Wallow with me once more—won’t you?—through an annotated ranking of the lowest of the loathsome, the dankest of the despicable, the most woeful of the worst.
One hundred steps to Hades, spread out over a decade.
Come, now. Again. Then rue … forever.
America, like Jesus to the Doobies, is just all right with me.
So I think I most detest the presumptuousness of this declaration, coupled with the rancid, disingenous pomposity of the clown doing the declaring.
“Football Night in America” is “Simpsons, Family Guy, and (when there are new episodes) Dexter Night” in my house, you saggy blowhard.
And I really, really, really fucking hate and despise football.
“The bedspread wiggled … like, three whole times!”
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut UP! SHUT UP!! SHUUUT UUUPPP!!!!
Still, this anti-talent did prompt the endlessly detestable Salon.com (remember that outpost of digital feces from the ’90s?) to hilariously run a profile under the headline: “The Coppola Clan’s Best Director?”
Fucking Roman laughs at that ludicrousness.
76. HATCHET (2006)
This shitty, (unfunny) joke-a-minute slasher spoof was simply bad.
What rendered Hatchet incalculably worse (and, in fact, memorable at all) were all the fakes describing it as “old school.”
Such claimants were legion, right up to fright legend and Hatchet headliner Robert Englund, whom I saw onstage at a Fangoria convention.
When somebody mentioned Hatchet, this otherwise total class act pumped his fist and beamed twice: “Old school! … Old school!”
It turns out Freddy Kreuger is a LIAR!
75. NO IMPACT MAN.
The real crime against our environment: I used to know this moneyed, privileged, hackneyed fraud and regularly be within sodomizing distance of him.
Alas(s), I didn’t, when I had the chance, turn him into RECTAL IMPACT MAN.
I did chub up when they bludgeoned his wife to death on Law and Order, though.
74. Hipsters pretending to hate The Eagles.
I love you, Big Lebowski but, this, I cannot abide.
73. Over-goddamn-reaction to LET THE RIGHT ONE IN.
What starts out as—and remains, for quite a while—a remarkable, moving tone study in childhood loneliness ultimately collapses into dumb-shit revenge flick dynamics. And that’s what puts the bogusness into all the “BEST. VAMPIRE. MOVIE. EVER.” foaming over Let the Right One In.
Now make no mistake, you are not reading a knock on dumb-shit revenge flicks from this fanatical devotee of Vigilante, Tenement, the late, great Robert Ginty’s mighty Exterminator movies, and the like.
But in the context of the slow, steady sadness throughout the first two-thirds of Right One, to have it collapse into kick-ass, consequence-free adolescent murder fantasies is a cop-out and plain wrong, wrong, wrong.
I enjoy hearing the word “bluude” repeated over and over again as much as anyone, but Right One hyperbolists are directed to return to F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922) and Carl Theodore Dreyer’s Vampyr (1932) and proceed forward before blasting the contents of their Swedish meatballs all over their Ikea slipcovers.
69. ROB ZOMBIE.
The goddamnable thing about Rob Zombie—terrible musician, christawful filmmaker, indirect purveyor of leather cowboy hats, cherry tattoos, work shirts with flames on them and all manner of other revolting crapola—is that he seems like one whale of a nice, interesting, savvy, and thoroughly likable fella.
Such mysteries are not ours to successfully solve, but Rob Zombie movies and records are certainly ours to stridently avoid.
That’s easy enough when it comes to his mongoloid dance-metal but it proves quite the challenge when Zombie’s latest brainless, frenetic, celluloid toilet-dunk suddenly lighs up the multiplex.
I mean, the weekend rolls around and you’ve got to see something, right?
Particularly egregious was the lazy, boring, and infuriatingly dishonest The Devil’s Rejects (2005), which was rendered eminently more contemptible by mainstream critics deciding: “Okay this here is the semi-annual genre-related piece of shit we all decide to pump up so’s we can convince ourselves we’re, like, with it.”
The Devil’s Rejects is New York City art-school nerd Zombie playing store-bought White Trash fueled by counterfeit nihilism so clueless that his only way out is through “Free Bird”—and I mean all of fucking “Free Bird.”
And don’t forget: “Tutti-fuckin’ fruity!”
68. THE DA VINCI CODE.
Like any other sane adult who actually read The Da Vinci Code—and apparently there were several trillion of us suckers (although “sane” remains entirely debatable)—I picked up this offense to language, rationality, plot, logic, and simple goddamned storytelling at an airport and slogged through it, cover to sickening cover, on a flight.
Had I not been destined for Toronto, home of the mam-nificent full-contact lap-dance emporium Zanzibar, I may well have leapt off the plane in hope that, by some odd chance, my formidable body weight would come thundering down—at maximum speed and with lethal impact—upon idiotic author Dan Brown.
To paraphrase Truman Capote (which I pronounce “Truman E. Capoat”): “That’s not writing, that’s direct defecation into my eyeballs.”
The Da Vinci Code is the worst book I have ever finished. It is also the favorite book of the stupidest individual(s)you know. Ask around.
It won’t stay stopped.
Of course, Perry Farrell’s touring foreskin-drippage was dead on arrival in ’91, but there’s no keeping a dillhole-cash-depriving juggernaut of such nauseating proportions buried where it belongs.
But that doesn’t mean international jihadists shouldn’t give it the ol’ Mullah-fuckin’ try.
66. SLEAZOID EXPRESS maven Bill Landis flames out, once and forever.
Goodnight, insane-horrible-awesome-pioneering-genius man.
65. ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT.
Bonus: David Cross anywhere except Mr. Show, the Chipmunks movies, or in a flaming crematorium. Not dead. Yet.
64. “ONE LESS CAR!” bicycle jackoffs.
This condemnation comes from me, a big city bicycle commuter since high-school. I bike because it’s fun, it’s cheap, it’s efficient, and you can park anywhere.
Until then, I want no congratulations from anyone for the fact that I prefer to pedal around.
And I’d like you to run down, and then back up over, any of my fellow bicyclists whose day-glo vest suggests otherwise.
Try to do it while I’m nearby. I’ll help.
63. Band names modeled on WHEEL OF FORTUNE’s “Before and After” puzzles.
Of REO Speedealer, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, The Mothers of Intervention, and all their contemptible cronies, somehow I most despise Tom Tom Petty.
And it ain’t out of warm feelings toward Tom Petty!
Not Thunderbird. That would be “the word.”
Particularly galling were the pyramids of bottles clogging tables at every crap-ass restaurant for the 18 months or so following the release of Sideways.
No matter how much I got off on fantasizing about shattering those glass containers and using them as surprise sex-toys on the pompous fools carting them to a take-out Thai joint—and, believe me, got off on it, I did—I really do NOT want to know how to pronounce the words “pinot grigio”.
And, yet I, who has (happily) not consumed any alcohol in more than 10 years, most assuredly (unhappily) do.
And extra especially because: In this world, during this life, who can abide he who hates not?
Infinitely more hatable is the plural: “haterz.”
That’s correct. With a “z”. That’s how you’ll see grown men and women spelling it: “haterz”.
Feel that? It’s hate, hater.
And the shits just keep on coming. Next dispatch will include Gossip Girl, “foodies”, Allan Ball, The Aristocrats, Jason Schwartzman’s repugnant punim, and poker (but NOT “Pokerface”—that remains my all-time #1 jam!).
While you wait, do peruse The 100 Most Heinous Cultural Atrocities of the 2000s: #100-81.
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