Ah, True Blood. Your second season just wasted a chunk of my Sunday evenings for an entire summer. Now you have a video came coming:

Via Kotaku:

HBO’s filed a trademark registration for its show “True Blood,” in relation to video games.

What Kotaku failed to report was the entire trademark that was filed. The game is going to be titled True Blood: Boring Pontificating In-between Emo Declarations…Rise of Alan’s Balls. I’d like to strike every person who buys this game in the crotch with enough force to render them in half.

Like any nerd with a sense of purpose, I’m awaiting the finale season of LOST with an unhealthy rabidity. I’ll be clear, I absolutely loved season 5. And season 4. And most of season 3. And I’ve been amazed at how well Lindelof et all have been tying together the various strands from all the seasons past. Especially since you couldn’t convince me at knife point to agree that they had it all planned since the beginning. That said, this doesn’t surprise me whatsoever:

Via /Film

While speaking at a Seattle music and arts festival, Lost exec-producers Carlton Cuse, Eddy Kitsis, and Adam Horowitz dropped several morsels of goodness for fans. First off, they reiterated that we shouldn’t expect every single mystery to be solved come the series finale at the end of season six.

And I’m fine with that. It all depends on how they let you draw your own conclusions, and what they do tell. I really want to know what the fuck the Island is. Who doesn’t? But they don’t need to heavy-handily explain why there were polar bears running around and crap. We can draw our own conclusions on stuff like that. So I guess I’m torn. I want to know what Smokey/Facob/the Island is, but I’m also content with being able to string together other plotlines myself.

Where do you guys stand?

I’m suffering severe BSG withdrawal. No, seriously. I’m watching the series again not only with my heterosexual lifemate, but also my girlfriend. Thankfully, I got something new to look forward to. Battlestar Galactica: The Plan, the movie directed by Billy Adama himself has received a DVD street date. On October 27, 2009 you’ll be able to receive this next hit of BSG crack, on Blu Ray and DVD.

This movie seems pretty ballin’, since it depicts the initial total obliteration of human kind through the eyes of the Cylons. Sweet. Honestly though, it could just be Colonel Tigh taking a crap while Adama couches him through his conspitation and I’d be excited.

Also, it’s weird, since the movie hasn’t been dated for its showing on Sci-Fi (do you really think I’m going to call it SyFy?), and yet it’s received a DVD release date. Whatever, I ain’t hating. I need this shit. You need this shit! So say we frakin’ all!

[Thanks to Oh Mars for the heads-up on this]

Here’s a shitty trailer to the sequel to that shitty movie, Boondock Saints. I don’t understand the rampant cumming over Boondock Saints. I remember it being an absolute explosion here in WICKED AWESOME Boston, and it really confused me. It was a shitty Tarantino rip-off with like OMFG blood and violence. YAWN.

Boondock Saints is part of a question which has stumped me for years though, and feel free to weigh in:

What’s the most overrated piece of cinematic garbage of the last ten years, Boondock Saints or Donnie Darko?

I’ve been stumped forever.

I woke up a tweet today that literally had me barfing all over my own crotch. Yes grammar Nazis, literally. Amidst the screams of “Why, God, why have you forsaken me?” and the shrills of my cat, understandably upset at his master, barfing and barfing all over his own bare balls, I read this:

Love it or hate it, there’s no denying that people are watching Warehouse 13. The Syfy series set an all-time ratings high for the network again last week, with 4.4 million people tuning in to see evil Myka.

Who would have thought a simple tweet from Mr. Mars would have sent me on an incredible ball-soaking vomit bonanza.

Sweet Jesus lord, end my fucking life now. You man that Warehouse 13, the generic, Shaws Cola edition of Fringe Files Torchwood-atron beat out every episode of Battlestar Galactica? Ever? Whoops, there I go again. Barfing on my god damn balls.

You’re all welcome for the picture. I thought Evan Rachel Wood coming onto True Blood (pictured above) would be awesome. Why? As seen above, she’s absolutely gorgeous. I guess most of the time. She debuted on Sunday, puffy-faced and pimply, spitting awful dialogue from Mr. Alan Ball.

My good friend Mr. Patrick Mars writes a hilarious True Blood Re-Up every week over at Mishka Bloglin. Poor dude was watching True Blood tonight and texting me as he endured it, and he hit me with a sentence that hollered genius. In one blast of hilarity, he captures how I feel about the entire episode:

I wonder if this is how they explain shit in the books. Its like Muppet Babies.

Awesome.

[ spoilers from 8/30, you’ve been warned. ]

I know that Alan Ball is all whacky and amazing and he’s responsible for Six Feet Under and American Beauty and True Blood. But with that in mind, I’d like to kindly ask him to never write True Blood again. Ball’s sporadic appearances on True Blood raise important issues I have with television shows and comic books. They both routinely feature different writers interpreting the same characters. But let’s stick to one issue here. True Blood.

Here’s the first problem with Alan Ball on True Blood. He doesn’t write it every episode, but he acts like he does. The various writers that contribute to True Blood work to create a cohesive universe. They pay respect to the other writers’ work on developing characters, and script their episodes accordingly. And then Alan Ball comes in and he’s all:

OH HAI GUYZ, I CREATES THIS SHOW, I DO WHAT THE FUKK I WANT.

In his episodes, Ball throws the characters’ behaviors and development out the window for his view of how they act. For example, his Jason Stackhouse is a bumbling redneck retard. To the zillionth degree. His Lafayette is uber hood.

Stackhouse is appealing because he’s the idiot kid who may have some cerebral activity, but it’s consistently stifled before it can brim over the top. He’s always the lovable retard, but Ball plays that up to the point of nausea. Jason’s arc and redemption in the L.O.D.I episodes proved him to be a nuanced dumb ass, not some slapstick retard. I love his stupidity as much as anyone, but I love that underneath it all, he’s redeemable. How stoked were you when he capped Steve Newlin in his dumb Bible-Thumping-Face?

And then there’s Lafayette. Lafayette’s arc on the show was really friggin’ interesting at the begin of the season. Tortured and left for dead in a dungeon, Lafayette’s character had been turned inside out. He had seen the darkness, and we got to see a guy wounded emotionally and physically from that sort of serious shit.

Then Ball steps in.

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Patton Oswalt is going to be on Caprica. We already know this. When I found out, I almost went comatose. Oswalt, much to his chargin I’m sure, is a hero amongst us pudgy nerds. He references X-Men in his act, he is the voice behind a Pixar film, and oh yeah – he has your dream gig, acting in a motherfuckin’ BSG spin-off. The dude is a god. A brilliant, incisive God who was probably one of the few highlights of Dollhouse this season.

I stumbled across this quote via /Film, who nabbed it from A/V Club:

I’m just going to be a sort of Jon Stewart-esque presence that’s always going to be on television in the background. I think that’s going to be the role I have, though there’s a big confrontation I have with Eric Stoltz and Paula Malcomson.

A recurring role as Caprica’s equivalent of Jon Stewart? Sign me up. I was cautious about Caprica, and how it was going to impact the re-imagined BSG mythos. But the pilot talked me off the edge – a mixture of good ole Phillip K. Dick, and Snow Crash and various obvious references. Sure, maybe the Cylons are going to end up the weepy product of a guy losing his daughter (fucking ugh), but for once I’m going to try and not hate. It’s got Moore’s blessing. And now, more importantly, it’s got fucking Patton Oswalt.

OMFG! Summer Glau, also known as the creepy fanboy wetdream River from Firely is joining the cast of Dollhouse.

According to the Hollywood Reporter:

“(Glau) will have a recurring role as Bennett, a Dollhouse employee who shares a secret past with Eliza Dushku’s Echo.”

Secret past? Can you say lesbian sex scenes interspersed with mind-numbing and heavy-handed exploration of identity? YES. Or probably not.
It’s ironic, right? Firefly gets canceled after one season, despite being excellent. Dollhouse, the biggest piece of shit I’ve watched on television in years gets renewed. Well done, Whedon zealots. You’ve saved this pile of high school philosophy and drama club dialogue. And your reward? Summer Glau! If anything, Whedon et company are doing a great fan service to the perennial virgins out there – getting them geeked out with appearances by first Felecia Day, and now Summer Glau. Get ready to fap, boys.

Do you remember where you were, the first time you saw Anna Paquin’s tits in True Blood? Yeah, me too. I was right next to my girlfriend, trying to not let my boner show. However, as the second season has gone on, we’ve seen her boobs roughly six-zillion times. Awesome, right?

Wrong.

In a truly shocking moment, I am tired of her boobs. There was a point when I absolutely adored them, all done up tight in her little Merlotte’s uniform. Or on Bill’s bed. But now I’m tired of them. Sorry Alan Ball and company, I’m jaded.

Maybe it’s because every time Sookie is naked, and showing them goodies, she’s usually crying and lamenting with Bill in some bedroom somewhere. No, seriously. All they do is fuck, and have these awful Dawson’s Creek conversations.

Sookie! I CANNOT ALLOW you to go there and blahdy bloop and let me munch your neck hey you have tits…

BILL! Don’t give into your vampire side you’re a human too sugary sophmoric bullshit et cetera…

I never thought I’d say this, but please creators behind True Blood. Enough with Sookie’s rack. And enough with the dreadful bedroom conversations. I beg you. These two characters read like fanfiction some fat chick wrote after eating a pint of ice cream and fingering herself to Bill’s fangs.