I pride myself on having watched most of Clint Eastwood’s films. Yet for some reason, I’ve avoided watching The Dead Pool, which was the final installment for the great Dirty Harry franchise, for the longest time.
Until last night.
And it made me wonder why they didn’t make another Dirty Harry movie. Clearly Eastwood was going out on top of his game. Maybe at the spry age of 92, Clint will pull out .44 Magnum and terrorize the streets of San Francisco once more. But until then, we’re left with The Dead Pool, co-starring the delightful Patricia Clarkson and a ponytailed Liam Neeson.
Now Buddy Van Horn does a pretty solid job here. You’re probably wondering ‘who the fuck is Buddy Van Horn?’ And the answer is simple: he was a stunt man who Clint Eastwood inexplicably chose to direct this picture. But he handles the romance between Harry Callahan and Patricia Clarkson, who is 30 years Eastwood’s junior, with a particular delicacy. It’s very easy to understand why a young, attractive, and ambitious journalist would fall for a crabby, old San Francisco cop that everyone is trying to kill.
Not only is Liam Neeson particularly Irish in this picture, we’re also treated to an early performance from Jim Carrey, who, though on the screen for only five minutes, poorly lip synchs to Guns N’Roses and overacts his way through a drug overdose.
Now if Clint Eastwood is good at one thing, it’s engaging in sensitive cultural issues, especially regarding Asian-Americans (see Gran Torino). For this installment, Harry Callahan is paired with Evan C. Kim, an actor born to Korean immigrants, this time playing a Chinese-American. The shootout in a Chinatown restaurant is superbly handled as Callahan fires away after reading from a fortune cookie.
So how does this picture stack up to other San Francisco based action flicks? Pretty good. Especially if you’ve ever wondered how the chase from Bullitt would have looked if it featured a remote controlled toy car. 👍
“I’ve seen a million penises,” Patricia informed Eric. “I’m a trained doctor, remember? I just need to examine your pelvis to see if it’s fully healed for fuck’s sake!”
“But I’ve always had male doctors,” Eric replied. “If a female doctor looks at my junk, I might, uhh..”
“Get a boner?” Patricia asked. “Who gives a fuck? I’m just gonna lower your underwear and feel around a little.”
Eric laid in bed quietly as Patricia lowered his piss-stained tighty-whities. Despite flooding his mind with unpleasant thoughts, blood raged through his veins on down to his nether regions. Patricia focused diligently on her duties while her wrist and elbows occasionally brushed up against his pathetic, throbbing erection.
The two didn’t say a word for the duration of the examination. Patricia came to the conclusion that Eric did indeed make a full recovery and then looked back at his helplessly average wang. “Do you ever wash this thing?” she asked, “Jesus Christ.”
“Uhhh….,” Eric was at a loss for words while Patricia studied his appendage. Already four sheets to the wind, Patricia removed her rubber gloves and gripped Eric’s schlong. “Sometimes after pelvic and spinal injuries,” Patricia explained, “male patients can experience ejaculatory problems.”
After two, no more than three strokes, Eric busted all over Patricia’s hand and guest bed. “Hmm,” Patricia wondered aloud as she gazed upon her jizz stained hand, “based on the lack of stimulus applied to the glans, you may experience involuntary ejaculation from here on out.”
Patricia stood up to wash her hands while Eric remained laid out in a state of post-orgasmic euphoria. After drying her hands, she wrote out a seven figure check. “I hope this covers everything,” she said as she laid the check down on Eric’s bare chest while his arms were sprawled out, “I’m sorry for hitting you with my car. But you are fully healed. You’re free to leave whenever you wish.”
Eric came to his senses, pulled up his nasty ass underwear, and proceeded to dress. Patricia went back downstairs to pour herself a stiff drink. Eric joined her minutes later.
“These last few days,” he explained, “have been some of the best days of my life.”
“The hell are you talking about?” Patricia asked. “You’ve been bed-ridden for two weeks!”
“I know, I know,” Eric replied. He then lifted up the seven figure check, ripped it up, and let the shreds fall to the floor. “But damn it, Patricia,” he continued, “I think I’m falling for you.”
Details are scant, but it appears that this new iteration will take place in Toronto, where Paramount+ studios are conveniently located. But to be honest guys, I’m not too thrilled about the direction of this show.
For example, in the pilot episode, we learn that Frasier Crane was “canceled” from his Seattle radio program for dropping racial slurs on air IN ADDITION to facing numerous sexual harassment allegations from Roz Doyle which Frasier attributes to his relapsed alcoholism. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Jordan Peterson has been cast to play himself as he advocates for Frasier’s employment as a professor at the University of Toronto. Since David Hyde Pierce will not be returning as a series regular, Peterson will be stepping in as Frasier’s sidekick. The two will, presumably, share colorful banter regarding Freudian vs Jungian schools of psychology as they lament cancel culture on college campuses.
Another strange decision from Paramount+ is the casting of Slavoj Zizek, again playing himself, for frequent guest appearances. Not much is known about this role, but it is presumed that Zizek will serve as Peterson’s arch nemesis by interfering in his numerous failed romantic relationships (i.e. by cockblocking him).
Kelsey Grammer will serve as executive producer and head writer.
I’m left scratching my head on why Paramount+ greenlit this project. Frasier is a beloved show. It’s just an odd decision from Grammer to make his most famous character a rabid 9-11 Truther. Perhaps Paramount should go back to the drawing board on this one.
“Sorry about shattering both your legs, pelvis, 14 ribs, and rupturing your brain,” Patricia told Eric, “but I couldn’t take you to the hospital. I hope you understand. That would work out best for both of us: I wouldn’t get fired and you wouldn’t accumulate massive medical debt. But I’m rich, so I will pay you a lot of money to keep your mouth shut.”
“Yeah, no I agree,” Eric replied as he sipped on his tea. Patricia spent the previous few days nursing him back to health in her own home. “I don’t trust doctors anyway,” he continued, “I just hope you cauterized the head wound to facilitate a full cognitive recovery.”
Patricia shook her head. “I’m sorry but you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a trained physician.”
Eric was stunned. It never occurred to his half witted (and heavily damaged) brain that a woman could be more knowledgeable than him. “B-b-but, I thought you were a banker!” he stuttered.
Patricia rubbed her temples. “It’s a long story,” she explained. “I have an MD and an MBA. The important thing is that I’m fully capable of healing you.” She then stood up at his bedside and slipped on a robe. “You should lie in bed for the next few days,” she continued, “don’t over exert yourself. I’ll compensate you for all your lost wages.”
“Shiiiit,” Eric said, “I’m making more money in this bed than I’ve ever made in my life. But my family’s gonna wonder where I’ve been. My mom’s probably gonna kick me out of the house for going missing.”
“Just make up something. Besides, aren’t you 33 years old? Why are you still living with your mom?”
“Living on my own? In this economy?! Yeah right!”
“Anyways!” Patricia said. “I’m going to work. Please stay in bed. And if you need anything, I’m at your mercy.”
Eric watched Patricia leave the guest room and close the door behind her. “Maybe I have a milf fetish,” he thought as he whiffed her lingering scent. The thought of her examining his body easily aroused him.
Meanwhile, Patricia returned to work after a week of tending to Eric’s needs. “So who’s the lucky fella?” the President and CEO of Fifth National Bank, Harvey Whinestine, asked as she walked into her office.
“Pardon?” she replied, fearing her secret has been discovered.
Harvey laughed. “I just figured you escaped to the Caribbean with one of your boy toys. I didn’t think we’d see you again.”
“Oh,” Patricia said, drawing a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, I’ve been sick all week. I’ll get with Debra and we’ll get caught up on everything.”
Harvey stepped into her office and shut the door. “I do hope everything is alright,” he said. “If you ever need anything…”
“Harvey, I’m fine,” she interrupted. “I haven’t had a drink in two months. There’s no urge. You have nothing to worry about.”
Harvey shook his head. “I’m glad you’re hanging in there, kiddo,” he said. “Take all the time you need to get caught up.”
But Patricia instantly started answering emails after Harvey left the room. She opened the top drawer to her desk to find a notepad. Then she paused when she noticed what was inside: tucked away under a bunch of papers was a picture of her son.
“I’m sorry Carson,” she said to the photograph.
Her hands began to shake uncontrollably as she closed the blinds to her office window.
Remember, for the month of October, this is the story that AI told me to write:
A woman in her sixties, who can be quite compassionate.
A man in his early thirties, who can be quite aggressive.
The story begins in a nightclub.
Someone is driven out of their home.
It’s a story about greed.
Your character reluctantly becomes involved
So here’s the story. I don’t know what to call it.
“I don’t piss in public toilets,” Eric shouted above the music to Don Lemon. “The toilets are connected to the publicly funded municipal sewer system which then goes to a treatment facility. From there, hazardous chemicals and biologicals are removed from the water where it is then discharged into receiving waters like lakes and rivers. Downstream, other municipalities treat that same water so that it is safe for human consumption. That’s socialism. I’m a libertarian. I don’t believe in using such systems. Besides, REAL men piss outside.”
“Look,” Don replied, “I’m just saying that there’s no sense in holding your piss in! If you gotta go, GO!”
Eric and Don met in college. Despite their paths diverging after graduation, the two remained close. Now in their early 30s, Don was killing it selling Mazdas at the local dealership. Eric was still taking odd jobs stocking shelves and slinging pizzas.
“Mazda is a quality machine, Eric,” Don would always tell his friend, “I could get you a good job down at the dealership.”
This made Eric chuckle. “Don, you know I’m a Hyundai man.”
Don was happily married. But his friend Eric wasn’t blessed with the skill of communication. Or even empathy. He’d pity his friend as he watched him fumble around with women throughout their dorm days. But Don’s obligation to his best friend never wavered. Though knowing it was futile, he’d encourage Eric to mingle, hoping that some lucky lady would relieve him of his duty to his awkward friend.
Now the two pals were batching it up at the club. Don sipped his cocktail, leaning against the bar. Eric was pounding the rum and cokes, ignoring the patrons.
“She’s cute,” Don said, referring to the girl on the other end of the bar. As opposed to the other girls in the club, this one was closer to Eric’s age, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt.
“She’s alright,” Eric replied.
“Buy her a drink!”
Eric stumbled his way across the bar. After seven rum and cokes, he was easily able to overcome a vague sense of nervousness. “Hi, I’m Eric,” he slurred, “can I buy you a drink?”
The disinterested girl nodded. “Wh-what do you do?” Eric asked.
“I’m a graduate student.”
“What do you study.”
“Middle Eastern Studies.”
“I love the Middle East!” he exclaimed. “Did you know that since the US invasion of Iraq, the economies of various nations in the Persian, or Arabian, Gulf have exploded: the UAE, Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait, etc. And they did so without much help from public subsidies. A perfect example of the power of unbridled capitalism. This, as opposed to Iran, who, US sanctions notwithstanding, drove their economy into the ground by nationalizing most of their industries. What a shame.”
“Uh-huh.”
Moments later, the girl’s friends came to collect her. “Gotta go! Thanks for the drink,” she said.
“Fuck this,” Eric thought. He signaled the bartender to close his tab. “Are you leaving?” asked Don.
“Let’s face it, Don,” Eric explained, “females just aren’t interested in an intelligent, nice guy like myself. They want bad boys to treat them like rag dolls and whores. I’m done with this shit.”
“At least let me drive you home,” Don pleaded to his friend.
“No! Those are public roads! I’m WALKING home.”
***
Across town, in a much quieter bar, Patricia was lamenting her 60th birthday. “To god for allowing me to live one more year on this godforsaken planet!” she toasted to her friend.
“Maybe you should stop drinking,” Debra replied. “If you get one more DUI, you’ll surely be fired from you VP job at the bank.”
“Poppycock!” Patricia yelled. “Without me, that bank wouldn’t run!”
“Just take it easy, you gotta be at work in the morning.”
Patricia looked down at her watch. “Oh fuck, you’re right. I better go.”
“Well let me drive you home,” Debra pleaded.
“Sit the fuck down bitch,” Patricia replied, “you’re acting like I never drove drunk before.”
Patricia pulled out her keys and revved up the engine to her red Porsche 718 Cayman GTS. She cranked up Def Leopard’s Hysteria album and sped out of the parking lot.
On down the road, while walking home, Eric finally had to relive his bladder. With his deep-seated hatred for all public works, Eric pulled out his penis and began pissing on the street. Patricia, meanwhile, was singing at the top of her lungs to Animal as she burned down the road.
Suddenly, mid-piss, Patricia clipped Eric with her Porsche. He helicoptered into the air before landing on the pavement, unconscious, and covered in urine.
While watching nonstop coverage on the destruction of Florida by a cataclysmic hurricane overnight, I found solace in one thing:
“At least Coolio is still alive,” I kept telling everyone.
Artis Leon “Coolio” Ivey Jr (1963-2022)
Coolio was essentially the soundtrack to my childhood growing up in SoCal during the 90s. Gangsta’s Paradise still fucking kicks, in fact, all his shit is dope.
This is a terrible day in American history. Kids will read about “December 7th, 1941” and “September 11th, 2001”, but they will never read about “September 28th, 2022”: the day Florida got fucked up and Coolio died.
My October is booked the FUCK UP! That doesn’t mean that I’ll stop writing though, that ain’t happening. But that does mean I’m gonna need a little help from artificial intelligence.
Now I don’t have a clue what my short story will be about. Therefore I turned to a random story generator from writingexcerises.co.uk. I had to refresh it a few times to get a story I liked, and here’s what it generated:
“A woman in her sixties, who can be quite compassionate.
A man in his early thirties, who can be quite aggressive.
The story begins in a nightclub.
Someone is driven out of their home.
It’s a story about greed.
Your character reluctantly becomes involved”
So there you have it. October’s short story will be about an older woman and an incel “falling in love”. Hell yeah dude 👍
Soooo, did I ever talk about Blade Runner on this blog?
I’ve always had a lot of opinions about the film, but it seems like every film buff has wrote a dissertation on it. So what’s the point of clogging up the internet with one more, ya know?
But after ripping off it’s ending in my latest short story, I can’t stop thinking about it.
For the record, and I’ve been very open about this, Blade Runner 2049 is the superior film. By a fucking mile too. Ridley Scott is an interesting visual filmmaker, but all of his movies lack heart. This is true for not only Blade Runner, but Alien, Gladiator, The Martian, etc, as well.
Additionally, I find the script to be underwhelming. Even the film’s most memorable moment (the Tears in Rain monologue) was largely the result of actor Rutger Hauer’s ingenuity and not so much the writer’s. I don’t blame Hampton Fancher and David Peoples for this (the latter would later write Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven). The final script was probably the result of compromise during a troubled production.
Nevertheless, Blade Runner works because everyone else behind the scenes CRUSHED their role, from F/X artist Douglas Trumbull, DP Jordan Cronenweth, composer Vangelis, concept artist Syd Mead, production designer Lawrence G. Paull, and everyone in between.
In Scott’s defense, I believe he sees himself as more of a “CEO”-type filmmaker, or one that brings together highly talented people to do their thing, as opposed to being an auteur himself. So in that respect, he did his job really well. Nevertheless, likely because of this approach, there is an “it” factor that’s lacking in Blade Runner which prevents it from becoming one of the great classics in cinema.
Strangely, I think MOST cinephiles agree with this: Blade Runner is visually and conceptually one of the most influential films of all time. But is it a great movie?
Personally, I think that question is more interesting than the film itself.
But where I disagree with most other fans of the Blade Runner universe are on the Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer) scenes. Hauer feels like he’s acting on an island in this film. While that’s a deliberate choice, his scenes drag the movie down. And to be completely honest, the movie is not nearly as interesting without Harrison Ford on the screen.
Now Ford’s performance is somewhat controversial. It’s noted for being his first “mature” role, and a lot of people don’t like it. He often comes across as detached, grouchy, and needlessly aggressive in some parts. Ford’s performance is a bit dialed back, as opposed to Hauer, who isn’t afraid to be hammy and childish. Unfortunately, Ford acting choices were better suited to the Blade Runner universe and, despite being the leading man, he doesn’t feel like he’s in the film enough.
After I shot Archibald for his supposed “dereliction of duty”, he managed to survive.
“Maybe we’ll just call it even,” the old butler said as he held his hand over the gushing shotgun wound. He placed his arm around my shoulder and I carried him back to the estate.
Darla regained consciousness after being choked out by her dying, naked father. “Is he finally dead?” she asked.
I nodded.
“About fucking time,” she replied, “let’s leave that crazy old bastard’s body out in the woods.”
Everyone agreed.
We all returned to the estate and shared a bottle of brandy. Archibald was looking a little pale due to the massive blood loss. Darla was happy to be home. “What the fuck was up with that arctic fox?” she asked.
I swirled around my glass while I pondered. “I guess it symbolized Mr. Shitz’s soul,” I said. “At his moment of death, the fox took up his spirit. Now Mr. Shitz is truly free; free from man-made constraints, free to live the life he always wanted. And more importantly, he took up my spiritual burdens by becoming the Angel of Death, and bestowing up me full humanity; the greatest gift he ever gave anyone. Or some shit like that. I dunno.”
“Okay good. Glad I wasn’t the only one that saw it,” Darla replied. “Because I was REALLY tripping balls out there.”
We all had a good laugh, including Archibald who continued bleeding all over the couch. Then it occurred to me:
“Did we get Allen Funt out of that hole?”
THE END
*****
Like what your read?
No?
Well the other day, while I was harassing strangers at the airport, I saw a gentleman carrying around these books:
After pestering him for a few minutes, he asked me “are you some kind of fucking moron?” Then he told me where I can find them: Dead Star Press. Moreover, to get me to leave him alone, he said I can use the promo code ‘BM5’ to get 5% off when I checkout at the website. (Then the police escorted me out of the terminal)
And after reading Joseph D Newcomer’s ‘Darkest Day’ and the Press Anthology, it occurred to me: “I’m terrible at this writing business.” So now I leave all that nonsense to Newcomer and his stable of talented writers at Dead Star Press and I will never write another sentence again.
Plus they make really dope shirts:
So stop writing. And stop reading other writers for fuck’s sake! It’s over. And Dead Star Press won. So use the code ‘BM5’ to get 5% off your next purchase!
“Pull the trigger, Jim Grey,” William said as rain poured down his face. “That’s why you’re here, after all.”
I stood frozen in an awe-inspired fear. The nude figure that stood before me transfigured into a dark angel. He was still man, but appeared to possess the powers of hell.
I was unable to pull the trigger.
But before I could react, William grabbed the barrel and slammed the butt of the shotgun to my face. Still conscious, I fell backwards into the muddied forest floor. I could taste something from the corner of my mouth; it was blood, assisted by the rain, streaming down from the wound on my forehead.
I had never bled before.
William now held the shotgun but threw it aside as he stood over me. His cock was inches from my face. Finally, the rush of panic kicked in and I sprinted aimlessly through the woods.
But the newly minted demonic angel was never far behind.
Then I reached an obstacle: a gully nearly 100 feet deep but a little over 10 feet wide. I had no time to think. I leapt across the crevice but my feet missed the landing on the other side.
My life was hanging perilously over the side of a cliff, fingers barely maintaining a grip on a wet, slippery rock jutting over the edge.
William looked down upon me struggling like a helpless creature. For the first time in his 70 years, he felt something he previously thought impossible: sympathy…compassion. Mr. Shitz then entirely hurdled the 10 foot gap and kneeled down before me.
“It’s quite a thing to live in fear, isn’t it?” he asked. “But that’s what it means to feel alive.”
Right as my fingers slipped, William grabbed my wrist and single-handedly pulled me to safety. As he dropped me on land, I impulsively wiggled backwards up to a tree, not knowing what to expect.
The arctic fox wandered up and sat obediently next to Mr. Shitz. The old, dying man gazed upon the animal and sat down before me.
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe,” William told me, “I’ve had shits like fire from a baconator in Hoboken. I watched Harry Reems and Arthur C. Clarke cheer as they masturbate. Now all of those moments will be lost, in time, like the career of David Blaine.”
A look of sorrow fell over William Shitz’s rain-covered face. “Time to die,” he uttered. And with those words, the clouds departed, and the fox trotted off into the sunset.
I laid there for what seemed like hours, pondering Mr. Shitz’s last moments. And in his waning hours, he bestowed upon me the gift of humanity; his last, and perhaps only, act of benevolence.
Then I heard a voice from across the gully. “I guess he’s through, eh?” it asked. It was Archibald, holding the shotgun.
“Finished,” I said.
Archibald tossed the shotgun to my side and started to walk away.
Then he paused.
“It’s too bad I won’t live,” he pondered aloud, “but then again, who does?”
The Internet Ruined Everything 