The Empire of Jeff Newsletter Has Moved

You can now get your lowbrow humor on an average of twice yearly at:

http://empireofjeff.wordpress.com

Just kidding - I moved primarily because I do most of my writing on my Windows Phone and Blogger doesn't have an app on their Marketplace for Blogger.  Mainly because they're owned by Google, which owns the Android platform. 

Sorta.

But anyway, FUCK 'EM, because I now have a WordPress app on my phone which means that you can catch me in all my misanthropic glory AS MANY AS FIVE TWENTY-FOUR TIMES as I can possibly post.  And seeing as how it's an election year, your chances are good.

Like Grandpa always said, "if you don't have something nice to say, say something ugly."

True dat, Gramps.  True dat.  I miss you.

See you at the new place.  Take off your fuckin' shoes, first.

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.

Let Me Set The Record Straight

I never said that people with peanut allergies should be killed. All I said was that they should be rounded up and sterilized or confined to camps before they infect the rest of us with their America-hating, racist bullshit allergy.

Probably some explanation is in order.

You've probably heard of peanut allergies, and how exposure to peanuts can cause a person to go into anaphylactic shock and DIIIEEEE!!! What you probably haven't heard is how powerful and controlling the Anti Peanuters are.

When we lived in New Orleans, my son had a child in his Pre-K class that had a peanut allergy. As a result, no one in his class was allowed to bring a PB&J sammich to school. Sure, we grumbled, but I guess it seemed reasonable - little kids will swap lunches and next thing you know, your kid's trying to give Little Johnny an emergency tracheotomy only he can't, because it's Pre-Kindergarten and DAMN YOU, BLUNT SAFETY SCISSORS! DAMN YOU!!!!

Our girls didn't have any such restrictions at their school, so we didn't think anything more of the matter - it was probably just a one-off, right?

And then we got to Canada. Don't even think of bringing peanuts or peanut-containing foods to school. You know what else, comrade? While you're at it, don't even bring any foods to school that have been processed in plants that had peanuts anywhere in them. Oh, but don't worry, our racially pure snack foods have these helpful, well... let's call them armbands to help you identify which treats are allowed and which aren't.

Pictured: Ethnic Cleansing

Now, what about the other snack foods? Are they made to wear some type of identifying mark, like a star or something so you know they contain peanuts? No, they don't. At least... not yet.

Right about now, you're probably wondering, "Well, yeah... I guess... but this is a pretty serious medical condition, Jeff. Shouldn't we be sensitive to the danger they face?"

Maybe so. Or maybe we should be asking ourselves why do people with peanut allergies hate our troops? Look, I served, damnit, and I know for a fact that every one of our fine warriors is issued a gas mask with a nerve agent antidote kit, containing three sets of auto-injectors. You got your 2-PAM chloride and you got your atropine, so when you get a lungful of nerve agent and start doing the Kickin' Chicken, you can jab yourself in the ass and get some relief.

What's the immediate treatment for symptoms of peanut allergies? An injection of epinephrine: also a chemical-sounding substance. What you don't see is anyone walking around with an auto-injector kit of epinephrine stapped to their thigh. And why is that, do you think? Fucking pinkos.

But let's say war isn't your thing. Let's say you're a liberal. Would it interest you to know that peanut allergy "sufferers" are some of the virulent racists ever to darken this continent's doorstep? Oh, yes!

All you have to do is crack a history book to look at who invented the peanut in the first place - George Washington Carver - A KNOWN BLACK MAN.

I find it a little too convenient, don't you? They could have attacked other ethnic groups for the produce they've invented, like the dagos with their eggplants or the filthy micks with their potatoes, but oh ho-ho-ho NO! They zero in like a fucking racist laser beam on the only fruit black folks managed to assemble out of molecules and shit at the Tuskeegee Institute right before hopping into fighter planes and fighting World War II for their second job. I mean, holy shit! That's a two-fer.

Can't decide who you hate more, Anti-Peanutters? Our troops or our blacks? Then fuck it, right? JUST HATE OUR BLACK TROOPS THEN, YOU SONS OF BITCHES.

Well I'm not going to just sit here and wait for them to come for me. Wait a minute, yes I am. I'll be sitting here with a bottle of Scotch and a case of Payday bars. You're pretty tough at the school board level. Let's see how brave you are against a man with no pants and the peanut farts. I'll be waiting.

In Which Jeff Shits on Your Taste in Music

Yeah, that's right: Fuck the Beatles.

I said it, and I meant it. It's time for all baby-boomers, douchebag retro-hipsters and general-purpose nutriders to face up to one of life's cold, hard facts.

The Beatles were a shitty band.

Look, I've heard all the arguments before about how I'm too young to understand the "importance" of their music, and how "pioneering" they were. They sucked, okay? They were not accomplished musicians. Their lyrics were simple, treacly dreck. And that's just the songs I hated the least, during their early period.

Eventually, you dumbasses put them so high on a pedestal that they started to believe they could do no wrong. Not that they didn't test you - I mean what the FUCK was Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band all about? They were fucking with you. I mean, get your head out of your ass - "Yellow Submarine?" They let fucking Ringo sing it, and what did you do? You drove it to number 2 on the charts, and then demanded that they make a fucking animated movie out of it!

No wonder they continued to smoke crack, crank, coke, PCP, heroin and whatever else they could get into their bloodstreams - it's not like anybody was going to call them on their shit.

Let me explain to you why your opinion is wrong. Your entire love of the Beatles revolves around one central argument: "They were the pioneers of rock, man! They influenced so many bands that came after them." Well guess what - your grandpappy thought the Model A Ford was a wonderment of modern machinery, but do you see anybody besides Jay Leno driving one around? And why do you think that is? Because it's a rickety piece of monkey shit, just like the Beatles.

Hey, you know what's better than having to walk everywhere and carry all your shit on your back? NOT having to walk everywhere and carry all your shit on your back. But you know what's even better than THAT? Driving with fucking air conditioning and satellite radio. When the Beatles were all you had, I could have understood, even tolerated your excitement. We've got options now. Quit trying to get me to listen to your fucking Betamax music. We're up to BluRay - are you hep to the jive yet, Gramps?

And no, John, I can't Imagine all the people, living life in Peace. It might be a little easier to Imagine if you hadn't been, you know, murdered. And not that Lennon deserved to die, but let's take a look at what his fans had to say about his murderer becoming eligible for parole: 6,000 signature petition against it. How many of these same libtards signed a petition to release convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu Jamal?

See where this is going?

Individually and collectively, musically and politically, the Beatles appeal to the worst segment of our society: liberals. From John Lennon's naive bullshit to Paul McCartney's prissy-assed "thanks" to the American people "for voting for Senator Obama." You know what Sir Paul? Go fuck yourself with a broken Rickenbacker. While the people of Nashville are busting their asses to rebuild their lives and the people of Louisiana wait and watch as a black tide of oil suffocates a vital seafood industry, Paul McCartney is going to be getting his dick sucked by the Leader of the Free World.

That right there should tell you everything you need to know about the Beatles. If fucking Obamateur the Incompetent likes them, they can't be worth a shit.

Oh, HELL no...

What the FUCK are some people thinking?

Dude, seriously. I saw the video of Nick Berg being beheaded by a bunch of goatfuckers and I was pissed, but the idea of someone being beheaded, while savage, just wasn't as disgusting as The Human Centipede (First Sequence).

In this movie, an evil German surgeon kidnaps two female American tourists and a Japanese ne'er do well and, well... sews one girls mouth to the Japanese guy's asshole and her friend's mouth to her asshole.

Like. A. Human. Centipede.

Hilarity ensues when he feeds the guy in front (who is, there's just no other way to say it, the LUCKY one in this scenario) and waits for nature to take its course.

And take its course again.

And presumably, take its course again, but by now, wouldn't you too jaded to be fascinated by the sight of someone just pooping, without it being... erm, recycled again?

Seriously, fuck you, John Osterlind of the 99.5 FM drive-home show, for letting me hear just the part where you mention "That movie, The Human Centipede", but nothing else, causing me to go home and say, "Hey, that sounds interesting. Wonder what that's all about?" No, fuck you, man.

Time to make the best of this, though, and come up with some alternate titles that may alleviate at least some of this uncleanliness. Here goes:

Two Girls, One Jap

DeGrASSi to Mouth: The College Years

I Know What You Ate Last Summer