Fireworks are a man’s best friend. They make dogs look like angry ex girlfriends, except dogs usually don’t burn your clothes after they’re done ripping them up. Fireworks will still burn your clothes, but you can fix that by simply not wearing a shirt. The average BSBFB reader knows enough to start off shirtless, so that problem probably won’t come up.
There was no obvious loss of life, and the thing technically went off without a hitch, but I’m still not entirely convinced that they’re ready to go to the Moon. The design is flawless. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a brilliant idea to design your spacecraft like a mix between a cheese grater and a Beyblade. My only concern is that it doesn’t seem to have any room to carry any small animals or humans into space. A man cannot walk on the Moon if the man is left at home, beer in hand, watching the explosions from the safety of his bamboo dinette set. They need to attach a lawn chair to that thing at the very least. If the government backs the project, they might be able to afford a fancy lawn chair from Target.
I once said that going to the Moon is piss easy, and I still stand by that claim. The only real issue that people encounter when shooting for the Moon is that they try to get cute with their rocket designs. The Russians had immense problems in the beginning because no one told them that you weren’t supposed to build your spacecraft out of concrete and dead dissidents. America kept their designs relatively streamlined, but we still managed to litter the Moon’s surface with semi-exploded satellites and debris. If anyone cares to look you can probably find Buzz Aldrin’s discarded pee bags. He might not have been the first man to walk on the Moon, but he didn’t whizzing everywhere.
Explosions — I like explosions.
I’m sure that’s the general consensus, but I like to really drive things home that don’t need an explanation. I’m like Captain Obvious, if he was promoted to admiral and given complete control over the nation’s radio stations, so he could transmit every obvious tidbit over the airwaves ad infinitum. But I’ll say it again, because I have no shame and an appalling amount of time on my hands: I like explosions.
It’s thoroughly invigorating to watch something that’s supposedly solid get blown to bits small enough to shove up your nose if you were so compelled. It’s like taking a good dump or pretending to care about current events. There’s an immediate sense of release followed by a satisfaction that money can’t buy. Unless your money can buy dynamite. That’s the best kind of money. Dynamite money.
They remade Arthur with Russell Brand. They’ll remake Planet of the Apes on a bi-monthly schedule, until eventually they’ll be flying monkeys called up by a witch. There’s another Batman every half-hour, all of them bad, because all Batman anything sucks. They remade The Pink Panther, which is like eating leftovers from a meal you never ate. They remade Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner with Ashton Kutcher, for crissakes.
Remakes suck. They’re wrong and stupid. Do something new and creative. Maybe on the next version of Titanic, you equip it with deck guns and fire broadsides at the icebergs. That would be pretty sweet, but can’t you simply make a movie about the Lusitania instead? Sink something fresh. So let’s all of us agree. No more remakes!
Except Mad Max. They should remake that one. They should remake it while working on the script for the next one. They should have a line of succession like they do for royalty, but it’s just producers for Mad Max movies. When one gets blowed up real good while sitting in one of those deck chairs too close to the splosions, another one is immediately crowned and gets to work. Generally producers don’t get blown up on movie sets, because they hang around offices and let the directors sit around waiting for the actors to sober up enough to mumble their lines; but the Mad Max producer was there to complain to the director that he wasn’t spending enough money, and didn’t have enough splosions and hot rod races in the movie, and he better get cracking because there are 400 directors in line behind him that will have so many explosions they’ll make Michael Bay look like Woody Allen.
I need that level of commitment. I need a movie about a man that understands the value of gasoline, and uses it for everything, including cologne. I need Mad Max.