Trumps’ presidency is such a disaster that, at this point, our only hope may be to launch a team of plucky oil drillers into space.
Every time I mention “Armageddon” (1998), someone makes a joke about its Morgantastic, Freemaniffic contemporary, “Deep Impact.” I tell people it is on my list of things to watch, but I still haven’t even seen “Predestination” (2014), “The Fifth Element” (1997) or a single episode of “Breaking Bad” (2008 – 2013).
We won the Cold War; Russia won the American presidency. So … we’re 1:1, then?
Asking for a friend.
I KNOW I shouldn’t worry about things I can’t control, but there’s a rumor aboard the Galactica that Dr. Baltar’s building a Nolan detector.
When I was a kid, fidget spinners were called “ninja throwing stars,” and they could only be obtained by the ads in the back of “Ninja Magazine.”
AND WE WERE THANKFUL FOR WHAT WE HAD.
Unless, of course, you were the kind of kid whose mother forbade him to ever touch one. Dammit. (She also took away the crossbow I’d made from scratch.)
Let me qualify the first sentence above — only the uninitiated actually called them “ninja throwing stars.” Genuine ninjas, like me and my friends, knew that they were properly called “shuriken.” My friends and I were serious students of ninjutsu in the early 80’s, and we had the magazines to prove it. Our Ninja Clan was called “The Night Stalkers.” (We actually started out as “The Night Crawlers,” until one of us realized that was what fishermen called earthworms.)
[DISCLAIMER: If any real ninjas are reading this, please do not assassinate me. Also, various sites on the Internet contain misinformation suggesting that historical ninjas did not actually wear those black outfits — they’d wear ordinary period clothing, so that they could only figuratively “blend in with their surroundings” and avoid detection by samurai. I didn’t write that nonsense, I’m just passing it along to you.]
Let’s take this viral.
Just take a selfie hiding in the bushes.
And try to look reeeeeeeeaally pissed — as though your boss had the mind of a five-year-old, and it was your job to present his “positions” to the world on television.
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre,
Sean Spicer cannot find the teleprompter;
Things fall apart; the White House cannot hold;
Pure incompetence is loosed upon the world,
The bungling tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of sanity is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the amateurs
Are full of Trumpian intensity.”
— William Butler Jørgen (Jørgen Laursen)
When I want an intelligent answer on a national security question, do I trust Sean Spicer?
I’d rather trust the Spice Girls.
A friend of mine lives on this street in Salem, Virginia.
She says the rents are dirt cheap, but it sucks having to keep the windows boarded up to keep the zombies out.
Can you imagine if the cross street was named “Grimes Avenue?” That would be F%*#ing EPIC.
Gonna write a screenplay in which a man sells his soul to the devil to win every street race he enters.
Gonna call it “The Faust and the Furious.”
Starring Sin Diesel.
No matter how many letters I write to Hollywood, I’m still waiting on that “Wolf Creek”/”Dawson’s Creek” crossover movie.
I’m starting to worry it might not happen.
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 