After Fury Road, part of me really wants more fucking Mad Max. The other part of me? Extremely skeptical that Miller can bottle such strong magic again. How about you?
George Miller’s next movie is ‘Three Thousand Years Of Longing’ which also describes our wait for it
We have been waiting fucking forever for George Miller’s follow-up to Fury Road. It’s been miserable! Merciless! But, the end is in sight. The movie is Three Thousand Years Of Longing, and I’m fucking ready for it.
George Miller, the dude who blew everyone’s tit hairs off with Fury Road last year, is done playing in his sand covered-post-apocalyptic playground.
Oh shit! It’s been a hot minute since we dropped a podcast. Life! It happens. Since the last beleaguered, intoxicated collection of Omega Belligerence I’ve gone on a Bachelor Weekend with the Goons. Captured on the podcast! Seen Fury Road. Noted on the podcast! Gotten married, bought a house. Both on the podcast! But that’s not all. Us Four Usual Dickheads spit about a variety of topics. From True Detective, to the eternal debate in art of Form versus Content. From Bateman’s Mason Jar filled with his scabbed-off genital warts to Riff’s alcoholic slaying of Disney World. It’s all here.
Happy Memorial Day to ya’ll living within the Empire! As a child, most of my worldview was shaped by the World Wrestling Federation. And to be honest, I’m almost positive I’m better for it. And one thing I learned is that those who turn their back on their country are thick-jawed, dastardly pieces of shit. (Like Sgt. Slaughter.) Don’t be a Sgt. Slaughter. Give big ups to those who have served in a moment of fleeting, momentary clarity. And then go about your proper Imperial means of celebration. Charred animal flesh. Excessive drinking. Maybe a jingoistic, statistically inaccurate proclamation about Whatever You Really Like In America.
Every Sunday night we die, and every Friday evening we are born again. Those of us lucky enough to be afforded weekends. Those of us lucky enough to have a job. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes it can be a drag. Being a cog in Immortan Joe’s Extraction Machine. But sometimes it’s right to be like, “fuck, yo. I’m really glad to have a job that keeps the Aqua Cola running and the GasTown diesel powering the lights.” So with that quickly eroding gratitude, let’s open up the Weekend Open Bar.
Welcome friends, to the weekly Commute. It’s early Monday evening as I type this. WWE’s finest thespians babbling incoherently on my Tele-Visor. Mrs. CaffPow preoccupied, whipping up some cupcakes for some sort of party at work. The sky is dark, the heart is light. My semester is over for a couple of weeks.
Yeah so like, this is igniting the phat pipes of the Internet today. Tom Hardy as Mad Max. It isn’t anything special. The picture comes across as one of Hardy just trying to keep the sand out of his balls. So yeah, fantastique or something.