Morning, insects. It is I, Yola. Wednesday, being eat what you kill day, I am most likely to be found pacing the halls, waiting for my 11 o'clock. I hope they had garlic last night. And a glass or five of wine, preferably a decent Barbera.
What's on the toaster? Roxy Music's Flesh and Blood. It's what the Liebestod sounds like on champagne and Novocain, if you like that kind of Germanic hooey. Which I don't. Where's the change up switch? Ah, Screamin' Jay, here I come.
It's all because I tried to watch 300 last night. I'm as happy as the next gal to see my spear dripping with blood, and men in skimpy leather jerkins is always welcome after a long day of Hugo Boss. But what part of over the top didn't these animation boys understand? Dialogue is not a blunt weapon, people. SHUT UP, King Leonides. SHOVE that self-serving Sparta crap and let me watch the show. For a bunch of boo-yah chanting hooligans, they sure spend a lot of time pissing around.
So I ask you people, what movie drives you the most crazy? Let me rephrase (I hear BJ tuning up for more flash fiction, G-d knows we don't want that): what otherwise interesting flick has one little deal-breaker that makes you want to kill the producer? And by kill, I don't mean kill. Do that on your time, please.
The Art of WALTER POPP
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