Closing ceremony, WTF?!

I watched something today, it brought tears to my eyes, but not because of what was on the screen at the time… I watched the “closing ceremony” of a war that has been going on since before I was able to legally drink alcohol.

It struck me as odd on so many levels, I’ve always known closing ceremonies to be celebrations, but I don’t see what there is to celebrate. We invaded a country that didn’t attack us first, several thousand of our soldiers lost their lives..

Thousands upon thousands of our soldiers lost limbs, or even worse, their minds.

I don’t see a need for any pomp and circumstance in this situation. If ever there was a time to quietly fade out of a country and start the business of re-building this once great nation now bankrupted by a leader’s insistence to take down Daddy’s Old Nemesis, this was it.

Let us not celebrate the mistakes we have made, but instead commit to learning from it and move on. This closing ceremony didn’t come off as memorializing our troops, but celebrating the independence of a country we had no business fucking with in the first place.

I wish I could say this post was written drunk, but no, sadly, stone cold fucking sober. And this whole war thing just fucking stinks sober. At least the booze holds back the tears.

I’ve heard too many stories, this war isn’t faceless to me. It’s being fought by my uncles, my cousins, my friends, fuck, my first boyfriend. It cost too much and paid out too little.


This painting has been stuck in my head for the past few days. No matter how I slice it, I see entirely too much of myself in it….

Painting: Maya Britan


Cheeky MF! Review: Postal.

This is a long overdue review, but one that I honestly have been holding off on because I’ve never actually seen remembered sitting thru this flick in it’s entirety. I may even have some half ass attempt of a review in the archives some where, who knows, but, well, it’s time. I found it on demand a few years ago, and after reading the synopsis to my then significant other was told that perhaps, given that he was trying to attain a “life goal” of sobriety, I may want to indulge in this little bit of cinema by myself. So I did. Sort of.

I rented the movie, made it to the point of Dave Foley’s cock coming onscreen and just had to stop. Well, I didn’t stop the movie, I just kind of left it playing and left the room to take a few of the biggest bong hits I’ve ever indulged in. I was confused, I was scared and most of all I didn’t want to walk back into the room to see “Dave Nelson’s” dick on the ridiculous 52″ ProJo TV I had at the time.

Once I was high and felt I could face this cluster fuck head on again, I went back into the bedroom. I’d had the luxury of hearing the flick without the distraction of what was going on onscreen, I felt confident I was mostly caught up to the plot– the main character’s life was shit. His “Uncle Dave” ran a religious co-op/cult/con and he was desperate for cash….and then when I walked in, Postal Dude’s wife was getting banged and simultaneously covered in some disgusting food product…and I gave up. On the flick. Life. All of it man. Not cool, Uwe Boll, not fucking cool, man.

Upon relaying this woeful tale to my ex, he took this movie as a challenge, so we sat down, (I appropriately left the room for a few minutes beforehand…not a chance in hell I was gonna attempt going at this one sober again.), and hit play. I remember leaving the room sometime in the first act, I remember chugging from the bottle of Jaegermeister I kept tucked away in the freezer, I do not, however, remember watching the entire movie. I told that I did, I’m told that I chuckled at a few jokes here and there…and then puked like my life depended on it while the end credits scrolled away into oblivion in the other room.

Fast forward four years to last week. I gave it another go. I made some silly little comparison to Uwe Boll and the brilliant, but fictional Saint James St. James on Twitter and decided I needed to see if I could back my “talking-out-of-my-ass-on-Twitter” up. Looked it up on Netflix and surprise, surprise, it was ready and willing. To rape my eyeballs.

I made it 45 minutes in. New record, well, for not being blacked out drunk, at least. It’s no one thing in particular about this movie, it’s just kind of everything. I adore Dave Foley, I listened to the WTF podcast, he needed the cash, it’s cool, but I couldn’t look, really. Some things I just don’t need to see.

I also really love Zack Ward. He was fantastic as Titus’ “little brother”…and made one helluva half demon/half human on ‘Charmed’!

But not in this. I love no one in this, to borrow from a classic though, I will leave you with this thought to sum up “Postal”:

“Mr. MadisonBoll, what you’ve just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you
even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

–“Billy Madison”