“You know sharks, they are always biting things.” – Ben

Every now and then a movie comes along that is so bad, it becomes good. This happens pretty rarely. Usually when someone says a movie is “bad”, they really mean “average’. Unfortunately, a true cinematic travesty is as hard to find as a good Adam Sandler comedy. In recent years we have had Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000. I bet many of you had no idea that was the actual title did you?

Battlefield Earth is so bad it’s GREAT. I have no idea how any cast member’s career survived it, but I am pleased that John Travolta is planning on doing a sequel. If you have yet to see the flick, I urge you to do so as soon as possible. To review it would be to spoil the surprises that await you.

This brings me to Shark Attack 3: Megalodon. Luckily, prior knowledge of the Shark Attack series is not needed to enjoy the subtle plot machinations of Megalodon. What you need to know is this: Megalodon is directly responsible for the creation of Cinema Craptastique in the first place. Whether that’s a good thing or bad thing I’ll leave that to you to decide.

Our movie begins with a diver working at 15,000ft below sea level near Challenger Deep in the Pacific Ocean. He is working on a pipe with a blow torch and gets gobbled up by an unseen menace. Before he was et up, the diver complained about being cold. I would think so, since he was wearing a typical skin diving suit and would have been in freezing water. Of course he shouldn’t have to worry about the cold because he would have imploded from the pressure many feet higher. Moving on.

Six months pass, and we are introduced to Beach Patrol guy Ben Parker (John Barrowman) in Playa Del Rey, Mexico. Ben is a manly-man that looks like the love child of Mark Harmon and Scott Wolf channeling the spirit of Tom Cruise. Points in Ben’s favor though because I didn’t hate him and wish death upon him from the moment he shows up.

Ben goes diving near a submerged fiber optic cable for lobster and finds a tooth in the cable. He sends it to a museum for analysis and is soon greeted by Cat Stone (Jenny McShane) and her wild theories of 60 foot prehistoric sharks. Before we go any further, I need to get this off my chest. Ms. McShane is ok looking but what drove me nuts was that Cat would look good in one scene, then not in another. It reminded me of that episode of “Seinfeld” when Jerry is dating the girl that looks like shit in certain lighting but pretty in another. It struck me as creepy/funny.

Anyway…

Some people get chomped, evil mayor won’t close the beaches (Jaws playbook 101.), and soon it is up to Cat and Ben to kill the beastie themselves. Then the twist comes in.

If you have not seen the movie…oh, who am I kidding? None of you have seen this piece of shit. Make no mistake, it is a TERRIBLE movie. But it is so bad it’s almost a work of art. Straight to video flicks are usually incompetent and poorly acted, this is like a “What not to do” example from the straight to video text book. This time, the sharks don’t roar so much as grunt as they swim. The shark head is decent and there is some funny severed limb action going on. The intermingling of stock footage and rubber props is worse than usual, the secondary acting is absolutely terrible, and worse, some of the leads can’t keep a straight face.

For example: In one scene Cat and Ben are racing to help a para-sailer that has gotten her ass hijacked by the Meg. The shark is pulling her out to sea but Ben wants to stop to help the boyfriend of the hapless para-sailer who is still in a fully intact boat. After that little side trip they have to go chase the para-sailer as she is getting dragged down as the shark swims deeper. Cat is yelling and then starts laughing and then yells again. I don’t need to point out when this occurs because it is so obvious in any other film this would qualify as a blooper. Once they try to rescue the para-sailer, Cat has a good 30 seconds to get the poor girl into her boat but keeps letting go of her hand. So poor girl gets chomped, but not before giving Cat her crucifix necklace. I guess for safe keeping or something.

The acting problems do not end there. The actor playing the evil company guy (of COURSE there’s an evil company guy) has no idea how to be evil. He seems to think excessive swearing is the same as anger and is unhappy from beginning to end. During a beach attack the lifeguard has to yell “Shark!” about 10 times before the 8 people in the water respond at all. Apparently they didn’t bother telling the actors when they would be, you know, FILMING. And it goes on and on.

The script is loaded with lines that are terribly written, but become an assault on the English language when said aloud. For instance, as Cat, Ben, and Ben’s ex-Navy friend Chuck Rampart (Ryan Cutrona) are separating for the evening the following immortal line of dialogue takes place between Ben and Cat:

“I’m tired, but I’m really wired. Why don’t I drive you to your house and eat your pussy?”

After a line of sparkling dialogue like that is there really anything else to say? Shark Attack 3 is a gem, and I’m somewhat embarrassed to say I own the damn thing. The sad thing is that despite the continuity errors, bad acting, terrible dialogue, and horrible special effects, you end up liking the flick. The characters are not entirely irritating, the plot is quick moving, and the last 20 minutes are freaking hysterical.

There is plenty more to say, but I’ve either whetted your appetite or turned you off completely. If you dig ripping on B movies, you’re gonna love this. If not, what the hell are you reading this for anyway?

*not counting Jaws, Jaws 2, Deep Blue Sea or Open Water

]]> http://www.rufkm.net/2009/05/26/shark-attack-3-megalodon-aka-best-shark-movie-ever/feed/ 3 http://www.rufkm.net/2009/04/12/child-receives-photon-instead-of-lazer-tag-in-1986-still-feels-socially-isolated/ http://www.rufkm.net/2009/04/12/child-receives-photon-instead-of-lazer-tag-in-1986-still-feels-socially-isolated/#comments Sun, 12 Apr 2009 21:56:47 +0000 Acorn King http://www.rufkm.net/?p=1504 RUFKM would like to proudly introduce our newest contributer, the Acorn King.  Although he once wrote for Carrot Top, we have allowed him to join our club.  He is now listed under the author tab above and has a section called Acorn King’s Chaos.   Here is a tale about a Christmas gift that has left him emotionally scarred for over two decades.  To read more of his brilliance, go to his own site HERE.

Life in the 1980′s was nothing short of radical.

Video games invaded our homes, MTV walked on the moon, and Spiderman was yet to be played by that douche Toby McGuire. Speaking of, the frightened kid you see in the photo is me. I drastically misjudged the sheer creepiness of sitting on the lap of a giant spandex spider.

During the 80′s my home was made up of me, my three older sisters, my mom, and my dad who was in the Navy and often out to sea. At a very early age I had to learn how to live in a house with all girls. Four women and one bathroom, you do the math. It goes without saying that Sports Illustrated was nowhere to be found on my coffee table, while magazines like Glamour and Cosmo covered every surface. I may not have known how to hit a hanging curve, but dammit could I accentuate a cheekbone.

My youngest sister would often give me hand-me-downs (which were luckily gender neutral). Oh, I forgot to mention that my youngest sister is actually nine years older than me, making her hand-me-downs a decade out of date. Gee thanks for that pet rock sis, I’ll have fun playing with it while listening to your discarded collection of David Cassidy 8-tracks!

What my mom and sisters didn’t understand was that I was a boy and I didn’t want to play with those boring Lincoln logs and stupid board games, I wanted to play war! So when Lazer Tag and Photon came out I was wicked excited. I imagined my neighbors and I getting together to wage huge post-apocalyptic laser battles.

The month before Christmas my neighbors and I gathered for an important meeting to discuss which of the two laser toys we should go with. Lazer Tag was the most popular, but Photon looked to have better features. Photon came with this cool helmet, chest plate and phaser that lit-up when shot – plus we could even divide between red and green teams. The vote was in and we collectively decided to ask our parents for Photon that Christmas.

So when Christmas came, I quickly tore into my presents, unearthing a glorious “red team” Photon set. This was my “Red Rider” BB gun. I immediately wondered which color my neighbors got, who was going to enter battle with me and my red team?

I hoped my neighbor April didn’t get the red kit. She was an especially whiny girl, who suffered from fallen arches and crippling allergies – weaknesses that would never fly with my elite force of futuristic assassins.

So after I went through the motions of opening the boxes of clothing and lesser toys, I strapped on my Photon helmet and chest guard on and went into the bathroom to gaze at myself in all my ass-kicking awesomeness. After I finished soaking it in, I rushed out to our neighborhood randevouz, the cul-de-sac at the end of our street.

The freaky flat footed April was already there waiting at the end of the street, it was just like her to be early, didn’t she know nobody liked her? As I got closer I could now see that she wasn’t even holding a Photon gun, her parents got her Lazer Tag, what an idiot! I was quite relieved that I didn’t have to worry anymore about her fighting on my squad.

I awkwardly waited out in the cold with April for a few minutes before I saw the Toriello clan emerge from their driveway, they were joined by the Graham boys, who were in-turn followed by the Brewer twins. I really hoped the Toriello kids got red, not only were they a few years older and faster, but they also had amassed a stockpile of smoke bombs, throwing stars, blow guns, canteens, and a go-kart – plus a bunch of other supremely cool stuff that had nothing to do with laser fighting, but was still rad. The Toriello’s also had an awesome tree fort which could serve as our home base.

As soon as everyone got to about 3 mailboxes away my anticipation quickly faded to horror. I could now see that the Toriello and Graham kids were carrying Lazer Tag guns too!

Are You F—ing Kidding Me?

I was hopeful for a second when I didn’t see the Brewer Twins holding Lazer Tag pistols, but that faded as soon as they informed me their parents didn’t get them either. They instead got Freezy Freakies gloves, a Furby and a box of Garbage Pail Kid cards. Lame.

It turns out the Toriello and Graham parents went shopping together and were persuaded by the sales people to buy Lazer Tag, because it was the popular choice. As for April, well this is the girl that was still eating Gerber baby food up through high school – true story.

Having totally been decimated by the widespread parental betrayal in my neighborhood, I did the only thing a now friendless kid with Photon could do. I shut myself in the bathroom, flipped off all the lights and watched my Photon helmet light-up as I repeatedly shot myself in the mirror.

The following Christmas I learned my lesson and opted to trade my Photon helmet in for a BMX helmet and bike. At least this was one sport that didn’t require coordination with the rest of the neighborhood.

Here is everything you need to know about the world in the last 7 days from our Twitter contributor Ceon Foosheys. 

Passing air biscuits is now fully socially acceptable thanks to minor league baseball promotional giveaway. http://tinyurl.com/d3m8eqabout 14 hours ago from web

One of those singular life-changing moments in your life in which you are forced to question your own mental sanity and ask yourself “Am I F—ing kidding me?”

You see, I had developed a demented notion supported by some twisted mathematical equation and unconscious drive to embark on a new level of tomfoolery in which I should be able to bench press 300 pounds.

Why?

I’m not a UFC cage fighter, NFL linebacker or rarely in the vicinity where by happenchance a piano will fall on my chest and I will be forced to bench press it off or involved in any other similar circumstance that this sort of activity could conceivably be useful in anyway. That being said, all of this did not stop me from embarking on such a foolish endeavor.

And then it hit me.

I’m doing this because I’m a man.

I frantically searched my mental journal of other superfluous time-consuming hi-jinks that I had been engaged in recently and came up with the following:

1. Trying to hit a golf ball 340 yards.
2. Searching for missing songs to add to my 4,532 iTunes library.
3. Training to run a 5K in under 22 minutes.
4. Timing my drive to work to achieve all 19 green lights.
5. Eating three Big-Macs for dinner.

And those were just last Friday.

These are things that only a man would do as my DNA had been pre-programmed for tomfoolery and a biological release of endorphins for engaging in these activities is my reward. Rational thought and self-determination are no match for the idiocy etched within my biological makeup of simply being a man.

For the female Boondogglites, ask yourself would a woman engage in these types of frivolities as described above? Would any rational woman engage in such nonsensical activities with no pay-off?

No. These are only things that a man would attempt. Things only a man would set as goals. Solitary achievements worthy only to a man misbegotten to history and commonsense.

I am a walking party.

This got me thinking about drugs. I tend to be a fairly healthy guy and usually only get sick a couple times a year. But it seems that when I do get sick it is some sort of demonic Terminator virus that refuses to go away until it has shaken down my immune system for lunch money. I find myself having thoughts like “I’d like some hot tea.” and I know I’m in for a bitch of a week. After I leave work I will have to go to the nearest emporium to buy several medications to assist me. Namely throat

lozenges, Nyquil, Dayquil, and possibly bullets.

Does anyone still buy this shit about not being able to find a cure for the freaking Cold? Scientists are pretty sure they can clone Wooly Mammoths but they can’t figure out why I get the sniffles and want to hybernate for 4 days every fucking year?

Are you F—ing kidding me?

I promise you there is a cure for the common Cold, AIDS, Alzheimers, Gay, and it is sitting in the same underground vault as the evidence in the JFK assassination (Jackie did it.), the aliens from Roswell, the egg Tom Cruise hatched from and it is all guarded by Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster.

The great Chris Rock said it better than I can. They don’t want to CURE you. But they sure love to MAINTAIN you. Why don’t you ever hear about celebrities or executive muckety mucks home ill with the flu? Because they HAVE the cure. They just don’t want to share it with the rest of us normal folks. Celebrities go to the hospital for 3 things: heart attacks, cancer, and “exhaustion”. Who the fuck besides Lindsey Lohan and her ilk is hospitalized for “exhaustion”? I swear that is just a cover story the attending ER docs make up at the time.

Doc 1: I’ve got a problem, Corbin, I need some help with this diagnosis. This patient has been partying on George Clooney’s yacht for 3 weeks straight and has ingested more blow then Tony Montana at a Cocaine Festival. We pumped her stomach and besides 2 gallons of Cabo Wabo tequila, 6 ounces of man juice and this used condom the only food we found was half a peanut.

Doc 2: Well, sounds to me that she is a raving whore bag.

Doc 1: That’s what I thought too but then I noticed she was famous!

Doc 2: Hmmm…that changes EVERYTHING. Can’t have the press finding out about this hose hound’s insatiable need for strange cock and snorting her weight in nose candy. We’ll call it “exhaustion”.

Doc 1: Rufus, you genius! You’ve done it again!

When normal people are exhausted we take naps. When the famous are exhausted they are admitted to the hospital and given saline IVs and B12 injections until they can pull themselves together long enough to endure their horribly taxing lifestyle of being pampered and agreed with 24/7.

No, we just get “colds” and “flu”. And there is no cure. Right. Luckily there is no end to the over-the-counter medication that will relieve your symptoms for a few hours at a time for $5 a pop. Which makes me wonder why they can’t extra-extra-EXTRA strength that shit and make the damn thing go away entirely.

And like a celebutard who is famous for being famous I am back where I started.

Have you ever met a real life Michael Scott from the Office?  Well I have.  He’s a manager in my region, speaks only in cliche, and chest bumped  me yesterday.  Here’s his paraphrased conversation.

I told Teddy that we needed to talk about the 800 pound gorilla in the room. He told me he was tired because he was burning the midnight oil. I told him to not go over my head, don’t burn the candle at both ends, and be a good soldier because we all know it’s a dog eat dog world out there!

Listen, he who lives by the sword dies by the sword. His project wasn’t done because he went out late last night with our new intern, Maggie.

Are you Fucking kidding me?

I told him not to shit in his own backyard, put his nose to the grindstone, and knock this project out the park.

It was a sad state of affairs. I told Teddy we were not on the same page, needed some synergy and he needed to see the big picture. Soon we were back in line, firing on all cylinders, going gangbusters, and laughing all the way to the bank.

Hey, there’s no “I” in team.

I’m glad I got that off my chest.

Responsibilities that include answering the emails, letters and other assorted requests of my ever-growing fanbase of Boondogglites.

To stay ahead of the curve and to determine what next burden my celebrity status will bring me, I’ve been doing some serious research on what crazed fans expect from celebrities like me.

What I found will amaze and perhaps, sadden you:

Crazed celebrity stalkers want autographs.

No, these nutbags want autographs.

I just don’t understand this desire to have an autograph from your favorite celebrity. I’ve never felt compelled to approach a complete stranger and ask them to sign their name on a dirty napkin before.

What would one do with such a prize? Frame it and mount it on the wall for all your friends to see? Build a small shrine in your basement and go pray for wisdom from the autograph each day? Perhaps have it tattooed onto your chest for all eternity?

For my money, there would only be three autographs I would ever even consider asking for:

1. Matt Damon – Simply so after he scrawls his name with a crayon on an 8 X 10” glossy I can say “Sorry, I thought you were Ben Affleck” and walk away.

2. A Chimpanzee – Who wouldn’t want the first signature of a chimpanzee that learned how to write?

3. Satan – Self-explanatory.

So as I continued my research, I learned that this could also be a moneymaking venture as some “celebrities” now make a living 

Are you F—ing kidding me?

I’m at least as important as the lady that played a Vulcan on “Star Trek – The Next Generation”, a chick that jumped out of a cake in Under Siege 2” and Darian Caine from the not quite Oscar nominated Curse of the Wolf.

ME: “Yes, this is Captain Boondoggle, I’d like to speak to you about your convention on October 25th.”

Scott: “In what regards?”

ME: “I’d like to sell my autograph and perhaps some of my hair and fingernail clippings at the show.”

Scott: “We don’t allow for anything to be sold other than autographs and signed memorabilia at our shows and you have to be a celebrity.”

ME: “Did I stutter?”

Scott: “What?”

ME: “I said, did I stutter?”

Scott: “No.”

Scott: “OK, then, it is a $350 pre-registration fee, but you will need to show proof of your membership in the Screen Actor’s Guild.”

ME: “No problem, is it within my rights if I wear my pink leotard and famous penguin hat?”

Scott: “As long as there is no nudity, you can wear whatever you want.”

ME: “Great, I’ll see you on the 25th.”

There you have it, I will be in the great state of New Jersey on the 25th of this month signing autographs for $3.50, pretending that I am a robot and making a general mockery of the whole shebang.

Is there anything more satisfying, deeply disturbing or entirely hilarious as today’s cable news?

To get the very best of this lunacy, I only go to the one and only, fair and balanced, undisputed champion of all things absurd, Fox News Channel.

As luck would have it, I found myself watching the O’Reilly Factor the other night with the special promise that rumored madman and funny talker Massachusetts Congressmen Barney Frank would be a guest with the intention of explaining to the masses the subprime mortgage mess that will undoubtedly doom the nation to becoming toy assemblers for the Chinese.

In the interests of full-disclosure, I must admit I am not a big fan of cable news or political tomfoolery whatsoever. At RUFKM.NET, TylerDFC and his life-partner are our official political correspondents, but I am forced to provide commentary as many have found my stories about monkeys lacking the intellectual gravitas that you, the readers, expect.

However, if you want to better understand my true feelings on cable news, please read the first several chapters of Al Gore’s “The Assault on Reason” or if you would prefer the original analysis please read Neil Postman’s aged but still brilliant “Amusing Ourselves To Death” in which the alleged inventor of the Internet and rainbows unashamedly plagiarized.

Now back to the regularly scheduled programming.

So, O’Reilly’s mad about something and O’Barney’s not sure of where the hell he is since he is hopped up on ecstasy and blow pops, but somehow these two mental giants have come together to debate the current financial crisis. In debate, I mean that O’Reilly screams and points and Barney attempts to blame everyone, including the Easter Bunny, except himself as the architects of this current financial Armageddon.

You can watch the video, or if you are hearing or O’Reilly impaired or simply don’t want to waste four minutes of your life you can simply read my faithful transcript:

O’Reilly: “Barney, you are a coward and this is all your fault”

Barney: “It’s Bush’s fault!”

O’Reilly: “I like Cox!”

Barney: “I don’t want to talk about Cox, Bush is the problem.”

O’Reilly: “You have never liked Bush.”

Barney: “You’re boorish.”

O’Reilly: “You like Fannie Mae’s, you said it was good.”

Barney: “I never said I like Fannie’s, listen to the tape, I said Fannies are good fundamentally going forward.”

O’Reilly: “Good night, congressman.”

Are you f—ing kidding me?

Did you learn anything from this enlightening exchange?

Neither did I, but since I am the great all-knowing Boondoggle, I will let you know what events actually transpired to force you to run to the bank on Monday and pull all your money out to put under the mattress for safe-keeping.

What really got us in this mess in the first place was the government and their damned “good intentions.” You see, the government in their particularly infinite form of wisdom back in 1994 decided that it would be a good idea if “everyone” owned a house. Everyone in government lexicon means everyone including those that can’t afford to buy a house and dead people.

No credit, no problem.

In an effort to increase home-ownership among people that can not afford houses, the government then decided to induce (read: demand) Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac to extend credit (that’s loans for you out there in Mountain View) for homes to people that would have not otherwise been considered credit worthy to receive such credit.

Sounds like a fine idea so far. Right?

Predictably, people with no discernable income, bank accounts or pirate chest’s full of gold begin to receive loans equivalent to the GDP of Belize to purchase just a little piece of the American dream.

But how could they pay for such loans?

They couldn’t, so the powers-that-be (i.e. people that wanted to make money off of this nonsense) invented interest-only loans, zero-down payments, 60-year mortgages, and Monopoly money being accepted as legal tender.

Then what happened, you ask?

Well with all the free money now available, prices for houses skyrocketed as everyone could now afford a house. Then there wasn’t enough houses for sale. Then they built some, and then built some more, and finally they built some more.

Good times.

Not suprisingly it all finally came tumbling down and much like a game of musical chairs the institutions holding the loans were left with less money then they started as the people holding the mortgages could not pay them and the houses that were assigned to these loans were not worth as much as when they were originally purchased.

But why does this impact me?

Because, now there is no money left to lend to anyone.

And that’s how we got to where we are today, just don’t expect to get this sort of insight from Barney Frank or Bill O’Reilly.