cheesebadger's Xanga

Richard Kelly Is A Damn Insane Genius

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 07:31:46 GMT

So I saw The Box. Which isn't a movie about Cameron Diaz's bloody vagina, despite what the title and the big red streak on the poster would have you think. It's actually one of the better sci-fi movies i've seen in a while for 2 main reasons.

#1, the first act is the best adaptation of a Richard Matheson story i've ever seen.

#2, like (almost)all of Richard Kellys' movies, it's goddamn batshit insane and fucking awesome.

First off, the original story by Richard Matheson is fairly simple, but most are familiar with the version that was re-written for The 80's Twilight Zone. In it, the story goes: Couples door bell rings, eerie man walks in, shows them a button. Says if they press it, they get a buncha cash, but someone "whom they don't know", will die. They deliberate for a while, and press it. The man comes back the next day, gives them the cash, and they ask him what happens next. He says " The button will be re-programmed, and given to someone, "Who doesn't know you." Which is pretty chilling, and implies heavily that the person killed is the last person who pushed the button. In the original Matheson story, the woman pushes the button, and her husband dies the next day in an accident, and the insurance money is what she collects. When the man retrieves the button, he tells her that "She never really knew her husband". Which is much more insanely fucked up, but not so twilight zoney.

Anyhow, the movie takes the Twilight Zone approach, for the entire first act, with some character development, and then takes a HARD LEFT into fucking INSANEVILLE and becomes wildly hard to predict exactly what the fuck is going on, or what is actually happening. In a lot of respects, it's very similar to Southland Tales, in that shit happens, and you're left to decide what it means for yourself. Granted this is a much more coherent movie than Southland Tales, and a much tighter film overall, it's still nothing like anything out right now, and despite being an adaptation, fiercely original. Plus the whole thing is shot like an old fashioned episode of The Twilight Zone, with Kubrickian cinematography so accurate you'd swear they got the DP from The Shining.

Overall, I could lay out the entirety of the plot for you, but the moment Mr. Steward gives the couple the money, takes the box/button, and tells them it will be reprogrammed and given to "Someone who they don't know." (different phrasing, but same ominous meaning), the movie ramps up into goddamn crazyville. There's a lot of internet sites and viral marketing for the movie, including some .PDF documents you download that seem to be schematics for the Box, that are seen breifly in the movie. Like with Donnie Darko or Southland Tales, the internet supplementals help understand the movie more, and in this case, actually hint at large chunks of the movie that were filmed, but cut due to length. If you hated Donnie Darko, (which I don't blame you, all that 80's shit was bogging up a good time travel story), I highly recommend you watch Southland Tales and see The Box. Richard Kelly is an exciting new director who really is building up a lineup of films that reflect similar themes, and each one will make you think, for better or for worse. I have a feeling all of his movies will be love it or hate it films, that are very polarizing, and it's guys like that who SHOULD be making movies, and we should support that kind of filmmaking instead of the schlock thats churned out nearly every weekend by most other hacks.

She Lives On Love Street.

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 03:18:36 GMT

I never knew her name, but I decided, perhaps one day i'll ask to walk her home. She had long dark hair, with little hints of brown and blonde, her lips were pouty but not bee stung, and her eyes had a magic in them that could only be described by some amazing poet. I approached her, walking with a smile. She was thoroughly buried in the book she was reading, her hair falling down in front of her face, slightly dangling on the page. Getting closer I could begin to see that she was studying for some math class, trig it looked like. I ruminated on the thought that not only was she beautiful, but she was smart too. She adjusted the book for a moment, and stretched backwards, closing her eyes, pushing her ample breasts into the air, her fingers clasped, stretching her arms upwards. I finally was close enough to speak to her, and I then began to speak.

Of course, when I opened my mouth, I only managed to say the words "Hi, I was just wonderi-" before she jumped nearly out of her seat, shot upwards, and grabbed the mace out of her bag, and immediately began macing me in the eyes. To say the mace burned would be a massive understatement. To say it was like having your face on fire, is to barely grasp the intense feeling of pain the mace caused me. I started to scream out loud, calling her a fucking goddamn bitch, and insulted her several times, and then started making very crude and illegal threats about forcible intercourse with her. That was shen she started stomping on my genitals with what I unfortunately found out to be, were her high heeled shoes. Each stomp not only compounded the pain in my body, shooting upwards into my stomach with a deep sharp pain, but also felt as if the pointy heel was actually penetrating my groinal flesh. She continued to stomp and stomp, and spray more and more mace into my eyes, until finally she relented to call the cops.

When the cops came, I was beaten beyond the point of resisting arrest, and I remember one of the rookie officers began to vomit once he had gotten a glance at my entire groin area. After the hospital visits and receiving emergency surgery my injuries included, but were not limited to blindness in one eye, a broken nose, broken jaw, deaf in one ear, partial facial trauma, 68 scrotal stitches, a penile fracture, testicular lacerations and impalement, as well as total urethral abolishment, which I didn't know was an actual injury you could sustain. After many months of recovery, and a subsequent trial, I was found not guilty of attempted rape. It was in the 6th month of physical therapy, when she visited me.

She walked into the clinic, her eyes sparkling with that same magic, her hair blowing in the breeze, shimmering an impossibly beautiful shimmer, and her lips just as pouty and perfect as ever. She came with flowers, and approached me. I instinctively began to shrink away from her touch, but she calmly placed her hand on my face, and told me that everything would be ok.

For a moment, I thought about caning her in the face, and just brutally beating her to death right then and there, smashing her beautiful face into a mass of pulpy flesh, teeth and facebones,but when we kissed my murderous rage subsided. A year later, after my genitals had completely healed, we got married, and now we're expecting a baby. You know, its funny, sometimes life makes you take the long road, but in the end, you end up getting what you always wanted, if you just stick it through.

Although some nights I still think about stabbing the fucking bitch in the mouth, but then I just grab her tits and grunt a few times and it's all okay.

Halloween Pictures!

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 07:27:05 GMT

Apparently there was a guy there taking professional style pictures of everyone. I barely remember, because I was fucking hammered and busy staring at a lot of the cleavage. Some pretty awesome costumes there, and see if you spot my best friend Dorothy, she's the Wonder Woman that actually looks good, posing next to my other best friend Mike, who was the best Clark Kent/Superman there. I wasn't in these photos, because I literally just went to the party with what I was wearing, and a wig, and just agreed to whatever people guessed I was. Anyhow, heres the pictures!

The Only Real Damn Poem I've Ever Written.

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 05:44:44 GMT

Sometimes I wish I was a beautiful italian woman and that Ennio Morricone would spend his days serenading me to gain my love.

Sometimes I wish I was an irish priest and loved nobody but myself and alcohol.

Sometimes I wish I was a bounty hunter in the old west, living off the land, with my own moral code. Nomadic and strong.

Sometimes I wish I was an intergalactic pilot, delivering shipments of engine parts with my plucky but resourceful crew.

Sometimes I wish I was a Columbian druglord in the mid-eighties, powerful, respected, and feared.

Sometimes I wish I was in my 20s during the early 70's and close personal friends with Lou Reed.

Sometimes I wish I was a star quarterback for a college team, destined for greatness in the NFL.

Sometimes I wish I was a successful family man, with my 2 kids, a house and a dog.

Sometimes I wish I was someone else.

I'm Just Sayin'!

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 06:43:55 GMT

I never thought i'd say this, but i'm kinda getting sick of all the boobs related posts on xanga lately. I love me some boobs, but unfortunately all the boobs and the pics of boobs are mostly horrible fat girl boobs. I can do without 'em. If there's boobs I wanna save it'd be Chocolatecoveredkittens, or Dorothys, or basically any girls who's above a C cup and still perky. Nobody wants to save some DD cup size action thats hanging lower than those national geographic gym sock titties ya know? Unless it's your grandma or something. I mean, nobody wants their grandmas to die. Well, mine could go and i'd be fine, she's kindofa bitch but whatever. Regardless, you shouldn't be thinking of your grandmas tits in the first place. I'd also like to make it clear to the under C- cup and below crowd of women, there's nothing wrong with you or anything, I just prefer bustier women. Your tits are just as worthy of salvation but uh... well, just not to me. Sorry.

Writing Whatever Words Come To Mind.

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 03:29:42 GMT

Hundred children told foes that foxes ate really fire time hurled by tree worthy yeti carcass focus thought space coyote computer dog face shrivel animatronic bionic gunt trap saw fear real raw trap train grain ingrained insane complain name inane insane jump plane building WMD war gore fore ball racket tennis hat cut face beauty eye eyeballs jaws jail gurt bunt mister fool ishtar crandle candle wax wick lost arm tortoise pyramid stone high grass field fence brain limits outdoors inside logic emotion abstract confines reality made into perfection of incest take heed and cry goose duck fowl tender meat juicy rare hard find plastic posable articulation star wars value worth owls jowls nixon watchmen batman superman robin green lantern flash johns morrison invisible invincible kirkman zombie walking dead hundred fun boobs miser tits chest breasts busty buxom bouncy candy cotton hotdogs corndogs cleavage arrows plastic silicone naughty squeeze feel firm soft grope grasp break destroy desecrate procreate annihilate demonstrate demon exorcise exersize bedsheets penetration body heat sex filth closet toes skeleton make water hunt cunt grab band banned ban beans bears beasts feasts fears afraid feelers feel reel rod cast line tugboat weights bait baited caught trapped skinned impaled strung up flayed matyr matrix myriad money cast movie hollywood monkey formulaic form writing writing writing writing writing writing writing whatever comes to mind is fucking boring and stupid.

A Shitty Poem.

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 20:29:04 GMT

I shit with conviction.
With force and subtle grace.
My turds are poetry in motion,
written on aquatic and porcelain tapestry.
With my ass-pen.

Review Of The Xanga Movie

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 15:08:28 GMT

So I finally got to see the Xanga Movie the other day, and while I wasn't totally disappointed, because it WAS entertaining, parts of it were predictable, and a bit cliched.

SPOILERS

Let's start off with the kills and how they were done. Although most were pretty creative, the order in how they happened was very predictable.First off, it takes place at a weird farm house/ barn area, which is pretty standard for most slasher films. I mean, everybody knows fat guys, stoners/losers, and nerds die first, so when the killer secretly sneaks up and snaps Odiadas characters neck while he's jerking off in the bathroom, it's not too surprising. Of course, since my character is the fat movie nerd, he immediately begins to postulate that there's a killer, and it's only about another 10 minutes until the gang realizes that The Theologians Cafe has gone missing, and will probably never show up at the xanga meet. We presume he's dead as well, and right as we begin to think about who the killer could be, of course the lights go out and the killer appears! He's holding a giant pitchfork, and tries ramming it into DMV's characters guts, but of course he tries to use his New York jewry to convince the guy to not stab him, and actually manages to get a punch in, before the killer horribly impales him with the pitchfork. DMV's last words and actions were grabbing ChocolateCoveredKittens' characters' breasts, and mumbling something out loud about "fuck weasels", before the killer twists the pitchfork, stirring his insides, and finally killing him.

Then there's a long chase scene, where Callmequell, CCK, Roninism, Kestryl and My character all start to run away in different directions, deciding if we split up we'll have more of a chance to survive, which is class A 101 poor movie logic, since we all know this allows the killer to pick us off one by one. This results in my characters death, where because he can't run that far, he chooses to hide in the fairly nearby milking area of the barn. Naturally, the killer tracks him down, and grabs him, and puts him in one of the more gruesome deaths of the movie, by attaching the milking suckers to his eyes and ears, which just kinda milks out his eyes and brains. I gotta say, watching that scene was disturbing on multiple levels for me, although I appreciated in the ingenuity and craft of the actual scene.

At the same time, Callmequell and CCK are running through a series of old sheds, and decide to hide in one. Across the field, in the main barn, waits Roninisms' character, who while walking through the main barn, begin to hear strange noises, and notices someone is following him. He makes the usual pep talk threats against the killer, and then begins to recite various quotes of Pynchon and his own incredibly dense writing. This drives the killer out of hiding, and at first, Roninism manages to put the killer in a few holds, and throws him a few times. It looks like he has the upper hand, and is just about to rip off the killers mask, when the killer throws him back into one of the stables. The horse gets nervous and kicks Roninism right in the spine, instantly paralyzing him from the waist down. Unable to defend himself, he gets his throat slit. It was a shame, because the audience in the theater was rooting for him.

Callmequell and CCK begin to discuss the possibilities of who the killer is, and why they would want to kill us all. They put the obvious pieces together; Who schedules the Xanga meet? Who never actually showed up but we thought was dead? Who has nobody ever actually SEEN? They come to the conclusion that the killer has to be The Theologians Cafe, but they have no idea why! Right then, The Killer bursts in with Kestryls head, and throws it at the pair. They both scream and soon realize the Killer is blocking the only door out. Callmequell however, notices a small plank of wood thats loose, and quickly kicks it open. CCK throws some dirt into the killers eyes, and grabs his knife, successfully managing to stab him in the shoulder, and kicks him out of the shed, into the rain.

Callmequell, with her small frame easily manages to slip through the loose crack in the wall of the shed, and reaches back for CCK. CCK crouches down to get out, but her rather large bust keeps her from easily slipping through. She tries mashing her boobs down in a bunch of different ways, but it's too late. The Killer grabs her leg, and begins to tug her back into the shed. Callmequell starts to cry, and so does CCK, as she's just not strong enough to hold onto her friend, and in the process of being dragged back into the shed, CCK's shirt gets ripped off by getting stuck on some the splinters of wood from the crack in the shed. I thought that part was a little gratutitious, and it made no sense that her character would be wearing no bra, but I guess I can't complain. Anyhow, CCK then gets a giant pickaxe right in the middle of the chest, and she spits up blood, and with her last breath looks at Callmequell, and says "Run!". She then dies, bloody and topless.

Callmequell then runs back into the main house of the farm, and searches frantically for any weapons or items she can use. She finds a can of hairspray and a lighter, but her search is interrupted by The Killer, who bursts in, pickaxe in tow. He chases her into the basement, where she hides for a while. It's a tense scene, and lasts for a while, but ends when the Killer finds her, and she blasts him in the face with the hairspray and lighter, as a makeshift flamethrower. Then she runs out quickly, and makes a break for the nearest road. She gets the road, now screaming, covered in other peoples blood and scared half to death, which of course gets the attention of a nearby driver. He stops initially, but is terrified by the seemingly insane Callmequell. He's about to drive away when a knife hurls through the air, into the drivers temple. The Killer looks mad, as if he missed. Callmequell, then freaks out, and shoves the dead body over in the car, and begins to drive, but in her mania, ends up crashing the car after driving merely 200 or so feet. She ends up grabbing the knife out of the dead drivers head, and runs into the woods. She of course ends up tripping, and the Killer finally confronts her. He pulls off his mask, and finally reveals, that yes, of course, all this time it WAS The Theologians Cafe who was the Killer!

Callmequell asks why, and TTC begins a long dialogue, that ends with the whole endeavor of murdering them all being the plan behind the GREATEST AND MOST EDGIEST XANGA POST EVER! It's when TTC goes in to finally strangle Callmequell to death, that she plunges her hidden knife into his neck. He sputters blood, says something about e-props and the death of xanga, and then finally dies.

Soon the cops arrive, as the driver who crashed had an Onstar connection that dialed them. The last scenes are the police calming Callmequell down, wrapping her in one of those blankets, and taking her statement. She tells them where the body is, but OH NO! THEY CAN'T FIND IT!

The movie ends on that note, and the long list of pointless, mostly inane and one or two insightful credits begins.

4 More 6 Sentence Stories.

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 19:14:49 GMT

The Man walked up to me, and told me to crouch down and hold out my hand. Feeling curious, and also slightly subserviant, I complied. He then dropped his pants, and turned around, and began to shit directly into my open palm. My first reaction was one of immense disgust, but something within me pulled, and decided to not give in to my instant urge to run away disgusted, or to even pull my hand away. It came out in thick ropy strands, impossibly long for any mere normal man, thick with chunks of brown coagulated course bits of corn and peanuts, and a fierce stench that would assault the olfactory senses into oblivion. Whats worse was the sudden compulsion that began to run through my body, and whilst my mind hated the very idea of it, my body acted as if it had it's own will, and stuffed the contents of my palm directly into my mouth. I then of course, woke up, and realized I had simply been sleep shit-eating.

The moment had finally came, and I activated the time machine. Unfortunately I forgot to think laterally, and the moment I arrived back in time my time machine crashed halfway into the old, unprogrammed time machine from 30 minutes ago. I had forgotten that the time machine wouldn't actually move, and because of the 30 minutes of movement that the earth had made, my internal matter consolidation drive couldn't accurately process the dual identical molecular matrix of the previous time machine, resulting it its past self being destroyed before it's actual journey. This led to the terrible paradox of the time machine being destroyed before its first trip by its first trip. Of course, when I tell this to people, they look at me like i'm some goddamn insane person. But fuck them.

The Man sat silently, holding his blowdart very carefully aimed at the tiger in the distance. He watched it's movements very carefully, taking precision to aim right at the most vulnerable part of the tiger, it's neck. With one great breath, he blew into the dartgun, and the needle shot perfectly into the tigers neck. The Man then ran over quickly, and began to furiously, yet lovingly stroke the tiger in his hands, taking special care to its fur, whilst staring deeply into its soft yellow eyes. He held up the tigers head, too doped up to react, but still concious, and began to lovingly and passionately kiss the tiger, feeling the warmth of its tongue in his mouth. He nibbled a bit on its cheeks, and finally feeling sated, then turned away and began to walk home, knowing that his true love would never be accepted by his people.

It was a great day for gardening, and after an particularly exhausting yet careless day, I sat down on a cucumber. It wedged itself firmly in between my buttocks, similar to a hotdog in a bun. I yelped loudly and almost immediately sat back up, because I knew the next part was not going to be easy at all. I reached backwards, and grabbed a hold of the tip of the cucumber, which was poking out near my taint. With one mighty tug, I managed to rip it from the iron clench of my ass, and free myself from what could have been a very embarassing trip to the hospital. I'll never garden naked again.

On Poetry.

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 01:41:28 GMT

In a nutshell, I think poetry is too easy. The rules and conventions of grammar and syntax exist for a reason, and I abide by them and believe that they are fairly important, and tend to weed out most of the shitty writers from the better ones. There is no such boundaries in poetry, and while some might see this as freeing, I see it as chaotic, uncontrolled and absurd. Not to say there isn't good poetry, because of course there are exceptions to every rule, but on the most part, 99% of all poetry is of Vogon quality to me at best, made worse by everyone thinking their poetry is so deep and soul baring.

I've written poetry, mostly to expose how little effort can be put into it, to mock it, and the subsequent response you can get for basically bullshitting on the page for a a few minutes. I've put hours of effort into short stories, and have gotten little feedback, but have put literally seconds into a few poems, and gotten tons. Perhaps this is because of the average readers attention span and lack of taste, or maybe i'm just a brilliant tortured genius poet, but my damn ego isn't that fucking big, and I tend to settle for the more realistic explanation of blaming everyone else for my problems anyway. So, here is a collection of all the poetry i've done in the last 2 years. Enjoy?

If I was A Werewolf.

Whatever Happened To Lorne Lanning?

Aw Hell Naw!

My take on Elliots' "The Hollow Men"

Some Bullshit Poetry.

Haiku.

The Organ Sideshow, and Finding A Dead Hobo!