of the "Phantom" Wireless Magazine
how's the whoring?
Tomb Raider "will have you screaming,
laughing and cheering from beginning to end! It's one unforgettable
adventure of epic proportions, filled with unstoppable thrills
and chills. Don't miss a second of this spectacular motion picture!"
Moulin Rouge is "Glorious!"
The Mummy Returns is "a roller coaster ride!"
Randy Shandis Enterprises. All rights fucking reserved.
"Needs more tits."
I can't fucking believe it. I'm out of another motherfucking
job, relieved of my duties because Dipshit Suzanne says I "lack
team spirit." I'll take her team spirit and shove it up
her ass until her lungs bleed. What the fuck does team spirit
have to do with restocking Gus the Field Goal Kicking Mule
next to What Women Want? Not a God damn thing.
Last week I went down to Colorado Springs for Carl Carlton's
"Weekend of Winners," a crock motivational seminar
that Dipshit Suzanne roped us all into. So my coworkers and me
went down there and got this big folder of shit that mostly turned
out to be order forms for more Carl Carlton crap. Dipshit Suzanne
thought it would be great if we all used our own money to buy
Carlton Dayganizers. Christ, you can see how big
a genius Carlton is, he's so fucking smart he crammed "day"
and "organized' into one word. And, everyone knows how fucking
hectic the day of a video clerk is. I really need a Dayganizer
to keep track of when to wake up before Scooter takes another
dump on the rug. Oh, and let me check today's schedule to see
what time I'm supposed to be at the Tavern. Shit, I better hurry,
I'm supposed to be drunk and belligerent in fifteen minutes.
The "Weekend of Winners" started out bad enough
when the first "motivational" speaker was the queen
of Skank, Tonya Harding. She went on and on about following your
dreams, focusing on the future and something about her fingernails.
Then she opened the floor to questions, but that was fucking
rigged. I wrote down on my card that I wanted to ask about her
fake tits and that disgusting sex video, but they didn't pick
me, just fuckers with dumb questions about making themselves
better people. Who cares? I want to know about those goofy-looking
boobs. Then we broke into little cheerleading squads to create
inspirational cheers. What the hell? If that's so motivational,
why are all the cheerleaders from my high school now fat soccer
moms who think the pinnacle of personal achievement is a good
parking space at Target, something worth blocking the aisle for
forty-fucking minutes to get? Plus, those cheap bastards didn't
even give us pom-pons.
Dipshit Suzanne was all fired up for us to do the best cheer
at the seminar, and that included a plan to have me hold her
over my head by the crotch. I'd rather have my fingers chewed
off by monkeys than put them near her nasty skunkbox. In fact,
I've always figured she had little sharp teeth all over her pubes
anyway. But I played along, for about five minutes. I tried to
be a team player until I was told we couldn't shout "Suck
our asses because they smell!' even though it rhymes with "First
American Video, we love to sell!" That's when I left, because
if I didn't leave I was going to punch somebody, and every time
I do that I end up getting my ass kicked.
I got in the Galaxie and headed up I-25. By the time I got
home there was already a fifteen minute message from Dipshit
Suzanne telling me to stay the hell out of First American Video.
And that fucking sucks, not because I like working there, but
because now I can't get pornos and Alfred Hitchcock movies for
free. No more Candy Bottoms, Cary Grant and Kim Novak. Plus,
getting fired is always so demoralizing. Yeah, I've been fired
enough times that I'm sort of desensitized, like a New York cop
feels the sixtieth time he rams a broomstick up an innocent man's
ass. Still, it makes me feel more worthless than usual for about
a week. Thank God for his greatest gifts - brandy fortified wine
and Mrs. Filthy's hidden stash of mad money. They have given
me the strength to make it through the week. The only problem
is, Tomb Raider was waiting at the end for me, and it
was bad enough to send me on another bender.
Don't get me wrong, Tomb Raider is not as painful as
the crusty ramrod of Pearl Harbor or The Animal.
It's just another big, expensive movie made by people who are
a fuckwad more interested in cheating and stealing than actually
being creative. But, what should we expect from a movie inspired
by a video game made popular by fat computer geeks who control
their joysticks with their mouths because one hand's wrapped
around their dicks and the other's holding their Mountain Dews?
Angelina Jolie is Lara Croft, big-tittied adventurer. She's
also a limey and rich enough to buy and sell my ass a million.
In Tomb Raider, her dead father leaves behind a clock
that is needed by the Illuminati in their quest to control time
and, conveniently, Jolie is the only who can stop them. Along
the way, there are several subplots that make about as much sense
as one of the Harelip's two a.m. screeds about the government's
dwarf conspiracy. There's some horseshit about her wanting to
ride the bone pony of a rival tomb raider and some other nonsense
about her missing her father. But all of that means about as
much as a Tomb Raider game player's chances of getting
What the movie does well is set up some good action and look
pretty. Sure, it's stolen from better pictures, but it's stolen
well. And I am not above stealing myself, which is why I have
such a nice collection of Candy Bottoms videos. The movie jumps
from Cambodia to Antarctica and the settings are pretty spectacular.
The action starts out well enough, although it always runs out
of imagination before the scenes are over. And Jolie is fucking
hot again. She pissed me off in Gone in Sixty Seconds
because she was about as attractive as Mrs. Filthy having an
allergic reaction to shellfish. If I wanted that, I'd buy a pound
of rancid crab, not a movie ticket. But in Tomb Raider
Jolie's as believably bad ass as the shitty script lets her be.
Best of all, her character never ends up relying on a man to
save her. That's what those ass-sucks in Hollywood usually do,
give us a heroine but make a man save her. So give them credit
for at least having the balls to let Jolie take care of herself.
It's weird, considering how pretty the action is, that it's
so lifeless. The characters are thrown into what looks like it'll
be some shit, but writers Patrick Massettt and John Zinman fail
to actually think up any challenges. There are few reversals
and Jolie is never in jeopardy. She enters a situation, beats
up some people or stone gorillas, then moves on. And, since the
villains are so wimpy and poorly drawn, you never even know who
exactly she's supposed to be battling. Worst of all, though,
not a single scene threatens to free her tits from the overly-confining
bra she's forced to wear. Fuck that, what's the point of having
big tits if you don't whip them out and beat a villain into unconsciousness
with them? Hell, if I had big tits I'd probably beat myself occasionally
just to stay in shape.
Jolie and everyone else is given dialog as old and crusty
as the ground beef in Safeway's "Super Saver" chest.
Her character actually says "It's a secret. If I tell you,
I'll have to kill you." What the fuck? Does it require screenwriters
or drunken apes to come up with shit that hoary, and if it's
the latter where do I sign up? The sad thing is, that's one of
the more clever lines. Most of the characters aren't developed
enough to say something that witty. Jolie's sidekicks are standard-issue
sassy Limey butler and geeky computer whiz. They do and say nothing
new. The villains are so underdeveloped I am still not sure why
the fuck they were villains or why we're supposed to hate them.
Why is it that they are evil for wanting to control time while
Jolie is good, just because she wants to control time to visit
with her overacting father? And how does this whole time-control
Which leads me to Tomb Raider's biggest problem: the
fucking plot. This thing is a bigger mess than a county fairground
portapotty. Jolie is opposed to the Illuminati, then she join
forces with them, then she opposes them. All for no reason except
that the filmmakers already had their action scenes in mind.
I hate movies where the plot follows the action like an obedient
dog. A good movie has characters, the characters get into trouble,
and certain action must be taken to get them out. A shitty movie
has action, and a plot is contrived to justify it, then finally
some characters have to be forged to fit into that silly plot.
That's how Tomb Raider was made.
The characters have no trouble pinpointing the location of
tiny puzzle pieces on massive continents. And like many lazy
action films, characters have no trouble jumping from place to
place. One minute they're in the Southeast Asia jungle, next
they're in Antarctica. It would be just too much fucking work
for the screenwriters to explain how. Lazy writers just put their
characters wherever they fucking please, sometimes having them
enter and leave a room for no reason other than to deliver a
It's a bad movie, but probably better than Tomb Raider
fans deserve. Two Fingers. So, now that I'm out of work,
I'm thinking about starting my own lawn care service. Anybody
want me to mow their lawn? I'll do a decent job, just don't get
on my ass about when and how often. I'll do it when I'm good
and ready because it's an art and I'm a fucking artist.
to tell Filthy something?