Dear God, Hollywood Has Run Out of Ideas: Why Devastator Shouldn’t Have Balls

Actually, the notion that Hollywood has run out of ideas is not entirely true. They seem to be milking the shit out of the 2 or 3 ideas they have left. Perhaps their most horribly insidious plan of current attack is to completely raze, pillage, and defile the landscape of my childhood television-watching experience in order to plant vast forests of money trees. Ordinarily, I’m all for more trees and such—which makes this course of action all the more dastardly!

This practice isn’t necessarily new, as evidenced by the cash-grab movie adaptations of The Flintstones (1994), Scooby Doo (2002) and Josie and the Pussycats (2001) and probably a bunch of others I’m forgetting (Recollection update—Miami Vice & Dukes of Hazzard). But this is ok, not only because they are entirely forgettable and mundane pieces of cinema, but also because they largely stuck with what made these shows popular: Fred Flintstone still has anger-management issues and household appliances that are animals, and Scooby and Shaggy still enjoy marijuana-flavored dog treats while investigating paranormal hoaxes perpetuated by inept criminals (I confess I have no knowledge about the characters in Josie besides the fact they are bad musicians).

Recently, however, I’m getting the impression that the movie industry is increasingly willing to completely bastardize old televised divinities in order to appeal to the wallets of certain demographics (Ed. Note—you’re just now realizing this, how novel!). I mean, this is the 80s we’re talking about; I take this shit personal. I don’t recall ever seeing Hollywood remakes of pre-1980, baby-boom TV staples like Howdy Doody (my dad would be all over that one), Bonanza, Little House on the Prairie, or Hawaii 5-0 (I guess Get Smart and Starsky and Hutch would be some exceptions).


In my convoluted thought process, all of this somehow brings us to anatomically correct (incorrect?) alien robots. Are you fucking kidding me?!? No really…seriously?? You’re going to put testes on a damn evil alien robot? Is there robotic sperm in robotic nuts? Ack. I went back to the old cartoon series on DVD and I scoured every last frame for any hint of male genitalia on robots—but I think I would have had an easier time finding dick and balls at the old neighborhood nunnery.

I know the depths of Michael Bay’s depravity know no bounds, but this is the type of low-brow gag I would expect from a Gobots movie or similar knock-off. Yes, there was robot urination in the first Transformers, which is completely ridiculous and obviously part of a disturbing, ongoing trend. And it’s also hard to view the current Transformers movies as anything more than one-and-a-half hour car commercials with Megan Fox constantly and seductively bent over (don’t even get me started on the jive-talking robots who don’t read well)—I can almost, but not really, forgive all of this, but nuts are a whole other ballpark. “Constructicons merge to form.. DEVASTATOR!!” doesn’t quite have the same ring when there’s fucking wrecking-ball gonads dangling from his steel crotch. Am I supposed to believe that the aliens that designed and created this technology were intergalactic frat boys or something (if so, then where is his big Johnson)? At least have the decency to put on a codpiece or a jockstrap or something. Alas, I guess there’s no room for modesty on Cybertron with all of the steel nuts flying all over the place. And how much money does it cost to add CGI testicles to a robot, I wonder? 10K? 50K? More? Maybe they had to slash the robot genital budget and that’s the reason they had to cut off Devastator’s penis.

My apologies, but I’m not done yet. I have saved some of my good-natured, jovial hatred for Land of the Lost as well. The TV show was known for its creepy, bizarro-world feel, backyard special effects, and trippy, Lost-esque storylines (apparently there’s some talk that the episode “Circles” has a lot of parallels and similar plot devices to those seen in Lost). And as you may know, the 3 main characters were a brother, a sister, and their scientist father. But in the movie, this part of the narrative is changed—the 3 main characters are not related at all, which only serves as a vehicle for a running “uninvited boob grab” joke. HAHAHA! I get it! It’s so funny because it’s sexual harassment! Reason #4080 I’m glad I’m not female member of society (sorry ladies, I don’t know how you do it).

In conclusion, back when I was an 18-30 year old white male, I was (more) fine with robotic genitals (where you could find them—trust me, it wasn’t easy), booby molestation, hashed and rehashed plots, and vapid storylines in movie adaptations that bear little or no resemblance to their source material. But now that I’m in an older, wiser, and crankier demographic, I fully expect Hollywood to knock this bullshit off. Because I’m not buying it (except in rare, WAWGDWATT-sanctioned circumstances).

Ok, I’m done now; noxious gasses have been vented….. Aw shit! GI Joe, Thundercats (Del Toro could probably make a kick-ass Thundercats movie but I don’t think that’s happening), and The A-Team coming soon? Assholes! God help me, Hollywood, you so much as lay a finger on the Silverhawks or Jem or Misfits of Science and there will be Hell to pay!!


In the meantime everyone, be on the lookout for homicidal teabagging robots and grabby humanoid-ape creatures named Cha-Ka.

Having A Talk

A tragedy in one act.

Lights come up on the exterior of a small brick rowhouse, a charming city dwelling on a busy city block. Serious looking men and women walk quickly by the house, all with the fast gait of city people, all determined to a) get to their destination and b) ignore everything around them -- they all have iPod ear buds in their ears.

After a while, a tall man in a drab suit exits the row house. He is an older man, distinguished in his retro fashion and silver mane. He stands on his front stoop, surveying his surroundings, seeing what kind of day it is. He squints toward the cloudless sky. He smiles with his eyes closed, letting the bright rays of the sun warm his face.

He opens his eyes, turns to lock his front door, and heads down the stoop stairs toward the sidewalk. With a bright grin to meet the day, he steps onto the sidewalk, but immediately stops, feeling something under his foot.

He looks down and sees that he has stepped in dog poop. He angrily looks toward the sky.

Tall Man
Really? Dog poop? That's what you have
for me, Lord? What have I done to
deserve this kind of treatment? I attend
church every Sunday, I volunteer to read
the TV Guide to fat children, I give fifteen
percent of my income to the local soup kitchen,
and I'm a good and decent person. Why, God, oh why
do you treat me so poorly? What could be a
worse predicament than this, stuck here, with
animal feces attached to my favorite pair of loafers?
I'll tell you: there is no worse predicament; it was
a trick question! Well, not a trick, per se. It was more
of rhetorical device I deployed, asking a question
I already had an answer to. But you probably knew
that already, Lord. But, you know, now that I think
about it, sure, there are scores of situations that
are worse than having poop on your shoe, but God,
it's pretty fucking annoying. Now, Lord, I'll have to
go back inside and change into a different pair of
loafers, which will not only make me late for my
appointment, it will disrupt the perfect color harmony
I had with this outfit. See, Lord, this is my only pair
of loafers this particular shade of brown, which happens
to go perfectly with my current attire. Now, if I change
shoes, it won't look nearly as smart, then the wife
will start with that "Are you wearing those shoes
with that suit?" and I really don't want to get into it
with her today, Lord. I mean, she can really work
my nerves. That shrill voice and the neverending
sense of superiority. Christ, I wonder kind of pill a
person has to take to think they're so goddamn
infallible. But she's a good lady, Lord. She's been good
enough to put up with me all these years.
(pauses)
Well, I guess I've taken up enough of your time, God.
And I know there's a point to everything that you do,
but if you wouldn't mind, can you explain to me, just
this one time, how me stepping in a dog's excrement
fits into my big picture? Will it somehow help me
along my path? Is it a sign? Is it supposed to symbolize
something? What does this mean for me, Lord?

The man looks up at the sky, waiting, but God does not answer him. Dejected, he slowly walks back up the steps toward his house.

Exeunt.