Bosox fans…I’m not exactly sure what your official position is on the following, but I’d imagine there might have been a news conference or perhaps a public event disavowing the persons responsible for the crime against baseball that I’m about to relate. Allow me to explain…no…it is too much, allow me to sum up:
It was late. My wife and I were bored. We wanted to watch a movie. And this digital abortion was free.
The suckage to which I refer is the 2005 movie, Fever Pitch.
I heard Steve Jobs begged to have this scene cut for fear of it ruining Macbook sales…hey…it’s what I heard.
Through the use of delicate internet technology NOT pioneered by Algore, and in common use with all of the major VRWC cells in operation throughout the US, I’ve intercepted the following planning session held yesterday.I offer it here for your perusal, unedited or redacted.
My dad has a little problem with the truth. Always has. Not exactly sure why or what caused this colossal break in basic human interaction, but of all his flaws, I think I’d put this one at the very top…above wearing polyester coaches shorts over the top of sweatpants…above him wearing a “Vietnam Veteran And Proud Of It” hat when during the war he sat his ass behind a desk at Grissom Air Force Base in the middle of Godforsaken Indiana…no, those pale in comparison to the string of lies he has trailing behind him.
The new Terminator movie premiered Friday.Yeah…I sort of figured that whole thing had played out around the time Linda Hamilton turned into Mickey Rourke with breasts.But apparently, in keeping with Hollywood’s penchant for recycling old plots by hiring the cast of Hannah Montana and throwing an Obama-load of money into CGI, killer robots are back, sans Governor Arnold Taxandspender.
I remember it like it was yesterday, man.No…really…I mean it this time.It truly seems like it was yesterday for me, whenI, like most red-blooded American males who weren’t into showtunes and poetry, enjoyed wargames, elaborately planned and executed within the confines of our backyard.In almost all cases, these were recreations of some unknown war involving any combination of nations (real or imagined), based on what we could scare up from the bottom of our collective toy boxes.In the Claymore Defense Forces, it wasn’t uncommon to find HeMan and Battlecat fall into formation with the likes of Lando Calrissian, Cylon centurions and the true backbone of any credible modern fighting force, the ubiquitous Green Army Man.
Actual size, mofo!
Green Army Man was the foundation.You didn’t show up to a neighborhood war without at least 20 or 30 of these plastic warriors in your arsenal.The backyard warrior ethos dictated that any kid who showed up and tried to draw ranks without Green Army Man in his Nike box, was to be shunned…unless he was the kid who brought all of his dad’s old WWII tank models to the fight.Green Army Man were commandos, rangers, snipers, sappers, engineers and most importantly, casualties.It didn’t matter if the dude had a mortar stuck to his leg, or was in a perpetual hand-to-hand bayonet charge, Green Army Man was the shit.The Real Deal.He could swarm a foxhole full of Stormtroopers, beat the shit out of Smurfs and then lead the assault past the swingset, flank the opposition near the Strawberry Shortcake bicycle and strike deep into the enemy cinderblock bunker.And while GI JOE gets all the props for being a “real American hero”, with his flocked beard and “Kung Fu Grip”,the 1970’s Joe looked like he’d be more at home at a Village People concert than putting imaginary rounds into Stretch Armstrong’s jelly-filled guts.No…it was Green Army Man who was boots on ground, kicking the tan army’s ass all the way back to the flower beds where they effin’ belonged.
