Too Stoned To Conjugate. The Tenses Are Melting.
Night of the Living Dead 3D
Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
I'm not sure what's more frightening, zombies or stoned idiots making movies. One will eat your brains, and the other will, well, probably they’d probably eat your brains too, if they were made of tofu or organic produce. The only thing worse than aging hippie is young grassroots activist hippie. I'm not sure which one of them had a hand in this, but someone was way gone on Jamaican Blonde when they wrote the script for this, probably on the back of a cigarette package half torn up for filter paper. For crap's sake, how can you fuck up a 3D zombie movie? By remaking Night of the Living Dead and turning most of the gags into people blowing pot-smoke rings at the camera. People always talk about how hard drugs ruin lives, but how about how soft drugs ruin movies? Dazed and Confused would be a great movie to watch if the rep theatres playing it didn't smell like an ashtray at a Phish concert. Sean William Scott would be tending bar in the lounge of a university he could never attend if it weren't for pot culture, and video stores would be able to save shelf space for good movies if they didn’t have to stocking quite so many copies of Half Baked and How High. If it weren’t for drug culture, I could rest assured that Jack Black would never make another movie, and Will Ferrell would be relegated to bit parts and cameos on Saturday Night Live anniversary shows. The entire cast and crew of That 70s Show would be executed for crimes against intelligence, and Adam Sandler's head would be on a pike outside a walled city, warning of the dangers a little brain damage can have on the humor system. The city, of course, would have walls and battlements constructed from the pressed bones and gristle of lamb, chicken grown in horrible captivity, and all kinds of small animals that are way too cute to eat if you're high and own a Morrissey CD. Within the city, we would feast on veal and the corpses off all those that worked in vegan co-ops, and spend the night not dancing to trance music, and avoiding pulling out an acoustic guitar to strum Redemption Song around a bonfire. In this paradise, Sublime CDs will be burned for warmth, as will Grateful Dead fans and all copies of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (both print and film), and anyone with a hemp necklace will be transformed into bio-mass fuel in the crematoriums. Public assembly of anybody who believes in tarot, astrology, or the power of the universe will be forbidden, in case their hysterical babbling feeds back upon itself and starts breaking the windows of the showers where we gas mushroom-heads and people who drink fair trade coffee from independent retailers. And no, hippie, it's not nitrous gas. Every night, we will drink the blood of ex-Doors roadies and current Dave Chapelle fans, while everybody who gets stoned on Sunday evenings to watch The Simpsons spends all night sifting through oil sand fields with their bare hands. Any one over the age of 12 who has a poster of either the Mona Lisa or a Gray alien smoking a joint will be sterilized and forced to work in the Styrofoam factories, or surf the internet deleting any references to Ween. Flames will consume the writings of Jack Kerouack, Timothy Leary, and Naomi Klien, and the smoke of their burning will clog the air with the thick black cloud of reason. Huff that for medicinal purposes, hippie.