“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/2009/05/12/the-gyno-chronicles-double-p-discharge-and-decadence-part-2/ http://www.rufkm.net/2009/05/12/the-gyno-chronicles-double-p-discharge-and-decadence-part-2/#comments Tue, 12 May 2009 18:31:27 +0000 sonnygirl http://www.rufkm.net/?p=2169

This is part 2 of “The Gyno Chronicles.”  Read Part 1 HERE. 

I was glad to see I had a new lesbian “gyno” who was in love with me. She had the biggest boobs I’ve ever seen in my life. She was a bigger woman in general, but her rack was monstrous. After she felt me up, I got into the standard stirrup position that every woman knows and loves. Just as I braced myself for the party to start, she wrapped each arm around each of my legs, resting one overwhelming breast on one knee, and the other overwhelming breast on the other knee. She then proceeded to explain to me what she would be doing.

Um, I’m 34 years old. I know exactly what she’s doing. This ain’t my first walk in the park, you know what I’m sayin’?

 “Okay, hun,” as, with her right hand she lets her pointer finger make a tight circle with her thumb, “this is your cervix and this,” as she uses the actual scraping tool that’s in her left hand to push inside the hand-cervix, “is what I’m going to do to your cervix with this little device here. And viola! I’ll have some cervical cells and you’ll be on your way.”

 “Okay, thank you. Got it,” I say, very awkwardly, as I’m totally ready to have her heaviness lifted from my body.

 She then gets to business, or at least tries. My knees had glued themselves together.

 “Spread your knees, hun.”

 “Oh, okay.”

 Totally thinking I was spreading them, but apparently wasn’t, “There’s nothing to worry about, hun, it’s only gonna take a second, just spread your knees.”

 “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Jeepers! You're tighter than that Home Alone kid!

 Then I feel her hands start to pry between my knees as she’s cooing to me as if to a child. Finally, they’re spread and my heart is racing a mile a minute. I concentrate on my breathing and prepare to kid myself into thinking I’m relaxed, when, “Oh my God! You’ve got beautiful discharge… I mean, this discharge is just beautiful!”

So much for fake-relaxation.

 Ummmmm… “Thanks?”

 “Wow, truly, good looking discharge in here, hun. I mean, I’ve seen some crazy discharge…” (I then refrained myself from being too obvious with my dry-heave). “Wow…. And your cervix! It’s so pink! What a nice, healthy, pink cervix.”

Right about now, I’m at an absolute loss for words.

 “Man, this sucker’s tight.”

 “Excuse me?!” I say, as I pull my head up and stare down at her in utter disbelief.

 “Your cervix is so tight… This sucker just won’t dilate. Hmm… Maybe if I go at it from a different angle,” standing up and moving a bit to the right as she crouches down on her legs, “This sucker just refuses to dilate for me.”

 I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I tell you that that woman must have said that that sucker wouldn’t dilate at least ten times. I almost lost it, I was dying to get out of there. I could feel one of those totally inappropriate and uncontrollable laughing attacks coming on at any second. And honestly, I don’t know how I feel about my cervix being referred to as a sucker and I certainly don’t want anyone to “go at it” while holding a scraping tool. I would have taken coughing into my vagina any day at this point.

 Finally, “Okay, hun, I think we got it. Man, that sucker just did not want to dilate.”

I love you.

 “Okay, great!” I was totally stoked and bolted upright only to be greeted with the vagina-spreader-opener tool, mere seconds ago inside me, practically directly in my face.

 “Here you go, look at that beautiful discharge.” She turns the opener (that’s covered in discharge) upside down, the discharge stays put, she then touches some with her gloved hand and rubs it between her fingers, “It’s the perfect consistency.”

 She then brings the tool to her nose, “No smell. Beautiful and perfect.”

 She then brings the tool to MY nose.

 ARE YOU F—ING KIDDING ME????

 I was forced to smell my discharge.

And, guess what, it wasn’t completely void of smell. So, as she was taking it away from my face, I said, “Wait. I smell something.” She took it back to her face and takes a deep breath, “No, hun, that’s virtually no smell. Believe me, I’ve smelled some smelly discharge. It’s bad. Like old, old fish. Really bad. And I can assure you, you don’t want that in your face.”

I’ll take her fucking word for it. Ew!

Ew!

I can hardly wait till next year.

I stopped going to my regular gyno because of this miserable little fact.

I had him for several years and liked him well enough. He knew all about

Ironically, if you chose "In The Rear," you probably wouldn't need to visit the Double P.

my sex life and everything about my relationship with my ex (who was not “my ex” at the time, but my real bona fide boyfriend), which is normal for your regular gyno to know. Four years ago I told him I wasn’t happy in my relationship and things were getting bad with us and I was very upset. The following year at my visit, he asked the standard questions, “Are you still only sleeping with [the ex] and are you still using your birth control regularly?”

“Oh, yes, still using birth control. No, not sleeping with [the ex], he broke up with me.”

I said this while my gyno was between my legs, looking deep into my body, and he abruptly looked up at me and said:

“He broke up with THIS?”

I looked at the nurse and she blushed. And then I blushed. And then he blushed.

I honestly didn’t know whether to be completely flattered, because that guy sees lots and lots of vagina, or to be completely horrified.

I ended up choosing both.

I got dressed and never returned, but brag about the comment to this very day.

Now I go to Planned Parenthood. This is no fun, believe me. It’s bad enough having to spread your legs for a nurse that’s comparable to your high school girls’ gym teacher, but when entering the “Double P,” you get to walk through an angry mob of sign-holders, screaming things such as, “Murderer!” and “You’ll pay for your sins” and my personal favorite, “It’s not your unborn child’s fault that you’re a slut!” Do I really need that at 9:00, Saturday morning? No. I’m hung-over, I’m tired, I’m annoyed. And who are these righteous idiots to judge me? And, oh, yeah, I’m not there to get an abortion.

I like to walk up to the first male I see and whisper this in his ear:

“When I’m done with this little… visit, why don’t you leave this shit-show and we’ll go get myself into this mess again?”

And then I wink slyly and lick my lips, as I trace his face lightly with my finger. It’s fucking rad. I’m sure to swish my hips just so, as I saunter off.

My first experience with the Double P was last year. My “gyno” was a woman that looked like a dude and was madly in love with me, as all lesbians are for some unknown reason. Her 1995 feathered haircut and shoulder-padded blazer under her white doctor’s coat, allowed her lesbianism no room to be debated. She was sweet, but had a terrible cold.

I’ve never had anyone work on my vagina, while under the weather. Not a good experience. For one, even though she had gloves on, she kept wiping her runny nose and then touching my body and/or touching tools that were going to be touching, not to mention, in, my body. That’s not something I want to see while already in the most vulnerable position I can physically be in. But then, while she was head-between-legs, tools inside, she started coughing in a frenzy. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have someone cough into your vagina? I didn’t love it. After sex, my ex sometimes blows on and in me and it feels really nice, this wasn’t like that.

So, this year, while walking into the Double P, I thought to myself, “It can’t be any worse than last year.”  I’ve come to learn that one should really never think that.

About anything.

Part 2 of the Gyno Chronicles continues tomorrow!

On Greetings and Salutations

Is there anything quite as maddening as not knowing when or how to say “Hello?” Some retail outlets try to address this concern by instructing their clerks to address everyone as soon as they come up to the counter for check out. Some even offer a discount or cash bonus if the clerk does not greet the customer. This greeting apparently can range from a friendly smile and “Hello! Did you find everything you were looking for today?” to the less cheery grimace and “UNGH.” I’m not sure what “UNGH.” even is. Should it be considered a greeting at all? “Ungh.” says “I’m aware of you. I hate my life. When I complete this transaction I’m going to go in the break room and microwave my head.”

But what happens when there is no greeting? Sometimes you get to the counter, all excited that it is now your turn to buy your merchandise and leave the premises, and the clerk just starts to ring up your purchase sans greeting. Hold up. What now? What exactly is the window for a post-greeting-phase “Hello?” I would say anything over 5 seconds once the transaction has begun is a non-starter. Sometimes the clerk will pull a “How you doing, today?” while they are scanning your purchases which lets you off the hook. You can respond with a “Good, thanks.” and be on your way. Sometimes the clerk finishes scanning your purchases, turns to you and asks for money for your potential acquisitions.

This is a clear violation of the clerk/customer unwritten contract. We expect some sort of greeting if we are going to be asked for money. It’s uncomfortable all around and makes the purchase phase of the shopping transaction unnecessarily tense.
How much easier would it be if we were trained in advance how to behave in this situation? Observe the following TylerDFC patented one act play:

Customer: Hello, clerk.
Clerk: Hello, customer. I hope the day finds you well. Are you prepared to buy your shit?
Customer: I am.
Clerk: Then we shall proceed.

See? Simple, clean, less tense interaction. By putting responsibility for the opening on the customer to begin the transaction everything follows along nicely from that point. How long could this take to teach in school? 10 minutes, 15 for the slow ones?

Even worse, greeting people in the morning. I had a friend that loathed mornings to such a degree he forbids you from speaking to him until at least 9am. On the rare occasions when I needed a ride to work, he would generously offer to pick me up under the condition that we didn’t speak during the 30 minute drive. This is someone I considered one of my best friends that I spoke with on a daily basis. Yet in the morning I was persona non grata. He refused to listen to any talk radio in the morning because he didn’t even want to hear the radio speaking to him. Commercials enraged him. Such was his hate for all things awake around him. I think he believed that if he refused to speak then somehow the spell of sleep would not be broken. Being awake but non-conversant allowed him to exist in a near sleep like state, despite being forced to do all of the things we normally do when awake. It was utterly bizarre his hatred for being awake at least until those first cups of coffee.

The other day I was amusing myself with remembrances of times past. The simple pleasures of a game of hopscotch, a cold iced tea on the veranda, and the unmitigated joy that erupted when the milkman would stop by. He would always linger in his daily rounds to chat, he was friendly that way.

Ah…The milkman. A man that delivered milk to your house… as a job…that he got paid for. What kind of world was it to live in that didn’t include a fully stocked supermarket loaded with every manner of dairy product known to civilized man? My lord, can you imagine? The horror of going without my daily carafe of milk, or pint of sour cream. One shudders to think. Into that void stepped the milkman. A warrior who said “I will not stand by while my fellow man goes without their daily lactase!”

He then brushes his teeth with a bit of twig left over from last night’s meal of crab grass salad and juniper berries. Being a milk man wasn’t a glamorous business the trusty fellow knew, but it was a noble profession. A profession steeped in tradition and strong morals. This good fellow, this good Steve, had strong bones. It would be bad for business to be seen looking sickly and unwell, with bones that snap as easily as a sapling branch in a hurricane. So he maintains his health; drinking a gallon of milk daily, and making sure to smoke at least 2 packs of cool, refreshing Pall Malls a day.

He whistles for Bandit, his trusty collie. The old girl runs up, knowing a treat awaits. She is not disappointed. A morsel of roast, saved from last week’s church dinner is her reward for loyal companionship. Steve pats her on the head, and with a nod he leaves his bungalow at the early hour of 4 in the a.m. The sun has not yet cracked the horizon but already the birds are waking and filling the air with song. Whistling his own happy tune, “Jimmy Crack Corn” is a favorite; he sets off to the milk plant to get the day’s deliveries. It’s a healthy 2 mile walk and he enjoys the quiet. Once arrived he greets his fellow knights of the milk trade and checks his day’s deliveries. Looks like Miss McAlister is making her famous strawberry ice cream! She will need those pints of cream first thing! He makes a note to alter his schedule slightly to get her the confectionary delight early in the day. She’ll have a lot of churning to do, better get a move on. With a hearty “Farewell!” he bids his mates goodbye and begins his daily route.

He gets in his Milk Mobile and begins the day bringing the calcium to the masses. Perhaps he stops a moment to engage in a spirited round of jump rope with little Suzy and poor, polio riddled Johnny. But he doesn’t dally for long. There are deliveries to make and the sun is not yet peaked.

All day long up Sycamore Street and down Maple Lane, over to Elm and even as
far as Main Street he leaves a package of creamy goodness for each of his loyal clients. He asks for nothing in return, except of course the nickel paid for goods and service rendered! He greets everyone he meets with a smile; a good life.

When the day’s work is done he drops off his mighty milk chariot at the factory, and begins the journey home. Bandit is there to greet him, and he scratches the animal’s head vigorously. Then he goes into the woods to gather the ingredients for tonight’s dinner; tree bark and daisy pie! Mmmmmm!

After the hearty meal he reads the Bible by the light of the setting sun. As the day wanes he puts away his Book, and trundles off to bed. Ready to begin the next day anew and refreshed, curious what adventures will be in store for him.

For many years things continue in this way, and Steve is pleased with his vocation. Until, one day he notices that Mr. Johnson isn’t ordering from him anymore. Then Mrs. Gordon and then even Mrs. McAlister. Then one day on his route he spies a new store opening right on main street. He cannot believe his eyes! It is a large building, much bigger than the general store where he buys his smokes and salted meats, and it has a funny name: Piggly Wiggly. Curious, he walks closer but stops dead in his tracks when he spies Mrs. Anderson coming out of the large glass doors. She is pushing a trolley cart, and he can clearly see a carafe of milk in the basket.

His heart filling with unease, he approaches her and asks why she hasn’t been ordering from him. She is sheepish in her reply, afraid to face Steve. Steve! Her loyal deliveryman for years on end. She says that this market, a SUPER market, has all the dairy she could possibly need. “The world has changed, and it’s time for you to change with it, Steve.” she adds cautiously. Then she pushes her trolley around the poor milkman, and leaves him standing there contemplating his demise.

After all these years, after all the work he has done. He cannot believe God would do this to him. He looks to the great building, tears in his eyes, and says “Are you F—ing kidding me?!”

They say that Steve emptied out his cart in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly that day. The story was told for years how he flung great glass jars of sweet cream at the brick building until the new structure was dripping with lively streams of white. How he wailed and tore at his crisp uniform. He caused such a commotion that Sheriff Brandt had to come and take him away until he calmed down. It took a fort night from what I understand.

I hear he got a job at the meat packing plant for 25 cents a day. A good wage for those times. But he always missed the quiet dignity of milk delivery. And he never shopped at the Piggly Wiggly all the way to his dying day of lung cancer at the ripe old age of 27.

Steve’s story is tragic, but it raises a question. What happened to the milk man? Did they simply go extinct like the American Buffalo? Legions of loyal deliverymen, pushed out by the Supermarket conglomerates with their fancy air conditioning and affordable prices? Did they adapt, like Steve, and go to work in other areas of society?

Or are they out there still? Driven from their way of life and forced to live like animals do they live in caves plotting their revenge? A return to the simple life and the simplicity of good dairy delivered at a fair price? Sustaining on the meat of passing squirrels and regaling each other with mad tales of days gone by? The insanity gleaming in their eyes as they spin their sad yarns? I don’t know. Probably not, but I can tell you I’ll be locking my doors extra tight tonight, just to be sure. Maybe you should do the same.

They say there is no use crying over spilled milk. You tell that to Steve.

TylerDFC spends his days wishing he was anywhere other than where he is. When he is not, he can be found ruminating on pop culture at www.Criticult.com.

I love my wife. Ok, Ok…….I can hear the snickering all the way over here in my little corner of cyberspace. I know what you’re thinking. The Dark Lord’s spouse caught him wasting endless amounts of precious time on a blog that Sheriff Cannon and Deputy Boondoggle think is the second coming of Esquire. Well, you would be wrong my friends. I am the master of my domain……….and by “domain” I am referring to our guest bedroom.

Marriage is a series of compromises. Furniture, paint colors, landscaping, bondage rooms…..whoops, did I say that out loud? Anyway, you get my point. Husband and wife need to be in total agreement for this thing to work. If your endeavor is not a cohesive unit, you end up in a leather couch at a therapist’s office.

So I’m sitting along side the wife at our therapist’s office, staring at his wall of diplomas and 9th place ribbons while he finishes jotting down notes from the previous couple that exited the office. We will refer to him as Dr. Mindfuck.

Dr. Mindfuck: “Greetings. I’m sorry we had to see each other under these circumstances, but I’m here to help anyway I can.” Sounds to me like something you would say to a relative you’ve haven’t seen in 10 years while you’re at a funeral.

Me: “Doc, I have to admit that this was my wife’s decision and I truly believe any differences we have can be resolved by not questioning each other’s judgement and trust the choices that each of us make.”

Dr. Mindfuck: “Well Dark Lord, I’m the only therapist in the room, so spare me the self analysis and give me an example of one of the arguements you guys have had recently.” How forceful! I like this guy! I haven’t had a man take charge like that since that one night in the Everglades with Loose Cannon!

Me: “OK. Recently the wife and I spent a fair amount of money to have a team of 5 illegal aliens work their Latin magic on our backyard. I must also add that shortly thereafter we added a Shih Tzu puppy into our lives. Canine urine generally burns grass. Do you see where I’m going with this? My wife finds it trivial that little Wally is playing “connect the dots” in our backyard. Sort of a horticultural experiment I guess you could say. Oddly enough, this issue quickly escalated into a UFC cage match between the misses and I. You know that a marital tiff has hit a new level when the word “separation” is suggested.”

Dr. Mindfuck: “This is going to require months, if not YEARS of therapy. ”

Are You F-ing Kidding me??????????

Why on God’s green earth did we spend a sizable amount of cash to turn our backyard into something that the editors of Fine Living magazine would be proud of if we are going to let our wonderful little canine convert it into a work of modern art? The dog has endless places to pee outside because we live in a new neighborhood and we do not have neighbors on either side. And even if we did, there is an open field across the street.

Sweet Shit in a Bucket!

I’m sure this little bastard will turn out to be a good dog, but there has got to be a solution for this, right????

Well, low and behold, there is:

PISS BISCUITS!!!!! Who would have thought that by simply giving a dog a tablet once a day eliminates yard burn? I must not get out of the house enough, because according to the toothless employee (seriously, the guy had 3 teeth that my wife could see, and he wasn’t exactly
taking care of those) at Petsmart, this type of product has been on the market for at least 10 years. Amazing. Piss biscuits saved a marriage. Now the wifey and I can cancel our future appointments with Dr. M and resume pushing each other down the stairs.