The Subtextual Narrative of Transformers 3: Dark of the Moon

It boils down to this:  "Fuck you.  I'm Michael Bay."

And it's not subtextual so much as it is blatantly obvious, as described by the director himself in this interview at noted mental health periodical, The Last Psychiatrist. 

Questioned about his seemingly rash decision to fire Megan Fox in the third installment of a wildly successful franchise, while replacing her with an unknown lingerie model, he replies:

MICHAEL BAY:  You don't know anything about movies, do you? You probably believe it when actors say they do their own stunts or hate it when the paparazzi surprises them at the agreed upon time and place. Replaced Megan? I could have replaced every single one of those actors and actresses with some other supermodels, and the movie would have been better. Fuck that, I don't even need people, I could have Simoned the whole thing. I did them a favor, they need me, and when you start forgetting that you're just a motion capture device for better breast renderings, I kink your feeding tube. Good luck on your audition at Lifetime.

Fuck you, he's Michael Bay.

Titty-titty, strutty-strutty, plus some shit on fire.  That's what you'll get, because that's what you deserve.  Misogynistic?  Bitch, please.  If you're looking for someone to blame for Michael Bay's movies, you can blame women, themselves.

MICHAEL BAY:  You don't need big name actresses anymore, you just need some mo to say "three generations of women" or a montage scene of four divorcees holding wine glasses and dancing in a kitchen of Final Cut Pro vegetables. You're blaming me for the stupidity of movies? Blame women.

Your argument that women are responsible for bad movies seems untenable. With respect, your movies aren't even aimed at women.

MICHAEL BAY:  Hey, fuckly, listen to me, my movies exist because of women, because they've driven men batshit crazy into 'man caves' and Call Of Duty XI. Did they have giant robot movies in the 1930s and 40s? No, all of those movies had dance numbers. Back when a guy could punch a dame for overcooking a chicken there was no shame in watching some fool tap dance his way through WWII. Now these bitches expect you to change a diaper and shave your balls? Fuck that. Giant robots.

Is all modern cinema then reflexively phallocentric? Does disposable art created on a background of consumerist capitalism necessitate a misogynist subtext?

          MICHAEL BAY:  I said fuck that. Giant robots.

There's much more at the link, wherein Michael Bay waxes philosophical about the emasculization of men in modern cinema, and defends his practice of reusing scenes from his earlier movies, stealing from Christopher Nolan, and fucking your girlfriend.

Easily one of the funniest things you'll read on the internet this year.  Check it out.

Conflict Resolution - FOR KIDS!

Let's get one thing out of the way, up front.

VIOLENCE SOLVES EVERYTHING.

Now, it may not be the best or most appropriate solution for every application, but you cannot argue with its effectiveness.  Let's look at some past situations that our friend Violence has helped others out with through time:

• That dipshit from the next cave hogging all the women?  SOLVED.
• Pesky Messiah riling up the Gentiles and giving them airs?  SOLVED.
• Taxation without representation gettin' on your fucking nerves?  SOLVED.
• Jews pissing you off with all that "existing peacefully" shit?  SOLVED.
• Some German motherfucker killing all the Jews in Europe?  SOLVED.
• Osama bin Laden giving you the blues?  SOLVED.

Works EVERY time.  Like it says in The Seventy Maxims of Maximally Effective Mercenaries:

"If violence wasn't your last resort, you failed to resort to enough of it."

But before you go getting all excited, kids, this article isn't going to teach you how to use violence to solve your problems.  For one thing, violence is simple, and you'll either figure it out for yourselves, or some other kid is going to show you by example.  Probably by solving one of HIS problems.  Meaning, YOU.

We'll start with a true story.  A story that happened to me this morning, involving my son, The Heir a.k.a Il Duce, Hey,Boy!, and Dammit, Son!

Pictured:  The Golden Child

Now lately, The Heir has been having problems with another boy at school.  Let's call him Roger.  And the problem Roger presents, well... let's say it's of this nature:

Disclaimer:  Not to scale. William Zabka does not pose a threat to children.  At least, children not competing in the All-Valley Under 18 Karate Tournament. 

Now, having been a paid purveyor of violence in my 20s, I have prepared my son for that inevitable day when he's going to face a choice:

• Be the bigger man and Walk Away.
• Sweep the Leg.

Yeah! Better get him a body ba-

I mean, umm... good job, son!



Now, it's one thing to prepare yourself mentally and physically for conflict, kids.  It's another to osoto-gari one of your classmates into the coma ward for the next 10 years because you threw him on a concrete sidewalk.

Part of growing up is realizing that while violence will solve your problem, it is not the ONLY solution.  And most of the time, it is definitely not the optimal solution.  You may find that although you've solved one problem, you now have a new problem.  And that problem's solution might just involve plastic wrap, duct tape and a shovel.

Would violence solve The Heir's problem?  Undoubtedly.  Would that create another problem?  A problem that might get dad sentenced to a federal pound-you-in-the-ass penitentiary?  That, kids, is a definite non-zero possibility, which is way outside my comfort zone as a parent.  So let's talk this shit out instead of going directly to DEFCON 1, okay?

As my son is a confident, strapping boy, Roger is more of an annoyance than a threat, but physical retaliation has landed The Heir in some tepid water at times.  Therefore, we've been working on his communication skills so he can find alternative resolutions to this mild bullying.  And today, my efforts were about to pay off.

As I was fixing breakfast this morning, I notice my boy writing something.  I asked him what it was.

"I'm writing a note," he said.

"Oh, really, son?  To whom?"

"I'm writing a note to Roger."

"That's wonderful, son.  I'm glad to hear that you're using your words and reason to work out your problems with Roger.  What does your note say?

"Dear Roger,

You are going to DIE."

Okay, that's not really what Dad had in mind, but it's a start.  Gotta learn to crawl before we can run, right?

Next week, kids, we'll discuss the difference between "talking things out" and "communicating a threat" which is something Officer Friendly likes to call "a felony".

Have a good week and play nice!

Approaching the Singaylarity: The Empire of Jeff Movie Review

Because I was provoked into posting by some of the lowlifes that hang out at Ace of Spades HQ.  I may be beyond shame, but I can be pestered, apparently.

Being the founder of a new Master Race has its ups and downs.  The satisfaction of founding the  future Ruling Class that will consolidate your iron grip on your subjects as well as expand your Empire is often tempered by the need to reward your progeny while they are in their formative years with some mindless entertainment.  After all, they can place 5 consecutive shots in the X-ring of every life-size hobo target that pops at the range.  They've finished their balance sheets and income statements.  They've completed their art project.

For their art project, they drew a picture of the time we visited their grandparents in Italy.

Being a good Dad, and wanting to maintain access to their mother's jubbly bits, I agreed to let them select the movie.  As I feared, they chose Gnomeo and Juliet, which looked stupid, but harmless.

Dead.  Fucking.  Wrong.

This isn't just Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet recast with lawn gnomes.  This is Romeo and Juliet recast with lawn gnomes that have first been placed in Elton John's ass. 

Produced by Elton John.

Featuring nothing but music by Elton John.

Gnomes that appear to be dressed as Elton John.

Featuring pissy gay anti-straight slurs by Elton John.

Now, fortunately, my Master Race is still to young to pick up on these things.  They still laugh when people trip or get hit in the balls.  Or trip and then get hit in the balls.  Or get hit in the balls and trip over something.  And there was plenty of that to keep them amused.  What was not so amusing was the bullshit indoctrination thinly disguised as a morality play.

In the movie, Gnomeo and Juliet sneak off to the garden of an abandoned house to have freaky gnome sex or something.  They discover a discarded pink flamingo in a run down toolshed who tells his story through a montage featuring yep, another fucking Elton John song.  Here's how it goes:  Mr. Pink Flamingo and Mrs. Pink Flamingo have a happy life in the yard of a newlywed couple.  Life is grand, the years go by, yadda yadda.  Then we're treated to an angry scene of the newlywed couple arguing in the window.  Before you know it, there is a foreclosure sign in the yard.  Although the scary red font on the foreclosure sign looked more like this:



Bush economy foreclosure

Or maybe it was just my imagination.  Fuck you, you weren't there.  The point is, either the foreclosure leads to divorce, or the divorce leads to foreclosure.  Either way, there's a moving truck backing up and the woman is packing her shit.  As an afterthought, she storms back to the yard and "FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE, I'M TAKING THE LADY FLAMINGO!!!" so she yanks it out of the ground, tosses it in the truck and hauls ass, because taking one of the flamingos - it's the perfect burn!  Yeah, enjoy your new life WITH THAT WHORE and one fucking flamingo! Everyone's going to know what a cheating asshole you are!

The husband's attitude is more sanguine as he watches the truck drive away.  He mutters, "Whatever, bitch.  Oh, and by the way I FUCKED YOUR SISTER, TOO!" right before he tosses the lonely flamingo into the shed.

After this audiovisual treat, the flamingo breaks down the loss of his lady flamingo with this takeaway:

"So you see, other people's hate kept our love apart."

The deuce you say, you poncy British dickholster. 

If you know the story of Romeo and Juliet, then you already know how the story ends:  a giant, semi-sentient lawnmower destroys the entire community.  But this is why I say we are approaching The Singaylarity:  that moment at which children's entertainment is going to be rife with not just homosexual propaganda, but homosexual acts.  Little Jimmy's first onscreen kiss?  It's going to be with Little Joey, not little Sally. 

"Hey Jimmy, have you ever tasted penis?"

"Keen!  It's like a smelly popsicle!"

Pictured:  The Future of Children's Entertainment

I challenge you to unsee that.  Incidentally, after the cost of the tickets and grub for the six of us, I felt very much like poor Kermit up there. 

Skip this piece of shit.