“That’s napalm… I love the smell of napalm in the morning.”
I was watching Apocalypse Now on the American Movie Classics channel. Not just the normal two hour and thirty-three minute version. No, it was most definitely the Redux. Also known as the version that Francis Ford decided to add twelve more hours to the already somewhat lulling film. Don’t get me wrong, I love the film, but it does seem like a somewhat moot attempt. He might as well have made a third Godfather film.
Whilst laying on my blue, pet-hair covered couch, with a pillow that may have very well been given as food to Jews in concentration camps, I came to the following conclusion. Big Duke, played by Robert Duvall, loooooooved the napalm and it was funny. But my thoughts soon turned to the villagers, the victims of the militant surfer’s glee. I guessed that their favorite smell was probably something other than napalm, especially in the morning.
It was this train of thought that got me thinking about what my favorite smell in the morning was and I deduced that it was most likely corndogs. Actually at any time of the day cordogs would probably be my favorite smell. Oh what glory thou be, corndogs. The majestic corn batter that makes you so soft and smooth to the touch and the fantastic flavor that smothers my taste buds with the utmost pleasure. This is the smell that I love so dearly in the morning. Continue reading “DEFEATED: The chronicles of a worthless piece of shit [pt.1]”
Here’s is the article and then my reaction to this concept.
This is a perfect example of what happens when idiots get a hold of sci-fi franchises. EVERYTHING has to be connected. Picard MUST run into Kirk! It’ll make money! We HAVE to have 8 year old Bill Adama in Caprica! People won’t watch it without him! We HAVE to have the no name apprentice kill Han and Chewie! It’ll be shocking and fans will love to see them….die?! F. In fact, not only does this get an “F,” it gets a FFFFFFFUUUUUUUU!!!
What you are is crisp. That is the word that fits, but it doesn’t do the whole job. It can’t manage all the weight. It needs something a little further. Like that coolness of biting into a fresh apple. Breaking the thin leathery skin and that gentle spray of inner juice. It’s that. But it is also that moment when you bite down into an ice cube. That sudden surge of nerve endings screaming in agony from the piercing of ice, driving itself between your teeth like a ghost spike, but your taste buds close their eyes and lean into the satisfaction of the cold with unbridled enthusiasm.
That’s why this city feels less like another thing and more like a living thing. An entity. Because no matter what season it is, the wind is always angry. Vicious. Acting out like a tempestuous child. It has its grubby hands on everything, pushing over empty cans and sending loose trash into hand-springs and somersaults. It gives them brief bits of life, little angry spurts of acrobatics. You pull the trees into a frenzy. Madmen, waving their arms and trying desperately to get your attention. To tell you something. Or maybe not. Maybe they have nothing to say, but just want to touch. To reach out and grasp you, limbs waving and yearning and stretching. The wind turns them into horny beasts. Looking to fondle every passersby. But we don’t look at you how you want or look back to see if you’re still watching. We shrug off your glances, brush away your reach, and duck under your waving desperation. Because to stop and grab your hand would be acknowledging your presence. Taking part in your sick possession.
And because having sex with trees is illegal.