My shaft is seriously chaffing after the vigorous trailer-inspired thrashing I have been giving it today. The final trailer for Star Trek Into Darkness is a glorious batch of pomp-and-circumstance, wrapped around the dulcet tones of Benedict Cumberbatch. I cannot wait for this jam.
Aiiight. I’m tired of attempting to guess the villain in Star Trek Descent Into Darkness. I spent a good amount of time in my alchemy lab, attempting to brew concoctions consisting of Diet Mountain Dew, powdered energy drink, and arm pit sweat that would allow me to slough the flesh and infiltrate the Abrams compound. These mad ales nearly worked, but every time I got close I would run into a wall around the palace generated by Abrams and Lindelof’s Smugness. A thick, impenetrable wall of self-satisfaction and emo kid glasses. Thus, I relented. You and me must sate our curiosity on morsels like this, the first official plot synopsis for the flick.
The thought of traveling through space scares the hell out of me. Not many things do, but that is one of them. To be immersed in the infinite blackness with no compass, putting all your trust in a computer that may or may not be correct is insanity. Why would anyone do it? Well, if I were forced into it, these are the spaceships that would make me feel slightly better about the whole ordeal.
Good news, folks. It appears that so long as J.J. Abrams is churning out Star Trek moving pictures, the universe shall be devoid of Bryan Singer. Sign me up for this being a fantastic thing.
Sorry to interrupt your regularly-scheduled sausage fest, but there’s a new face on the OL team and it’s a damn sight prettier than anyone else’s around here.
The name’s R.C. and it’s nice to meetcha. Before we go any further, there’s one thing you should know right off the bat: I like things. All sorts of things. If things were a man, I’d marry it. And if you were married to things, I’d jeopardize our new friendship by nailing your hot husband. I have been described as many things, including: an immoral raconteur, an astrophile, a zombie aficionado, the bastard lovechild of Ellen Ripley and Badassery, insane, and ridiculously awesome. All of these things are true. I also have a Batman tattoo.
You’re probably thinking to yourself that I can’t possibly be this incredible, but don’t take my word for it. Here are just a few of my testimonials:
“I once lost a Shamon-off to her, and it was awesome.” — Michael Jackson
“She salted the burial grounds of my ancestors so nothing would grow there for a thousand years.” — Rick Santorum
“She’s bitchin’ as shit.” — God
So, let’s kick this off with a big fucking HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Leonard Nimoy, who is, like, 461 years old today. Leonard, I know you’re pretty sick to death of the Star Trek franchise, but nut up and accept the fact that I am going to spend the night Vulcan saluting all over the place in your honor.
There could a new Star Trek TV show coming courtesy of That Guy Who Made Usual Suspects and Those X-Mutant Movies.
I haven’t thought of Benicio Del Toro much lately, but J.J. Abrams has. He wants him to be the villain in the next Trek flick, and that’s fantastic by me.
I hadn’t heard of David Foster until today, and even after glancing at his bio I’m still well familiar with him. Other than he is the guy who thinks he has what it takes to bring Star Trek back to the television screen.
William Shatner v. Chris Pine.
Whattaya think? Is Shatner a shoe-in because he’s the original urbane explorer of space? Or does Chris Pine’s reimagined Kirk, the Solo-meets-Skywalker take on the Trek universe, go places his predecessor simply couldn’t?
Let the games begin.
Yes, hi, hello, how are you? The scent of rot you’re picking up is a prescient notion of your future-rot, a fate guaranteed by your entrance into Flagship Humanity. I apologize on behalf of Whatever Is Up There for our inevitably decline into stuffing for an overpriced casket.
But!, lament not. It’s the Fourth of July weekend! At least, here in the Empire. I don’t know what the rest of the world is going, and as I have been trained by a stringent regiment of indoctrination throughout the US school system – I don’t care! Are you all still watching the footy-ball? I have my money on the team of polar bears from Antarctica. Those cats (bears) can ball. Like woah.
So slough off those momentary premonitions of your inevitable demise, and gather those fucking rosebuds while you may. And by rosebuds, this weekend, I meant some chemical-soaked beef, and your light beer of choice. Let’s all party on the Titanic together.
Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.
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Reading / The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Over the weekend Pepsibones My Better Half and I had the pleasure of attending an engagement party for a good friend of ours. His name is Patrick Cooper and his worth in nerdlore, humor, and quality writing is prolific. It was a backyard event, filled with cold cut platters served up with Star Wars figure centerpieces, alcoholic and caffeinated beverages, and lavished under the umbrella of sunlight. I diggity dug it.
It was a welcome event, replete with celebration of life and warmly portentous of happy days. Mr. Cooper and his wife are a cute couple, and the kids seem destined for happiness. Bravo to happiness, I say. If I had to guess, I would say all the bitterness stemming from the harsh reality that marriages are seldom conceived intelligently and built on ill-purpose in our society has most of us scorning them.
If we were built on the dreams of the nuclear family only to realize the unpleasant nightmare of reality, I think we should dare to imagine the idea that some though very few relationships can actually be happy.
Dare to be happy.
It was a fun event overall, but it was certainly underscored by Team Omega Level’s utter dominance at one of the most important things in life: backyard games. Namely, yard ball.
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