Heather Grahams' left nipple; 2 - You can almost see Heather Graham's right nipple; 3 - You can see Mike Tyson act really badly, in a way that does not jeopardize funny; 4 - There is a man with a beard that is one of the most hysterical people ever, saying lines such as "Your language is really offensive"; 5 - Male nudity is included, in a way that is highly humorous; 6 - Everything is unexpected, so I am not going to say what is unexpected, because this way you will expect what I just said, and this way the unexpected... shit, you got the picture; 7 - You can see Heather Graham's left nipple; wait, I already said that... 8 - A parody of "Rain Man" is included, which will ultimately affect your nervous system with laughter; 9 - It creates controversy, and I love controversy, as you can read right here!; 10 - It contains probably the funniest end credits ever.

White House's sensitivity

In the Washington Metro, one can read a curly brown haired infant blurt: "President Obama's daughters get healthy school lunches. Why don't I?". The girl in the picture is little innocent eight year old Jasmine Messiah, who complains that her school in Florida does not offer vegetarian alternatives in the cafeteria.
Consequently, there is a tense struggle between the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine and the White Cream House, where Obama is chilling with his "unmentionable" kids. Yes. Unmentionable. Because a jokey, loudmouth, knobbly looking individual named Frank Luntz, a republican political consultant, aggressively responses stating that "The children of the president are always off-limits. Always. No exceptions. No ifs, ands or buts. And while it may draw short-term attention to the issue, the White House will hate the organization for it. And I assure you they will be punished. You don't mess with the president's children. It's an unwritten rule."
I do not have the power to induce this man into a coma and lock him in a reeking holdall while I watch cartoons, but I am given the same right as pretty Jasmine, which is to translate my inner intent into protesting words and pee into someone's face... figuratively, not literally, because that would smell bad. What I am trying to say is that people can say whatever the juicy Hell they want, and not let nonentity creatures such as Luntz interfere in our actions.
Let's fairly face it: the posters are not going to alter jack poop, and it is needless to mention Obama's children because they probably do not get lunch from the school cafeteria. The same laziness that causes human flesh to turn obese for the lack of vegetables, also makes parents forget to provide their kids with proper lunch boxes. Hence, the posts are slightly scurrilous and make me sad.
But... Luntz's response is tactless and unnecessary. Expressing the word "hate" in an official governmental declaration, concerning children, scars the image of this nation and can only be associated with that shit church that says that "God hates homosexuals". Same page. Lunzt, if the rules are not written, they are not rules. Period.

The wonderful wizard of licor

I was intensely meditating next to a humid salix, trying to understand how is it that people still drink in this country like there is no tomorrow, and how can that happen under an erroneous law such as the 21 year old limit. I forced my brains. I cried innermost. I checked out the brunette coming out of the blue corvette with a silky red top and large sunglasses. Then, in an uncontrolled pandemonium of thoughts and slight sexual urges - the brunette was still there and I did not know why she didn't get inside the store still - I reached a theory. Licor stores. I am not convinced they are the supreme abode of all the problems, but part is in the extravagance of their displays throughout the little and big towns in the US. You are in Las Vegas, and there are lights and colors and pretty things that are shining while telling you "There is nothing else in Vegas but gambling and strippers". You find yourself either loosing all your money in blackjack or watching live juicy breast implants. Hence, Vegas' display of bright advertising is an example of how in regular towns such as Salem, where I live among substandard looking businesses and average looking new England women, the solution resides in the colorful "Licor" word displayed in a few stores throughout the town. Consequence: people drink - a lot. Other consequence - people die in the streets victims of drunk drivers. Solution: enough of licor stores and sell the good stuff where it is supposed to be - in a humble looking section of a CVS where you read in a plastic sign with no life: "Alcoholic beverages" Under 21? Fail!

Idiot of the week

And the winner is... Evan Chandler! Congratulations to our human scum of grotesque proportions that insists on breathing in this world although proving himself to be an excrement. Someone electrocute this man's balls and make him produce a reverberating mouse-like falsetto, and my heart will be bloated with mass producing happiness. More than when I get a happy meal with a plain double hamburger, lite pickles, mac sauce on the side and a diet coke with no ice, mixed with a gentle and sensitive touch of lemonade. Evan Chandler is the father of Jordan Chandler, the boy who started Jackson's downfall in his reputation in 1993, by charges of sexual molestation. Recently, Evan's child, now a grown up pubic hair producing creature, admitted to have lied as influenced by the father, in a way to earn financial earnings. In other words, the two plotted to get money out of Jackson by forcing him to public humiliation and disrespecting all those who do actually get sexually molested by greasy pedophiles. Consequently, Evan Chandler is a man who sucks. The fact that a man like this animal earns millions of dollars out of a blatant display of irritating defamation, is the reason why Zoloft is produced, and I am one of those who spends money consuming it. Michael Jackson did a terrific job in improving the world as he could. But individuals like Chandler surge up as main obstacles to that strenuous improvement, and now he is rich. Mr. Chandler, you suck. Thank you for destroying hope and belief in humanity.

Bodies in construction

Weeks ago I was faced by a walking over-tensed piece of human brutality that was desperately eager to destroy my sensitive face. Why? Because I made fun of the way he would groan while lifting his two hundred and fifty pounds in bench press.
Apparently, in the world of hyper weight lifters that have orgasms by looking at the veins of their own biceps, if you are performing simple boring calisthenics, you ought to produce no sound and engage into mute face reddening, like a bloating tomato. However, if you are lifting a heavy moon, you automatically gain the right to produce some sound equivalent to four fat people having sex at the same time as some dude with a really pitching annoying voice is growling while his balls are being severely tortured.
A lot of men still prefer being bodybuilders than Abercrombie and Finch models. It is proven that models are far more attractive than machines with arms the size of legs. But that will not stop a lot of idiots like the guy who threatened to terminate me the other day. They will continue to go to the gym, drink banana shakes with whey protein, inject creatine and steroids, wake up at three o'clock in the morning to eat pancakes, and hardly masturbate because it is said that sperm being free means muscle not growing, while I, Ricardo, not to bulky, hopefully sexy, sexual and sensual at the same time, have to connive this situation laughing and, indeed, either masturbating or being masturbated.
Guys, drop the weights and go play some Frisbee golf for f*** sake.

The ten greatest musicians of all time

Blood was shed, tears were dropped, but the list of the top ten musicians of all time is in. Excepting classical names such as Mozart and Beethoven, this list is based on research done on several magazines and databases concerning "top ten albums of all time", "most influential artists of all time", "top singers of all time", "most successful artists of all time", "top selling albums of all time", "top ten songs of all time", "most grammy award winners", "most sold albums of all time", "greatest musicians of all time", and many other googled expressions. This list was generated using a system of points based on sources such as best100musicians.com, borntoredefine.com, databases with facts and numbers, rolling stone magazine, time magazine, the mobility site, mtv, vh1, and others. Consequently, this list can ultimately be considered the fairest podium of the greatest musicians in history, since it is based on the opinions of intellectuals, general music fans and historical facts.

NUMBER 10

Bing Crosby - 21 points












NUMBER 9

Jimmy Hendrix - 22 points


NUMBER 8

Marvin Gaye - 23 points







NUMBER 7

Led Zeppelin - 40 points



NUMBER 6

Queen - 42 points







NUMBER 5

Michael Jackson - 48 points

NUMBER 4

Rolling Stones - 53 points





NUMBER 3

Elvis Presley - 65 points







NUMBER 2

BOB DYLAN - 80 points







NUMBER 1

THE BEATLES - 150 points