Put BBC With Ted Bundy (Basically Mass-Raped the World of Robin Hood)

Don’t get me wrong, I love(d) Robin Hood. That show was probably one of the only things worth watching these days, and most of the times it had me holding my bloody ribs in agonising joy. I swear, I’d resorted to wearing knee guards for every episode I watched so that when my knees buckled and I was forced by that good feeling in your gut to bow down to that superior genius who created this almighty source of entertainment and shout, “LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!”, my patellas wouldn’t crumble to pieces, because I assure you, with the number of times I buckled, it’s astonishing to find that them guards are still intact.

So, how does this link with that huge thing up ahead we call a ‘header’? How does my (un)dying love for one of the most brilliant television series ever created link up with a “pathetic deadbeat excuse of a storyline”? Because they had to go all BOLD AND THE BEAUTIFUL on us, which is a hundred and ninety-nine to the power of infinty squared percent unacceptable!!! It’s absolutely terrible! The only thing I think I looked forward to was watching the character development of Guy of Gisborne when he wasn’t constantly whinging. I winced and grimaced and clawed at the door while watching every episode of Season Three, I don’t even see why I even bothered carrying on watching it. I just figured the geniuses who were behind Seasons 1 and 2 would catch a wake up call and realise what terrible, heinous crime they were doing to the world of literature and film! Really! What utter blood-infused piles of watery bullshit they were forcing into my mouth; frankly, it’s disgusting!

First, there was the untimely removal of Marian at the end of Season Two; Will Scarlet and Jack were also taken out of the Gang; the Sheriff of Nottingham was blasted out as well (although he rejoins us, it’s still terribly lame and very DAYS OF OUR LIVES, don’t you think? That little motion of his hand? Coming back from the dead? Damn them all!), Allan’s ineffective end (how ridiculous! Allan was one of my favourite characters and they go ahead and have the nerve to do that … It’s a bloody embarrassment, I don’t know how these “people” live with themselves), and Tuck… He’s an iconic character in Robin Hood, right? Everybody knows Tuck. He just IRKED me. I liked that an African man filled the role, but that role was just THIN. Just absolutely dry and IRKSOME. Yes, I have resorted to repeating adjectives. I will scratch that and say: were they trying to sellotape my mouth to the behind of a victim of dysentery? Because, that’s what it felt like!

Not to mention all that family saga between Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne. They completely made me do a 180 degrees and found a deep hatred for Robin Hood (wait a minute, isn’t he the pro-bloody-tagonist???? Catching on, now, have you?). The romance in Season Three was so two-dimensional and disgusting that I had to throw my hand out over the edge of my bed and grab a dustbin before I projectile vomited on the screen. Isabella? Absolute soap-opera material. All that drama about her abusive spouse and all that villainy crap; it was such a typical, soapy thing to do. And how long has it been since Robin Hood’s relationship with Marian? Thought she was the love of your life, Robin. Couldn’t keep it in your pants, could ya? And then there was Kate. Oh joy to the world, Robin Hood found Kate! Is it just me, or does it seem like the almighty legend is being branded a promiscuous man-whore? Unnaturally fast how he was over Isabella. Very unnaturally and ridiculously fast.

Give me a break, I liked Kate quite a bit, but that turn of events was like OH MY YAKKING GRANMAMA’S FANNYWOBBLES, can you get any more ridiculous? All those signs between her, Allan and Much, and I’m waiting for this huge thing to unfold and suddenly it turns out, Allan doesn’t give a rat’s bollocks about her and Much is “okay” with her and Robin. It was nauseating to watch.

Bloody hell, that Season Three was the most unnecessary thing in the history of film and television, and I’ll even count Twilight into the mix, and you know how much I hate Twilight; that Twihater post was more than enough proof. Nobody cares if you crap on a pile of crap, but this was like a defecation on the face of the Mona Lisa or spraying cat piss all over the Sistine Chapel. At least with Twilight, there weren’t any expectations involved.

Thank you, BB-yakking-C, for absolutely nothing. Abso-bloody-lutely NOTHING. Ya shoulda ended it off with Season Two and ya woulda left a whole generation unscarred. Now we people with brains, a heart and an appreciation for art have to stand witnesses to the demolition of a really, really genuine work of art. Hope you wake up in bed one day, clutching your hearts in wild panic and go all Marie-Antoinette with your white koppies and shout on the top of your bloody lungs: “LORD, FORGIVE ME FOR THE TERRIBLE SIN I HAVE COMMITTED!” and pray, just pray, because if the pearly gates were guarded by a literary fanatic such as I am, you’re getting kicked into the gutters of Hell where you belong.

Enjoy.

I Lie Prostrate Before the Almighty Lord of Film and Literature (Deathly Hallows)

My, oh, my …

I can’t believe I actually caught The Premiere!!! Living in South Africa has its ups and downs, and although most of the downs are outweighed by the good things, like boerewors and braais and other such goodies only the racy town of Joburg could provide, I thought I had developed a severe case of Mental Leprosy by the bits of me I seemed to be observing that had fallen apart when I heard that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Part One) was only coming out on the 3rd of December.

So, there I’m going to the wilderness that is known as Le Cinema, thinking, “Drat it! I’d be celebrating me birthday with something worthwhile had I been living in London or California!” (and anyone who knows me will know that the thought of immigration doesn’t exactly appeal to me, so this was a pretty out-there-in-no-man’s-land kinda dangerous) when just as the tires screech as we draw to an abrupt and dramatic halt, and the smoke of our tyres skidding draws in and causes a dense cloud to form around us, I see it: bold, beautiful and bloody heartstoppingly glorious:

The kind of magic that was racing my mind and my heart, it was insane, I thought my magical powers would be endowed upon me at that moment! (I am adamant that I am a late bloomer. So what, the magic hasn’t come yet? Some people just mature later than others. So, yes, I may be a seventeen-year-old five-year-old…)

I knew, I just knew, that the fates were with me! So, I set up contacting my soulmate (sweet, sweet Vickashnee Nair, who had said that she would dice me into little cubes before dipping me into a chlorine tank – or something of that sort – if I dared watch Harry Potter without her) and by a sweet turn of fate, she said, “Yes! I’m coming!” which was miraculous, because a five minute notification wouldn’t get by so well with most parents (and we’re in the middle of our Final Exams which may shape the rest of our lives … but Hell with it! This was Harry Potter! How can anyone not sacrifice a few little things to watch it on its release date??? That’s insane!).

And here is where the twist comes. We were all lucky until I got into that damn ticket line! I was there, I tapped on that touch screen with sheer force from the excitement that was building up in my fingers, when suddenly the screen went phooey and showed me these two words that would be etched in my memory forever:

SOLD OUT

I fell to the floor as my knees buckled and I thought that life itself would be over. For good. I nearly wept, but I maintained enough dignity to not humiliate myself in public, when this shockingly *DING! DING! DING!* idea came to me: We could sneak in! The responsible, and at that point incorrect part of me said, “Caution, young one. Caution! You have your whole life ahead of you; catch it next week Friday! Watch another movie and rejoice in Harry Potter when your exams are over and you are well at heart and mind and soul.” I nearly listened to that deceitful little bugger! Thank Merlin the better, more prominent and often reckless side of me shouted over it: “TO HELL WITH CAUTION! THIS IS POTTER!” before I kicked that little midget into that never-ending hole in the ground as I yawped a battle cry!

We bought the tickets for “Life As We Know It” (the 8pm show) and smiled in a sly manner, rubbing our hands together. Success would be ours. As soon as that minute hand reached the twelve signalling the twentieth hour of the day, we ran into the cinema house showing Harry Potter and we were victorious!

My God, had I ever seen something so beautiful, so sleek, so enticing and so bloody brilliant? A work of art no genius could surpass!!! I enjoyed every little bit of it, the small things and the other, larger and more important ones; it was like a really, really wonderful, spectacular bowl of soup. The carrots and the peas and potatoes and what-not added to it just as much flavour as the chunks of meat; every element contributed to its wonder as a whole. It was fabulous. Absolutely fabulous. As soon as I ingested it, I felt a warmth and quivering excitement fill my belly!

My favourite, favourite, favourite scene from the movie was, oddly enough, not even in the book, when Harry and Hermione were dancing in the tent. It seems ridiculous almost, considering the sheer amount of awesomeness in each part with the action and the romance and the sorrow when certain people passed away, but that part just captivated me more than the others. It was so sweet, so delicate, and the music was absolutely PERFECT. I can’t get my mind away from it; it’s all I’ve been thinking about (and every time I think about it, I smile like a lunatic and my friends exclaim on the top of their lungs what a freak I look like, but I don’t care if I look goofy because I have THAT to think about). It was so sincere and so deeply rich with art, emotion and this warm fuzzy feeling. I can’t explain it.

It has officially switched me from my original, most prominent Potterverse ship, Draco/Hermione to Harry/Hermione. Okay, that was irrelevant and very girlishly dorky of me. Scratch that. I will try to keep a bit of my intellectual reputation safe.

It was so true to the book, which I think is terribly important, only really altering bits of it to enhance the cinematic effect it has on its audience and to add the cohesiveness of the story as a film, while also adding its own spice to be original and give a lot more to the fanatics (like me) who have read the book over and over again. This in itself is immensely difficult to do, which makes doing a book-film adaptation extremely and often impossibly difficult. And David Yates and all the cast and crew managed to do that.

They deserve a bloody award! Screw that, they deserve to bloody go down on history, for goodness’ sake!

That experience has altered me as a potential film-maker/artist/writer/thespian. It has most absolutely set in stone what I want to do, and it’s that. I’m not at all dissuaded by just how perfect the film was, a perfection that I could never achieve; but I am very, very, very sure that now, I have a goal and a epitome of what I want to do high up on a pedestal, that I’ll look upon every single day and work towards. It’s pretty scary how motivated I am by this film, because, normally, I’m the most demotivated and demotivating person I know.

So there it is, all in a nutshell, exactly what I’m thinking in regard to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (the film) Part One. Check ya later, mates; I’m off to assemble my Hogwarts uniform and my wand (paper exterior, silicon core, eleven inches. Very flexible, with an asphalt-black coat, and extremely dangerous when yielded by a powerful wizard or witch (i.e. me)) for next week Friday, when I catch it again on circuit, this time in my full and proper attire.

A slightly biased, but otherwise level-headed and most often right witch (magical being, that is, not the word you’ll call an evil, old crone who’s beating you with her walking stick, because that’s totally incorrect anyway in terms of Potterverse),

Spreaddapoo

Job Shadows, Blow Jobs, Six Spouses and Dieting

I know: there’s a ring to it ;D

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I’m outta school experiencing “the REAL world”, as the adults like to call it. I’ll be standing on my own two feet rooted to the floor and waiting for the aliens to abduct me, because we all know that’s what happens in film studios.

Yes, I am shadowing a film studio (Riverstone Films) and yes, I want to be a filmmaker and brainwash the population with highly scandalous propaganda. It’s every freak’s wish and I’m legitimate. It’s in central JHB, though… If Ma turns out to have no means of getting me there and I have to push the trolley for her at her office instead, I’ll load the magazine, put a .9 calibre rifle to my head and fondle the trigger (no idea what it means though, but very guerilla-esque).

Talking about fondling the trigger, I still haven’t given that almighty fellatio I’ve been meaning to give! I know it’s not the type of thing you rush and sure, maybe there’s some high sign from up above that’s screaming, “NO!”, when every time you try to get a guy to experiment on, they bail (Reese just didn’t pitch, so I’m sitting there alone in the cinema watching “Prince of Persia” and Taj just sorta fell through… before grabbing another girl [to date! Not to go down on him]).

Exploring the Netherlands, man! Brutally accepting the most challenging challenge without taking your clothes off, and I haven’t done it! All somebody *no names mentioned* told me was to grab a guy with dik thighs. Mighty useful, ‘ey? (NOT!) And the only tip I can find online is – DON’T BITE. Yeah, because that’s just what I’d be planning to do, ‘ey? Sink my teeth into that hard, cylindrical boner? Although I guess some form of nibbling could be a method of arousing different sensations.

Moving onto other forms of pleasure – nonsexual, that is. A commitment of sorts that should, in fact, precede the sexual! Although, I have mixed feelings about the whole sex-before-marriage debate, but if it keeps stupid social issues at bay, I’m happy to say I’ll agree with it… Anydoo, no the point. I am happy to say that I am a proud polygamist. Having married five women (only five because I recently divorced my sixth – stolen from me by that damned Rick Gilbert!) and one man (recently married. He proposed today), I officially state that six spouses make me a very happy polygamist woman.

I do feel that I should marry another four husbands, just to make it even, but since sexy men are on the short right now, I am afraid that will have to wait until the gene pool starts strengthening. Fear not, I will have my ten spouses before I bite the dust in the bucket kicking festival of absolute graveness.

What I wouldn’t give for a last supper though? Probably have the hugest buffet the world will ever see – that the universe will ever see, for goodness’ sake!!! Anyway, turns out surviving on carrot sticks and apple slices aren’t as fulfilling as they make them out to be in model-fashion-movies. Stupid superstickmodels. They just want to show off their endurance skills, ‘ey?

I am now a vegetarian and (although I’m starving my guts out of my anus) I believe I am making the right choice. I will eat no meat excluding eggs and dairy (which technically isn’t meat) for both ecological and health reasons… Junk food is also a no-go. I’m serious about this. I can feel it in my ovaries. There’s something big coming (and no, it’s not a penis making a dive for the soft, luscious double-decker inside of my mouth).

PROUDLY S.A. FULL-BLOWN ENTERTAINMENT!

Looking at the rise in South Africa’s entertainment field, there won’t be enough space in my head before it explodes with excitement and S.A. pride! Yeah, babe, we’ve got it ALL and I ain’t exaggerating when I say that. We’ve got the sweet, sweet music, the multi-ranging film genres that are beyond aaawwweeesome, the novels that say “This is what writing is all about”.

And I’m proud of it all. Despite the fact that fifty percent of all film watchers outside South Africa think we’re too un-hollywoodesque to make it big time, I think we’ve got something virtually no Hollywood entertainment has: we’ve got soul and human dignity that shouts: I AM THE UNTAINTED, PURELY GOOD LIFE!

If you want a very brief inside look at the S.A. music, check out my previous blog. And a tiny crack into the vast, infinite room of brilliant S.A. films: look at the Academy Award winning ‘Tsotsi’, ‘District 9′ the sci-fi film that received 3-Oscar-nominations, the upcoming movie ‘Spud’ based on the worldwide bestselling novels by John van der Ruit, ‘Bakgat’ is hilarious on all Afrikaner counts… DAMN, it feels good to be proud of my country’s accomplishments.

Here are the few trailers for some of the awesome S.A. films:

I realise I’m going on a Proudly S.A. rampage, but I’m enjoying it every step of the way.

Sweet South African Honey for the Ears

Whoever said S.A. doesn’t have any talent can take their farty, ignorant arses and stick it to their face where it belongs, because damn, we have got L.I.F.E. music!!! XD

Locnville is too, too awesome!! If the Jonas Brothers sang like that, maybe I wouldn’t think they’re pansy wusses with shrunken-balls disorders.  Their music is pure feel good, feet-quaking music.

As for Die Antwoord, almost completely different to Locnville, but still sweet to the soul. You can still hear the Afrikaner in their voice which adds to the Proudly South African burst of love in my heart. Talent good enough to give those damn Americans a run for their money.

Other great S.A. artists include Arno Carstens, Freshly Ground, Wonderboom, Watershed, City Bowl Mizers and more…

Stupid Stars And Their Offensive Grins

Stupid star and his offensive grin

A star grins, sparkling offensively as his
tongue in cheek
Turns into foot in mouth
And he pukes
Sewerage through his
gleaming,
offensively grinning,
sparkling
white teeth.

In a pool of eternal darkness,
He splays himself
luxuriously
And in his black hand
Is a black glass
Of muddy champagne camouflaged in the dark
As he continues to smile
with his
shiny,
gleaming,
offensively grinning,
sparkling
white teeth.

Stupidly smiling
Always
stupidly grinning,
Always
with the corners of his stupid
white mouth
lifted up into a crescent;
Always
stupid
as he chokes on his own
pool of waste,
Always
stupidly grinning
stupidly smiling

Stupid stars
And their offensive grins.

Two Gruelling Hours of Burning My Eyes Out With The Twishite Saga

Yes, believe it or not, I watched it.

…

(Space for you to recover from the staggering blow)

…

Remember back in the days when I loved Twilight? (If you don’t, it doesn’t really matter, just play along.) And then I grew a brain cell, became a multicellular organism and realised how stupid, disturbing, crappy, grotesque, nonsensical, worst-shit-of-literature-I’ve-ever-read-esque it was? Well, this was  NOT, I repeat: NOT, an attempt to relive those ignorant years of my unicellular life. This was me taking in that worst piece of rubbish just so I could rant and rave about how rubbish it is (oh, we human beings just love to loathe, don’t we?)

There are not enough words in the dictionary to tell you how nauseating that film was. Honestly, it managed to somehow disappoint my expectations of how shitty it would be by being even shittier! It’s amazing: I enjoyed Twishite more than New Moan, and Twishite was directed on low budget, by an Indie filmmaker, whilst New Moan was all big-time glitz and glam! How did it even manage to squirm its way through the cerebral lobes of those brainwashed girls (and guys — *vomit*) and embed within the very core the understanding that it is in fact in any way higher than the state of below shit-mode???

Cow dung has more nutrients than that ridiculous piece of gunk, even after progressing through the four stomachs of the infamous bovine creature and sucked dry of any useful goods!!! Those bloodsuckers sucked the goo from my eyes, the liquids from my cerebral cortex, the life from my body; if its point was to prove a point, then it has: a person CAN get stupider by stupidly watching stupid garble for stupid reasons that only proves that s/he is stupid.

I have seen worse films give me more pleasure, senile grandparents give a bigger erection, I’ve seen obese women shmooshing in bouts of ecstasy giving me more than that film has given me, and if those filmmakers had any sense (which they clearly don’t) then they’d stop producing those abominable things they think can even be classified as “films” and suck it up! What were those publishers even thinking when they were looking through that good-for-nothing manuscript??? What was going through their pea-sized brains??? (Scratch that: their non-existent brains?)

“Ooh, this looks like something we can brainwash the media with…”

“Look! Garble! Suits this generation!”

“Gunk dunk funk sunk lunk?” (i.e. nothing but junk?)

Overall:
Special effects: Laughable
Plot: Are you seriously asking me? Non-winding, non-twisting, non-pleasing, non-developing, non-satisfying, non-thoughtout, non-intelligent, non-plausible, non-realistic, non-fantasylike, non-magical, non…..
Characters: Read above.
Actors: Haha. You think actors develop and get better with more experience, but once again, Twishite proves us wrong.
Set and costumes: Same, old, boring shite, although the one plus were those red robes? But screw it, they look gay because its ultra-mojo-stick has been stuck up in the deeper colon of the unfabulous Twishite Saga.
Music: Same old, same old, doesn’t compliment the non-existent storyline, doesn’t emphasise the dry, bland moods created (what creating?) by the actors/actresses.
Editing: Shit.

I leave you with the assurance that I have a whole neverending train of insults and crapper-talk still ready to burst through these walls, but the sensible one in me states that it’s not possible for anyone to have even come this far with my ranting, so…

Bye.

P.S. In response to Rebels’ J.P. Douglas’s comment, “Guerrilla blogging! Take no prisoners!”:

And I intend to do just that (Scratch the smiley. Guerilla bloggers don’t smile. So not guerilla-esque.)

I’ve Watched Way Too Many Damn Romance Movies

As “tough” and tomboyish as I love being and as much as I love pointing a finger in the direction of any girl with a miniskirt on, I must admit that I can’t stop watching those cliche’d, gooey, soft-centred chick flicks. Sure, my whole life may revolve around the most genius worlds of Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars et cetera, but somehow there’s always a little space in this little heart of mine to laugh, sob and feel my heart light up into flames as I sit in front of that tiny screen I call a T.V. and watch Romeo and Juliet or Moulin Rouge.

Titanic is the most ultimate romance movie of all time (both in my eyes and the rest of the sensible world’s): I’ve watched it at least ten times since the age of six and I have cried every single time. As soon as that theme song hits me, I’m a goner for sure. The Notebook made me sob endlessly (I consider this a one-time movie, but maybe it’s just me?)!!! Two lovers, forbidden and long-lost, one seemingly moving on and the other hopelessly down below, meet again after however long and find their love to still be growing strong! 365 unreciprocated letters later and it seems like all hope is lost (though that elastic band snaps right back in Noah’s face)…

I never tire of those cliche’d old movies. I love them to bits. I love loving them to bits too! Screw my reputation, I’m not afraid to tell the world exactly how much I feel for these damn tearjerkers! What makes it so, I wonder? Is it the hope that maybe this could be me? Is it the realisation that this could never be me and this is the only way that I could ever experience such a life? Is it just that my heart has a built-in soft spot for these things???

*Sigh* But getting to the title of this blog now: So, how could watching what you love be said in such a negative way (anyone catch the “too many” part???)? Yes, it’s a bad thing. I keep expecting Life to be like it is in the movies. I forget that you can’t necessarily trust someone with your whole life and not expect it to come stabbing you in the back later on. I forget that getting that first kiss with the guy who you thought was ‘the one’ could be as ridiculously, alarmingly, grotesquely, disgustingly unpleasant just as it could be the perfect kiss (It was the former, mind you)

I had such high hopes. I’ll die a virgin. I’ll die unmarried, chaste and disgusted by the idea of fornicating. I’ll die watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and thinking to myself: “Now, if only Life followed those exact same principles… AND IF ONLY I COULD ERASE MY MEMORY!!!”

New Fanvid: XOVER (RTWM/Skins)

Life is a really, really, REALLY big furnace

Maybe Life is a burning furnace and we are the fuel, the little, wooden logs.

Maybe we were alright, we were happy, when we were outside that fireplace on the marble tiles in front of the fire, only really gathering bits of heat and knowing that nothing could ever touch us in that one comfortable moment; we were whole, unscarred and pure for the short time we were out.

And then we’re thrown in.

I guess it makes sense to say we were resistant at first. The flames only lick our skin as an affectionate pet would a beloved owner. But slowly, it starts to work its way through, coaxing us into putting down our defences, the walls we know we need to keep ourselves safe.

And that’s when the pain kicks in; pain beyond measure, pain beyond count, it burns and it kills and we can’t do a single thing to put it out, to save us the agony. And we scream and writhe in pain as the fires of Life burn away our souls, and the memories of what life was like outside that furnace become lost in the devouring smoke. We forget all the things that were worth living for, we lose our sense of purpose… we are gone.

We’re burned away, consumed by the horror, the pain, the helpless struggling until we’re pushed straight off the edge of that cliff we call ‘sanity’. Until there’s nothing left but ashes and dust.