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Archive for June, 2012

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HENRY’S FIELD OF DREAMS

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HENRY’S FIELD OF REALITY

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JUS’ THINKING

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Do Black people read comic books?

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Have you noticed how they’ll take a Gallup Poll about ANYTHING these days?

If I wanted to pay em for it, I could get em to conduct a Gallup Poll about whether I should wear boxer shorts or jockeys to work tomorrow.

“Well, Joe Bob, 37 per cent of the American people say you’re a jockey personality. Fifteen per cent say you should wear boxers. Everybody else doesn’t wanna think about your underwear.”

And it would be SCIENTIFIC, and have a three per cent margin or error and all that, and people would ACTUALLY BELIEVE IT MEANS SOMETHING. Because, if it’s a poll, SOMEBODY will believe it.

I’ll give you an example. Newsweek and some other publications have been taking polls on whether Michael Jackson is guilty of molesting little boys or not, and it usually breaks down about like:

55 per cent yes

50 per cent no

5 per cent no answer

Now think about this. Shouldn’t the poll ALWAYS turn out “100 per cent of the people we asked have NO FRIGGIN IDEA”?

I mean, NOBODY KNOWS, right?

Nobody was in the room except Michael and MAYBE a kid.

But nobody who’s answering the poll knows diddly squat, right?

So why are they taking the dadblame poll? To find out how popular the verdict is gonna be IN ADVANCE? This is why we have trials–so that idiots who have ALREADY DECIDED are ELIMINATED FROM THE JURY.

Somebody put out a poll on the Burt Reynolds/Loni Anderson divorce, along the lines of, “Do you think BURT broke up the marriage, or LONI broke up the marriage?”

Once again, shouldn’t the results be “100 per cent of those polled had NO FIRSTHAND INFORMATION whatsoever and therefore NO EARTHLY IDEA”?

Maybe we should do a poll on whether Bill and Hillary have sex once a week, twice a week, seven times a week, or never. After all, it doesn’t matter what we know about it. It’s a poll. It’s American. We get to VOTE ON IT.

Listen up, people.

If you don’t know what you’re saying, listen to yourself and shut up.

I don’t wanna have to tell you this again.

Speaking of great numbers, blonde bombshell Teri Polo stars in “Quick” as an assassin who walks into Beverly Hills boutiques and blows gangsters away, but feels real depressed about it afterwards. It’s kind of like “Mary Tyler Moore Joins the Mafia,” with kinky sex.

Actually, Teri only kills for true love. She’s the girlfriend of slimeball DEA agent Jeff Fahey, who runs up thousands of dollars of gambling debts and accepts assassination assignments from the biggest drug lord in El Lay, Robert Davi. (Is it my imagination, or is Robert Davi the mastermind criminal in EVERY B movie of the last five years?) But when Jeff gets these drug-lord hit jobs, he assigns them to his girlfriend Teri, and she’s very grateful to do the hits because that means that later Jeff’ll chain her to the bed, pull her hair, and make her yell a lot. (It’s an El Lay thing. Don’t ask.)

So anyhow, Teri decides to do one last big job, by kidnapping this guy who’s in the federal witness protection program because he was Davi’s accountant, and then she and Jeff will run off to paradise together with all their money.

Unfortunately, blood spurts, bodies roll, and Teri ends up flying down a desert highway in a pizza-delivery car with Martin Donovan, the geek accountant, while trying to figure out what to do with her life.

Uh oh. You know what’s coming.

YES. A road movie.

I’m a SUCKER for road movies.

This one is great.

Fourteen dead bodies. Three breasts. Multiple aardvarking. Three motor vehicle chases. Gratuitous beer-and-moon-pie dinner. Kung Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for the chain-smoking guilt-ridden hitwoman Teri Polo, for saying “What kind of hostage are you anyway?”; Robert Davi, for saying “No need to go ballistic on this, let’s work something out” and “You know what?–shoot me, man, just shoot me”; Martin Donovan, as the wimpola geekster embezzler accountant, for saying “Do you know what it’s like to waste your life?”; Jeff Fahey, one of the best lizard-face slicked-hair sleazebags in a while, for saying “I trusted you, baby, but you never should have trusted me”; and Rick King, the director, for doing it the drive-in way.

Four stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

 

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Bernd Jürgen Brandes

Germany

On 9 March 2001, Armin Meiwes severed the penis of Bernd Brandes in Rotenburg, Germany, then killed him. The two met through a website called The Cannibal Cafe after Meiwes advertised for “a well-built 18 to 30-year-old to be slaughtered and then consumed”. Brandes went to Meiwes’ home, where he encouraged Meiwes to bite his (Brandes’s) penis off. Meiwes was unable to, so used a knife to remove it. Brandes tried to eat some of his own penis raw, but could not because it was too “chewy”. Meiwes sautéed the penis but burned it. He chopped it up into chunks and fed it to his dog. Meiwes then read a Star Trek book for three hours while Brandes was bleeding to death in the bath. Meiwes gave him alcohol, pain killers and sleeping pills. Finally, he kissed him once and killed him by stabbing him in the throat.

Meiwes then stored body parts in his freezer and ate up to 20 kg of Brandes’ flesh over the next 10 months. He was arrested in December 2002, after a tip-off by a college student who had seen new advertisements for victims and details of the killing on the Internet. Investigators searched Meiwes’ home and found the body parts and a videotape of the proceedings. (The tape has has been viewed by journalists but never made public.) Meiwes was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to eight and a half years in prison. Prosecutors appealed, and he was retried, convicted of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. While in prison, he has become a vegetarian

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BUSTED!!!

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