James Gunn and his Suicide Squad are eyeballing Benicio del Toro for its villain. The news? Dope. The trepidation? That the actor will be squandered yet again in a big budget movie, ala Guardians of the Galaxy and The Last Jedi.
Michael Rooker and James Gunn have been rocking together for a good, good amount of time. Most recently, dude played Yondu in Gunn’s Guardians movies And now? Motherfucker will joining another ragtag gang of degenerates for Gunn.
James Gunn is fixing to be directing Suicide Squad 2. This makes a lot of sense, given that it is the DCEU’s equivalent of Guardians. Me? I’m fucking stoked for the news. As well, I’m pretty goddamn stoked for the DCEU right now. Between Wonder Woman 1984, Shazam, The Batman, Joker, Birds of Prey, and Suicide Squad they’ve got a seriously interesting line-up.
You, you can’t make this shit up. How do you follow-up a rotting, bleeding, bleating diarrhea monstro-dump? How can you possibly come close to matching how putrid it was? You enlist the services of the man who vomited up the Legend of Tarzan script.
Mel Gibson is in talks to direct Suicide Squad 2. Who better than a genuine mean-spirited piece of shit to direct a motley crew of mean-spirited pieces of shit? Christ, Warner Bros. Your stupidity in handling the DCU is perpetually invigorating in a sort of, visceral, repugnant sense.
I fucking hated Suicide Squad. I fucking hated its portrayal of Harley Quinn. That said, I am unrepentant in my fanboy love for the visual aesthetic Robbie cut as Quinn, and thus I’m excited about a movie starring the character. That’s ideally better than Suicide Squad. Much, much better.
Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay! I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here! Would you believe, would you somehow believe, that I didn’t get around to this column until today, Tuesday, because my wife and I had to go out to eat with a financial advisor last night? What life am I living? Who am I? Am I child-man in semen-crusted Star Wars shirts that dreams of being a man-child, or a man-child in dress pants who dreams of being a child-man in semen-crusted Star Wars shirts? The answer, of course, is that I am both. And the cognitive dissonance that arises from containing both entities in the Multitudes that Compromises Me (and Us all) sometimes gives me a nosebleed. Well, I’m getting the nosebleed from that, or the hundreds upon hundreds of milligrams of caffeine I ingest every day. One of those. Maybe both of those.
But I’m here now. But it’s Monday Morning Commute now. So here’s the deal now, Comrades. I’m about to fire off everything I’m enjoying this week, anticipating this week, looking forward to this week. Then you’re going to do me a solid!, a fucking solid!, and share your own list in the comments section.
Let’s be man-children posing as children-men posing as man-children together.
Well, you had one fucking job, Suicide Squad. One fucking job. A small job, a large job, I’m no sure. But a job none the less. Save my summer blockbuster experience. But reviews are coming in, and if they aren’t calling the film a raging dumpster fire (which, by the way, they are), they’re definitely condemning it as more raw-ass DCU detritus. Detritus for the fanboys to gorge themselves on, chins coated in calamitous slop, decrying the critics and their harsh reviewers. Detritus for the critics to sharpen their polemical swords upon, their polemical broadsides upon, swinging said weaponry at low-hanging fecaltainment.
Monday Morning Commute! On a Monday Evening! Truthfully, this tardiness is, relativistically speaking, pretty good compared to my usual antics. In fact, this column would have slithered out of my mind-hole earlier had the words come to me. Sometimes the Muses toss lightning bolts up your ass, and you feel Empowered. Emboldened. Surfing The Edge. Sometimes the Muses retreat to a 7-Eleven bathroom to trib with faeries and knaves and satyrs. Coating themselves in the slickening sugary confections we pass off as food, writhing in wrappers and detritus, orgasming in supplication to the Eternal Engine which neither Cares nor Notices us.
Today? For me? The Muses are fucking around with the fucking faeries in the fucking bathroom. But still, I persist. But still, I exist. Put that on a Hallmark card and staple it onto my forehead, I know it’s fucking lame.
Today? For me? I’m going to write this column anyways. Even though the Muses ain’t here. I’m going to tell you everything I’m excited about this week. Even though the Muses ain’t here. I’m going to ask you to join me, vapid, broken, banal me, in the comments section, letting me know what you are excited for this week. Even though the Muses ain’t here.
Well? Shall we?