Recently in Famine Category

Movie Review: You Don't Mess With the Zohan (2008)

By Adam Danger on June 27, 2008 9:13 AM | Permalink

At once the single stupidest, most insulting motion picture I have ever watched in my entire life.

For the lion's share of Sandler's movie career, he has been an unassuming buffoon who dispatches his tormentors with bouts of wheezing, nasally cries of rage and outlandish, disproportionate, often shocking acts of physical violence.

In this turn, he is a full realization of the entity to which he has always aspired. He is superhuman; invincible. He has an enormous package and fucks every woman he sees. In every situation into which he enters, he is almost godlike in his ability to overwhelm every one and every thing he touches.

Why is this troublesome to me? The movie is racist, senseless, baseless, humorless, xenophobic, fantastically psychotic and violent, tone-deaf, sickening, hateful, spiteful, scornful, mirthless, witless, and pointless.

The protagonist rejoices in his ability to debase elderly women in a serial, bafflingly intense way. He perpetrates violence on young children, animals, or anyone who gets in his way. Yeah? He plays hacky-sack with a cat, or urinates on it, or smothers it in hummus. Why? What on Earth is this egomaniacal, outrageously unfunny, insanely mindbending display of comic action, bodily fluid slapstick, and conflict-dismissing descent into complete and utter nihilistic, pan-corporate, godforsaken human degradation? Why does Mr. Sandler wander across a beach, fully nude, catching both a hacky-sack and a grilled fish in his ass cheeks within the span of 2 minutes?

I should've walked out. I stayed until the last frame, hating this abomination with every fiber of my being. This is is neither comedy nor entertainment. It is agonizing tragedy. It is Adam Sandler masturbating into a violin on film while we all march toward the Auschwitz of our human souls.

Please, Jesus, strike dead tonight Misters Smigel, Sandler, and Apatow, as well as anyone who aided and abetted them in producing and unleashing this visual, auditory, and experiential atrocity.

Zero stars.

No, we can't

By Adam Danger on May 16, 2008 7:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Barack Obama has brought to the surface the simmering issue we've all faced since the day we were born in this country: we will never view people of a different skin color from our own as our human equivalent. To be honest, my high school education in Lincoln, Nebraska paid semesters-worth amounts of time to covering thing like segregation, "separate but equal," and apartheid. What good came of it? I'm not talking about myself, personally. What does education do to improve racial equality? What does seeing many many videos of Southern blacks being sprayed with firehoses in the '60s do to bring one's level of understanding to a new place?

It never does anything. The biggest single hurdle Obama is facing in his quest for the presidency is that people will judge him by the color of his skin, rather than the quality of his character. Has there ever been a politician like Mr. Obama? A black man will be the Democratic nominee for President of the United States. Look through your history books. Dissect the imagery. Give it another look beyond that. Did you ever expect this in your lifetime? Whitey could let a black man be ruler of the land. It's only a few steps from happening. Will it happen? How bullshit is it that I need to ask these questions?

As we've seen in West Virginia, and as we'll see in Kentucky, voters are rejecting Mr. Obama outright for the most baseless reasons imaginable. They don't think he has a way forward for our country. They think he's secretly a MOOSLEM. They think all kinds of things which aren't true, and they usually sit in pancake houses and breathe awful, undignified insults to his character to national news reporters through rotten teeth and bits of chewed bacon. Their color? White. These folks is as white as pure snow.

There's a guy out there preaching to the choir. Educated folks is selecting Obama by a large margin. Poor workin' folks is exposin' our inherent racism. No matter what education level you reach, you're a racist. Period. You have suspicions about other groups of races getting together and saying things about your race. Yes, you do.

What do we do? Why can't Obama be President? When you sit down in the voting booth (you are white), are YOU going to cast a vote for Mr. Obama over the white war hero John McCain? These narratives are set up so perfectly. A secret muslim black against a fuckin' WAR HERO white. What else can I even say?

We've been worried that the media is controlling our actions for quite some time. Now, there's a direct application of this principle. You've got an eloquent, fresh, brilliant man running for president in the hopes of getting to Washington and taking a Real Man look at how business is being done. On the other hand, you've got a rotten-to-the-core old bastard running for president who eschews Cialis in favor of imagined bombings of dark religious heathens. Yet, we're divided. We can't see the way forward. We are baited into our worst possible instincts. All of our education is naught in the face of Greta Van Susteren and Karl Rove sitting in a tiny studio playing clips of a black preacher taken out of context from a 7-year-old sermon and repeating line after line after line after line of sicko hitjob politics in order to crucify the black man on a modern media cross. For the corporate good. To make the shareholders get that extra-special chub as they hit the golf course this Friday morning in resplendent spring sunlight. You can't even smell the dust wafting in from Iraq's freshest smoldering child-remains-crater.

Let's go on with our business. We can't elect a black man to president. It's just not possible; the media just can't allow itself to tell the truth about what really might be afoot in our world. No. No, we can't. We sure, sure can't.

Manifleshto

By Adam Danger on December 21, 2007 8:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

America is a country. We're sick; deeply sick. Injured. We've suffered injurious amounts of sickness in a particular dimension of our being, amounting to the current confused state in which we all find ourselves. Who are we anymore?

When there's some awful malady that you can't ignore, the only way out is pain or death. Pain is suffered for the fix; the surgery. Which part needs surgery? The back? Is our back figuratively broken? No. You will never break the back of America. The backbone of America is embodied by some 67-year-old guy named Gus who gets up at 5:30 AM to head down to the city square and clean up your trash. That's the American back, and it remains healthy as hell.

Legs? A broken leg(s)? No, those are just fine. That's our economy, sound as ever. Cyclical, yes. The left leg of the government moves in time with the right leg of the free market. We would go in a fucking circle without one sweeping forward to carry the momentum of the other. There are rough times, but these legs cannot be broken.

Maybe our country has suffered a broken arm. Nope, doesn't seem that way to me. We trade with other nations and we produce our own goods just as well as anyone else on Earth. Maybe one arm takes more than the other produces, but that's not a broken arm. That's just confusion. Why so confused? Hold on a sec.

I have to address the heart. The heart of this country is not broken. They're serving in Baghdad and Kabul and anywhere else they are sent. They enable the flow of freedom through our circulatory system just like they always have, pumping and pumping in perfect athletic fitness. Our defenses alone determine the ability of our arms to reach and build and destroy, all through the providence of freedom's deep crimson bloodflow. Our blood burns hot as our heart suffers blow after blow, but it is not broken. Not yet.

Where are we at? What is broken? Why, it's the brain, you see. We've lost our conscience. Without a journalistic media that oversees and exposes the governance put forth by the other parts of the brain, we are addled by whatever wishes and fantasies those who are in control of every other part so desire. Corrupt and gripped with megalomania, psychotic murder-sick justifications of mass killing, and unimpeded desire to consume and alter everything within our sphere of being, we find our body out of control.

The conscience alone could correct this horrid affliction, but as such an abstract device in our body's function, it has been lost to the omnivorous greed of our brain's center: the ruling class. With the passion in our heart and the freedom in our blood, we the people of these United States (the moral instinct) could compel ourselves to be rid of the sickness that gnaws the inner workings of our brain and drives our entire body ever further toward ruin.

Surgery could fix the conscience. Excision of the old conscience and implanting a new one built on the moral instinct of our blood and moment could be the one fix that saves the brain, correcting the corruptive forces of the dominant ruling section. Our overtaxed and overworked body could begin to relax again. We could stop leaping over oceans and partitions, suffering constant bruises and infections, and we could just be again, walking along with the twin legs of economy, the arms taking and giving what is needed, and the back providing steady guidance and upright movement.

Destroy the mass media. Fuck them all. Let's get together and poison their efforts, check their every injustice, and lay bare their every trick. A malfunctioning part of our figurative mind cannot poison our blood, it can only compel us toward slow suicide. It must be our instinct to push back.

Dear Mr. Prezinent, Please bomb the ever-loving fuck out of treacherous terrorland Iran, ASAP

By Adam Danger on October 23, 2007 5:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

What follows is my open letter to Prezzinents ~~Tush~~ Bush. In it, I espouse a fairly unpopular position about an international conflict/crisis, but it's time for simple Americans to stand up and start helping our leader make the decision that he needs to make for the future of human life on this planet. The time is NOW. The enemy is NOT our elected government. No, sir. The enemy is the terrorists.

Dear Mr. Prezinent,

Please bomb the ever-loving fuck out of treacherous terrorland Iran. I've suspected their treachery for a long time, but your team's recent speeches have solidified in my mind the urgent need we all have to spill Iranian blood. There are two reasons why the Iranian Problem can only be solved by annihilating Iranian nationals who stand in our way:

They are building a clandestine nuclear bomb. No international body will ever be able to prove that they're not mere months away from acquiring a nuclear device. Do we have time to wait for that which is never coming? Their unwavering evil efforts to attain a sensitive weapons technology we've repeatedly told them they cannot have must be brought to an end. What do you do when you tell your child he cannot have a cookie, but you think he might be edging toward the cookie jar as he stands in your kitchen under the watchful eye of satellite imagery and the most dialed-in intelligence network the world has ever seen? You split his head open with a hammer. The nerve they have, to actually think that they can eat cookies like we do. Bathe them in fire and let the ashes of their blood choke the lungs of the survivors.

President Mahmoud Ahmadereacharound is a real douchebag. I'd like to add a cellphone video of him being hanged to my growing collection of videos of terrorists being executed by our comrades. If that's not possible, could we at least bomb the snot and brains out of him, then reassemble his cadaver for a worldwide "kill confirmation" simulcast? I'm honestly having an extra 10 minutes falling asleep every night as I work myself into a frenzy, praying for his death, so the least you could do is kill two birds with one stone and give me back that 10 minutes of my nightly routine. He said, and I'm not exaggerating, that he's planning to strap a nuclear weapon to his chest and detonate it in downtown Jerusalem personally. WHAT MORE CONFIRMATION OF HIS EVILNESS DO YOU NEED?

I know you have a great many political considerations in this country before you can just, you know, drop millions upon millions of pounds of beautiful, candy-like bombs all over the Iranian landscape. Some people probably disagree with that. I have two words: internment camp. Nuff said? No? Ok, here's another one: we have sophisticated poisons, biological agents, and a brilliant set of wires and tubes to help you identify the threats at home. For what are you waiting? Those who would delay us, question our motives, or express a will different than that of, well, you, need to be silenced. Forever. Please kill all the Democrats.

There is also the question of the consequences of starting another bombing campaign. Also, the fact that Iran just threatened to launch 9,000 bombs at nearby American targets if we attack them from the air weighs heavy on the minds of many of the world's citizenry. I know you're too much of a chickenshit pussy to do it, but have you forgotten what we're launching this campaign over? You've got a nuclear weapon. How surprised do you think Iran would be if you just went ahead and shattered their entire populace and infrastructure with a single volley? Again, that's pie in the sky stuff, and I know you're probably a little hesitant. I just want to point out, for the record, that if any bombs hit American people in the region after you launch your attack, their blood will be on your hands for not listening to me and bringing nuclear holocaust upon the Iranian scums.

The time to act is now. We can't allow Iran to get a nuclear device; as your team has stated, we won't allow that to happen. Put your money where your mouth is and put the greatest military this world has ever known to work on the Iranian Problem, and together we can turn it into the Iranian Solution. If you don't, who will? If you don't, who will? I await your answer, Sir, and I only hope that it comes in a low rumble of bombs, followed by the wailing of sirens, lamenting women, and more airborne American ordinance, half a world away. The world will hear our music and know our resolve to defeat terror on this Earth for all of eternity.

P.S. - To all my Iranian friends who may miss the nuance of this message in translation: the preceding was a desperate piece of satire aimed at the sickening times in which we currently find ourselves mired. I hope against hope that my country doesn't bomb you. That is all. Please don't do a whois on me and slit my parents' throats; I wish you no harm. Quite the opposite, actually.

Quality manufacture

By Adam Danger on September 5, 2007 8:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Mr. Thomas: So, Brian, I'm guessing you understand why I've called this one-on-one meeting this morning.

Brian: No, I'm not certain. I saw the request in my email first thing this morning, and wondered why this couldn't wait until later in the day, but go ahead.

Mr. Thomas: Well, you see, it stems from yesterday afternoon. Would you take me back to yesterday afternoon, if you would?

Brian: Well... okay. Okay, what, specifically, did you have in mind?

Mr. Thomas: Yesterday in the parking garage, as you were leaving work.

Brian: Ohhhh. Alright, yeah. Mr. Banks almost hit my truck.

Mr. Thomas: [interrupting] and he claims you almost hit him. Do you care to explain what happened, as you remember it?

Brian: Well, his Jaguar came screaming out of Level 3, he ignored the stop sign, and I slammed on the brakes.

Mr. Thomas: Why were you going so fast?

Brian: I don't think I was, really.

Mr. Thomas: And after that? You see, Brian -- and this is the crux of my concern, as well as my calling of today's meeting -- Mr. Banks is quite upset.

Brian: Well...

Mr. Thomas: Let me finish. Mr. Banks feels he saw you mouth something at him which was beyond the pale.

Brian: I didn't recognize... it was, you know, the garage. I didn't know who it was, so it was nothing personal.

Mr. Thomas: Could you clarify, Brian? What was it you said, exactly?

Brian: I think I blurted something out.

Mr. Thomas: "Queer motherfucker?"

Brian: Oh! No, no... I mean, it was a Jaguar! I was remarking on the car.

Mr. Thomas: By looking Mr. Banks in the eye and calling him a "queer motherfucker?"

Brian: No. No! It's all a misunderstanding, see. I was saying, "quality manufacture."

Mr. Thomas: Really.

Brian: You know, a Jag is a quality vehicle.

Mr. Thomas: So Mr. Banks shouldn't be concerned that you would hurl an offensive, homophobic slur at one of our senior partners out of anger?

Brian: No chance. "Quality manufacture."

Mr. Thomas: And then you, and this is his characterization, snarled at him and shouted, "bitch."

Brian: "Bigtime." Like, "bigtime vehicle, there, Mr. B!"

Mr. Thomas: He said that you looked "furious," and that you seemed satisfied with your angry outburst.

Brian: That's jealousy on my part, really. He makes at least 3 times what I do, and I had no idea his car was so great, too.

Mr. Thomas: I see. [long pause] Well, he'd like you fired, in any case. You're fired.

Brian: THAT QUEER MOTHERFUCKING BITCH!!!!

Lucidity

By Adam Danger on June 21, 2007 2:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I had another lucid dream experience (I realized I was in a dream, assumed control, and started manipulating the dreamworld) waking up this morning.

I became lucid in an alley (can't particularly recall how it got to that point), but my first action was to try and pick up a large delivery truck, about the size of a U-Haul. I grabbed it by the front end and lifted like I would lift a basket of clothes; nothing happened. Realizing just doing it wasn't going to get it done, I basically told myself that I was going to lift the truck, and that the truck would lift itself off the ground. After a couple of seconds of focus, I tugged on the truck once more, only to find that this time, it lifted off the ground as easily as a balloon. Wow!

I held it up in a 45 degree angle to the ground for a few seconds, feeling no strain, while observing the seeming effortless feat I had just performed. Not knowing full well what I was doing, I dropped the truck as carelessly as you would let go of a balloon and watch it drift to the ground for a few seconds. Bad idea. The truck slammed to the ground, bounced up once, and slowly rolled onto its side. It was a huge impact! It felt like a fucking truck dropped out of the sky, right next to me.

Two things: 1. I've never had a truck make a tremendous gravity-driven impact right next to me. How would my mind simulate such a thing, the thing being such a terrifyingly accurate (from what I can imagine) simulation of a horrible impact, a real-time mangling of the truck due to the collision, and all the accompanying reactions from around me (car alarms started going off and people came from nearby to have a look)? 2. What kinds of amazing things could I conjure up in a state of lucidity? What if I decided to become Adam: Destroyer of Worlds, and lay waste to everything around me with hand-projected concussion batteries, fire, and the ability to lift and discard anything in my sight?

That would be a cool dream. I hope to do that next time.

I was just kidding about stopping talking about the wars

By Adam Danger on June 21, 2007 1:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I just clicked "publish" on my previous post, read it a few times, and then realized I needed to make another post. Rebate!

See, I implied that the blood of the dead -- in this case, the death toll related to the Iraq festivities -- was on the hands of the pro-war crowd. It is, and it isn't. I've been sitting around, walking around, drinking around, not sleeping around, the idea of culpability. It's easy for all of us to blame other people for our failings as a human race. In the case of Iraq, it's easy to blame Bush, then to blame the 583 people in Florida who punched a chad for him, then to blame all the democrats who voted to give him carte blanche, then to blame the press for not covering it right, but that's an incorrect line to walk on.

You want to know who's at fault for all the dead?

There's one person who is guilty of allowing the human disaster in Iraq to unfold the way it did; there's one person to blame for the lack of a solution to the current problem. I've tracked the person down. It's you. Me? Yeah, me too. All of you. Me too. It's our fault.

Continue reading I was just kidding about stopping talking about the wars.

Oprah Sex Fuck Hour

By Adam Danger on June 13, 2007 5:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Oprah Sex Fuck Hour

What the fuck, Oprah? I mean, sorry. Let me rephrase that: What the fuck!?

I was unfortunate enough to browse by channel 5 around 4 pm today, when the Oprah show for 6/13 happened to be getting underway. I would've flipped away immediately (cuz I'm so manly), but I heard her mutter the phrase "tantric sex" during her intro. Say what? Oprah was holding an entire show dedicated to sexual makeovers for her viewers. You know what that means? It means I started taking notes, so I could file a report for AdamDanger.com, that's what it fucking means!

Oprah Sex Fuck Lady Fuck Hour Report

June 13th, 2007

Oprah begins the show, promising, "Today, we are going to find _your_ inner sexpot." Well, assuming the viewer she's speaking to directly through the broadcast cameras is a female. I don't think I'm findin' nothin', not even a Hugh Morrus! The host insists there "will be a run on Home Depot" following the show, as her audience will rush to pick up stripper poles for their homes. Home stripper poles: not just for 30-something creepy single ex-fratters anymore!

She invited some "experts" to the show to help discuss sexuality and eroticism. Expert #1, Oprah says, "asks for what she wants in bed." Crowd: [rowdy applause and 'woo!'] "She doesn't just ask, she gets it." It's Kim Cattrall of Sex and the City fame! Her new book is entitled Satisfaction: The Heart of the Female Orgasm. I might pick that one up. According to Oprah, "[her] character represents something SO many women want to be." A fucking slut? Ladies, by a show of hands, how many of you sit around wishing you were a fucking slut? Since Oprah is basically a show for your mom, how many of you share Oprah's belief that many of your moms want to be like Kim Cattrall's fuck-crazy cockcraver from SatC?

Expert #2 is Mikki Taylor, beauty director and cover editor for Essence Magazine.

A suburban mom from Colorado is our sexpot wannabe. She claims she has forgotten what sexy means. Her wardrobe includes sweaters adorned with pumpkins, and she helps raise 2 under-10 kids. She wants to "do something outrageous. Something that would really blow his mind." We take a brief (ha!) look at Heather's underwears. Back in the studio, Oprah orders her viewers to burn their panties if they are "granny panties." They do a before & after! Before: A normal, nice mom. After? A made-up atrocity whose kids won't recognize her. "Sex pot jackpot!" Oprah exclaims. Her husband looks like he just received a whore slave in the mail and he's positive the authorities will never know. Man, how about what those kids will be feeling? It's like when your mom went to the mall to have a glamor photo taken with all the make-up and the soft lights, but she fucking comes home like that. How do you take that sort of rejection?

The woman stands there as Oprah and her experts ask her demeaning questions about her underpants, which she answers as though she were scripted to act like a fuck.

Coming up! We learn the "stripper walk." "Enlightenment," Oprah breathes. "Enlightenment is what this show is all about."

Continue reading Oprah Sex Fuck Hour.

LOL Dreams

By Adam Danger on June 8, 2007 1:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I figured I should have some legit content for y'all while I'm still in the learning/construction phase for categorizing/beautifying/dimensionalizing my movable type bloggins. What I realized was, I had this crazy dream the other night which I haven't shared with anyone else.

DREAMBLOGGIN!

So anyway, you... I had a strange strange dream waking up the other day. It was proceeding like any other dream (I was spending a large part of my dream trying to get my brother's ex-girlfriend -- not that one, Coz -- to take her clothes off via webcam by convincing her I was my brother). Anywho, I reached some sort of episode where I was in a high-rise hotel room with a couple of business associates (including one Fabiano), and we were... transacting some business. The details were unclear. The details are always unclear with my dreams.

The point of this all is, once I left the hotel room we were all in, we intended to head to the elevator. Suddenly, I was hit with a sinking feeling of dread, as the entire hotel seemed to lurch on its foundation. Was it the motion? Something about motion affects dreamstate, I am positive of it. According to the writings of Dr. Stephen LaBerge (http://www.lucidity.com) one great way to focus on remaining in a dreamstate upon discovery of lucidity (i.e. becoming lucid, that is, aware of the fact that you are experiencing altered awareness while navigating a dream) is to look straight to the ground. If you're on a tile floor, for instance, you'll want to crouch and focus on the tiles. Doing something like examining the intricacies of the design your mind has created/recalled is helpful, in my experience.

Continue reading LOL Dreams.

« Death | Main Index | Archives | Interactivity »