Buddha's Balls?

I swear to Buddha's balls.  If it's not one thing, it's another.  I've been sick for several days, though I seem to be trending upwards.  At least Smackdown will be on in eighteen minutes.  I'll keep you posted...with posts.


Shoulder Breaker

Papa Shango's finisher was a shoulder breaker?  I don't remember him even having a finisher.  I'm already off-topic.  I wanted to wait until now to comment on this week's wrestling because that seemed like the thing to do.  Did I enjoy the Royal Rumble?  On the whole, yes.  Did I enjoy Raw?  On the whole, no, but the final segment redeemed it.  Samoa Joe debuted and injured Seth Rollins.  Ugh. Did I enjoy Smackdown?  Yes.  Did I enjoy NXT?  On the whole, it depends.  I read the spoilers, but I forgot to fucking watch it.  And I still haven't watched it, but I've shilly-shallied long enough.

Randy Orton would not be my first choice to carry the day, as it were. It could have been worse, Larry.  Roman Reigns didn't win; Goldberg didn't win; The New Day didn't win (I dig the act, but that wouldn't have worked).  I really, really wanted my Undertaker to win. Really.  It just wasn't meant to be, I'm afraid.  Here is how I see the next couple of months playing out.  Roman slowly, methodically turns heel and feuds with The Undertaker.  Consider this.  'Taker is still pissed about being joggled over the top rope.  I recall Roman proclaiming, "This is my yard now!"  Feud.  There it is.

Raw was mostly forgettable.  The tag team division is worthless (with the exception of the champs), and the cruiserweights need to be developed properly.  That's a rant for another diurnal course.  But Samoa Joe!  The Destroyer!  I'm felicitous and tickled goddamn pink that he has belly-flopped onto the main roster with two caveats.  1) I was hoping for Smackdown.  2) Seth is apparently crippled. Personally, I'm holding out hope that his boo-boo is a work.  "But they said it was real."  Of course they said it was real.  What better way to build up a Wrestlemania main event?  Now, I don't know for a fact that it's a work.  I'm merely postulating.  I have the same amount of information as you do.  Or Larry.

As per usual, Smackdown was wall-to-wall awesome.  Folks, we are on the precipice of a full-bloom Luke Harper face turn.  John Cena may be champion, but let's be honest with ourselves.  Doesn't he deserve it?  It's not as if he won it out of a vacuum.  Styles and Cena have tight chemistry, the latter pulling out moves I've never seen him execute.  If any modern day WWE superstar merits eclipsing Ric Flair's record number of title reigns, it's John Cena.  The fucker made me a fan.  Speaking of Smackdown, did you know...should I start a new paragraph?

Did you know that Mickie James is back?  Yeah, that Mickie James. She has befriended Women's Champion Alexa Bliss, which I deem as a smart call.  Smackdown is not NXT.  The crowd isn't packed with fanboys/fangirls who can list off the roster from, say, 2008 and prepare a chant for any wres--sports entertainer who walks that aisle.  For the time being, Mickie is better suited for a villainous role.

If you'll excuse me, I gotta go watch NXT.


My Grain

Migraine.  Goddamn.  I'll be back tomorrow.


Sixteen Body Snatchers From Hell

I'm not 100% healed up (I'd say I'm at 88%), but I'm well enough to resume my duties as a bullshit blogger.  Didn't feel like writing a bona fide review, so I'll just...y'know, blog.  I've consumed quite a bit of pop culture in the last eighteen days.  As of right now, I wanted to discuss Sweet Sixteen, a disregarded slasher hatched in 1983.  I don't know why, but I was expecting to be fatigued by this flick.  Maybe it's because I haven't heard much cheering from the gore groupies I know with regards to Sweet Sixteen ever since it landed on DVD. Chances are, you haven't scoped it either.  You're missing out, big fella!

My apologies if you happen to be a female.  What I'm trying to intimate is that this stabradoodle (you have my permission to use "stabradoodle" in casual conversation) is totally worth subletting.  I wish that sentence made more sense.  Fuck it!  The death sequences are banal, but everything else is put together with surprising discernment.  The acting is natural, the pace is even and the identity of the killer caught this dullard off guard.  Look, we all know I'm a slack-jawed plonker.  You don't have to rub it in, despite some no-name on IMDb claiming that the twist was predictable.

Oh, the screen grab?  That's a man approaching an alien ship in 1968's Goke, Body Snatcher From Hell.  It's a little stylish and a lot wonky.  Would you believe that it's a Criterion release?  The film was included in a box set called When Horror Came to Shochiku right alongside such benders as The X From Outer Space, The Living Skeleton and Genocide.  It's not bad, but if I'm being honest, I drifted off to sleep toward the end.  I can recommend what I saw, though.  Does the phrase "forehead vagina" mean anything to you? No, Goke wasn't directed by David Cronenberg.

I just might check in tomorrow or the next day to give my impressions of the Royal Rumble.  And Raw.  And Smackdown.


Bad Day

Sabbatical.  Accident today.  Thought I broke my leg, but I didn't. Hurts, though.  Hand still hurts.  Long story.


Blood Capsule #69


"Cop kabob!"  Fuck, don't you just love cheesy one-liners in cheesy horror films of yesteryear?  Even the bad ones (I'm talking suicidally bad) put a doltish grin on my face.  That's how I would describe my impression of 1992's Sleepwalkers.  It's stupid...God, it's stupid, but it made me forget the world for 91 minutes.  I appreciate that because I'm currently nursing a (possibly) broken hand, and I'll take any frowzy, frou-frou entertainment I can find.  Going in, I didn't realize that Stephen King adapted the screenplay from his own unpublished story.  What is it with him and icky subject matter?  If I had only read It and watched Sleepwalkers, I would wonder about his preoccupation with prepubescent gangbanging and incestuous pussy monsters.

Mick Garris directs it all with a cool, imperturbable stasis (you'd never guess that it was a scrambled shoot).  I dug the steady pans and the rich lighting.  The occasional hiccup editing?  Well, I blame the studio, although a heft of juicy gore did escape their imposed scissors.  The acting is better than I was expecting.  Madchen Amick is a peach as the virginal, lily-white Tanya.  I actually wanted her to live, which I'm told is a good thing.  And I'd give King credit for crafting down-to-earth characters, but unfortunately, I'd also have to give him credit for plot holes and haphazard dialogue.  Seriously, what the fuck was up with the black policeman (oops, I mean African-American; I wouldn't want to offend white people)?  There comes Johnny with his pecker in his hand?  He's off to the rodeo?  What???

Sleepwalkers is fun.  Not as fun as, say, playing board games with anthropomorphized soft pretzels, but still.


Go Bloodsuck Yourself

Depression, am I right?  Here lately, I haven't had any interest in activities I would normally be interested in.  No energy.  No real desire to go outside or even get out of bed.  That's fucking depression.  But hey, I've been dealing with it for over a decade now, and it pirouettes in crests.  Of course, the crest is the highest point of a wave.  I'm currently in a trough (that's the lowest point, for all you middle-schoolers out there).  Misery intensifies during the winter months, as it does for most folks who suffer from chronic depression.

What am I going on about?  Oh!  Don't expect the site to renew its strength until 2017 is mushrooming.  I've been sitting on an episode of Insomnia Theatre, and I have plenty of movies to critique.  I just watched 1976's Bloodsucking Freaks.  Probably should have reviewed it, but MEH.  See, that's the depression talking.  I did like it. It's supposed to be an uproarious comedy, right?


Christmas Corpse