Why Must Women Ruin EVERYTHING?

If you’re looking to kill a fandom, there’s no quicker way of doing so than injecting it with females.

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DVD Review: 'Batman and Harley Quinn' (2017)

We've been waiting a long time for an adult-oriented follow-up to Batman: The Animated Series. And after the release of this straight-to-Redbox offering, it looks like we'll be waiting even longer... 

By: Jimbo X
JimboXAmerican@gmail.com
@JimboX

The old school Fox Batman cartoon is easily one of the best comic book adaptations in any kind of media, and that's no small accolade coming from a biased Spider-Man fanboy such as myself. Indeed, B:TAS at its apex was some of the best TV that's ever been on the air; I'd put Heart of Ice and I Am The Night up against the absolute best episodes of whatever en vogue live action "prestige" show is hot right now and I guarantee you the old cartoon episodes will hold up better 20 years down the line.

A lot of that success you have to attribute to producer Bruce Timm, who is pretty much the Colonel Sanders of the D.C. Animated Universe. By and large he's been involved with just about every D.C. cartoon that's come down the line since Batman: The Animated Series, and - for the most part - his work has been excellent to un-fucking-believably outstanding. 

It's no secret that the censors at Fox (and later, the W.B.) were pretty hard on Timm, and for years we've wondered just how great the already pretty freakin' great B:TAS franchise could've been had standards and practices given him a little more free reign to do whatever he wanted. We saw glimmers of that expanded creativity in the full-length B:TAS movies Mask of the Phantasm and Sub-Zero, and since those were rated PG, we could only fathom the sort of fascinating, adult-oriented storytelling Timm and pals could've worked under the Bat-umbrella with a hard PG-13 or soft R rating. And in that, the recent Batman and Harley Quinn straight-to-DVD cartoon is - theoretically - our prayers from 20 years ago finally getting answered.

Batman and Harley Quinn is undoubtedly a promising little arrangement. You've got a story by Bruce Timm, the guys who voiced Batman and Robin are returning to reprise their roles, and the PG-13-equivalent rating gives 'em ample opportunities to drop four-letter words and show all sorts of risque and brutally violent activity. On paper, this thing is an absolute can't lose prospect, but in execution, does it royally screw the pooch? Well, how about we stick this sumbitch in our disc player and see for ourselves, why don't we?

The movie starts off with some cops at the S.T.A.R. Labs fighting this giant vegetable monster who isn't Swamp Thing. His mucus-like skin absorbs all the bullets while Poison Ivy hacks a computer - apparently, they're trying to gather some top-secret intel on Dr. Alec Holland. 

Following a campy-ass into with paper cut-out characters getting into wacky and whimsical hi-jinks, Batman and Nightwing investigate the break-in and give the viewers some exposition on Swamp Thing. Batman tells the po-po the vegetable-monster they're looking for is Jason Woodrue, the Floronic Man and the Dynamic Duo decides its time to ping Harley Quinn for some details on Ivy's whereabouts.

There's some more exposition about A.R.G.U.S. getting hacked by the French and Batman blackmails the sarge into giving him info on this one professor who got kidnapped because he was probably looking at porn or something on the clock. Then Nightwing shows photos of Harley to random hobos and senile old people for a couple of minutes before going to this one cafe called Superbabes where all the waitresses are dressed like Catwoman and Supergirl. Of course, Harley's working there and when some dude tries to grab her ass she karate flips him over a table. We get a long tracking shot of Harley walking home while doing a crossword puzzle then Nightwing asks her if she can help him find her BFF Ivy. She declines and Nightwing says he ought to haul her crazy ass to jail and then they have an alley kung fu fight that concludes with Harley subduing him with a Joker Gas ring.

Actually having gay sex isn't as gay as this scene.

Meanwhile, Batman investigates the missing professor's place and finds an alien leaf. Then Nightwing wakes up tied to Harley's bed and she makes fun of him for having a mullet on the old cartoon. Quinn asks if Nightwing and Batman were gay with each other (via a reference to, of all things, Seduction of the Innocent) and then they wind up having OFFSCREEN SEX. 

We learn Ivy has to kiss the kidnapped professor every six hours to keep him under her spell and Floronic Man thinks its gross as shit every time she locks lips (by the way, the dude voicing the Floronic Man is none other than the guy who voiced the Joker in that one Batman cartoon on the WB in the mid-2000s.) Elsewhere, Batman walks in on Quinn tickling Nightwing and he convinces her to join them on a quest to find Ivy. Then Harley makes a wisecrack about calling Nightwing if she ever runs out of batteries ... yep, they just made a joke about a dildo in a Batman cartoon.

So here's Ivy's plan. She's going to synthesize Swamp Thing's DNA and turn it into an airborne virus that'll turn everybody in the world into plant people, which in turn will stop climate change or global warming or industrial pollution or some shit. Then Batman lets us know Floronic Man is actually an "exiled dryad from another dimension" and there's this very long, totally pointless sequence where Harley sees her lawyer walking down the street, chases him down, beats his ass and calls him a douche bag. Then when she gets back in the Batmobile, she keeps farting because Batman won't let her use the restroom. "It's not so bad," Bats quips, "it smells like discipline." Alas, Quinn keeps floating up some air biscuits and the rank stank gets too much for even Batman to bear, so they agree to let her drop a chud at the nearest gas station. 

Naturally, our trio winds up ambling into a bar where all the tertiary henchmen from the original B:TAS series are hanging out, complete with those redheaded twins who used to work for Two-Face doing a karoake version of "Don't Pull Your Love" by Hamilton, Joe Frank and goddamn Reynolds. Then Quinn gets up on stage and does a rendition of Blondie's "Hanging on the Telephone" and of course, a big old donnybrook ensues with a whole bunch of Adam West-ish comic book text - including the phrase "OWW, MY BALLS" - cropping up on an exterior shot while Batman and Nightwing whup the tar outta' everybody offscreen.

Booster Gold calls Batman on his phone and asks if he can help, so he and Nightwing try to make it sound like they're losing reception. Then Floronic Man pours some goop on a rat and it turns into a plant monster for about five seconds, and then it explodes into a puddle of green slime. Batman, Nightwing and Harley finally break into Ivy's secret hideout and we have ourselves a thee-on-two karate fight. Floronic Man kills the professor during the tomfoolery and the building explodes. Ivy and Floronic Man (I'm just going to call him "Flo" from hereon out) decide they should go to Louisiana and use the same water that made Swamp Thing to create a more potent vegetable juice disease. Flo takes out a yam and makes Ivy eat it, and it infects both of them with "the green" - fuck, I'll just let D.C. themselves try to explain what the fuck it is - and they use it to teleport through a random oak tree. Harley Quinn remarks "goddamn" and demands Batman take her to Louisiana with him. It takes a while, but she convinces him, and then she talks about how badly she doesn't want to become a plant monster because she's afraid she'll forget to water herself. 

A giant vine attacks some gun-toting troops and then Harley pushes Batman and Nightwing into a pond so a tree monster can try to eat them. She justifies her sudden heel turn by simply remarking "it's Thursday." Quinn then tries to convince Ivy to change her plans, she refuses, so Harley frees Batman and Nightwing from the tree trap and it's time for a catfight. "Friends don't let friends kill 7 billion people," Harley remarks, adding "your plan is totally bat-shit crazy." Ivy says humans are destroying the planet so what choice does she have, to which Harley ripostes "vote democrat and donate to Greenpeace." 

After a slow-mo double punch puts both of 'em on their asses, Ivy reveals she hasn't actually tested the formula and Quinn starts to cry and that makes Ivy break down, too. Ivy tells Flo they can't carry out the mission, so he attacks her with a giant penis-like vine. And that's our cue for the deus ex machima denoument, as SWAMP THING shows up out of nowhere to prevent Flo from dropping the death juice in the lake. "Your cause is just but your actions have upset the balance in the green," he says before giving a brief lecture about "knowing the unknnowbale nature" and quickly disappering. "Well, that was a big ass bucket of nothing," Harley lampshades.

Quinn then says "well, he is nothing but leaves, anybody got a match?" The credits start to roll as Flo runs flaming through the swamp. The post-credits stinger shows a dude visiting Quinn at her psychiatric office, and then she gets her own TV show that's one part Dr. Phil and one part Family Double Dare and then it's fade to black, muchachos.

Please, somebody help turn "slowly submerging disappointed Swamp Thing face" into a meme sensation...

Well, there's no real genteel way to put it - that thing fucking sucked a huge dick, man. The stylings and homages to B:TAS were cool, but the story was totally lacking and the feeble attempts at humor just torpedoed the whole thing. It couldn't decide if it wanted to be a spoof of the Batman mythos or a full-fledged extension of the B:TAS brand, and those two approaches are completely incompatible. If you want to make a somber, straight-laced Batman cartoon, go for it, and if you want to do something campier and cheesier, nothing's stopping you. But you can't have it both ways, as this disappointing addendum to the DCAU demonstrates. Pickles are great and Kool-Aid are great, but pickles and Kool-Aid together most definitely aren't, and the same holds true for the two totally different tones the producers wanted to cram into the same movie. Instead of getting the best of both worlds, we got an uneasy mixture of styles and atmosphere that gel together about as well as peanut butter and toothpaste. 

I guess it has its merits. Some of the shoutouts to B:TAS are cool, but if nostalgic pandering is literally all you have to offer, what's the point? Furthermore, I wasn't a fan of the allegedly "adult" humor in the story - i.e., all the jokes about Quinn doing porn and using a vibrator and the subplot about her and Nightwing having tickle sex. I'm sure Bruce Timm and pals loved having free reign to do whatever they wanted her, but all of that edginess for the sake of being edgy was at the expense of a decent plot. Say what you will about all the diktats Fox put on B:TAS, but it forced the writers to focus on crafting as good a story as they could within the limitations of standards and practices. Here, however, it feels like they just wanted to get in as much risque shit as they could, and the plot itself was an afterthought.

At this point, the whole Harley Quinn thing is played out as fuck. I've never really thought she was that interesting of a character to begin with and the constant comedic pairing of her and Ivy (which is actually a blatant ripoff of two characters from the 1990s cult movie The Living End, itself inspired by any number of old Warhol arthouse-tranny movies) has long overstayed its welcome. There are so many solid, interesting Bat-villains with a ton of crossover media potential that haven't been shoved down our throats - like Mr. Freeze, The Ventriloquist and Clayface - that D.C. continues to place on the backburner so they can milk this whole Holly-Mania cow dry. Unfortunately, they are totally oblivious to the reality that there's only so much mileage you can get out of a wise-cracking sociopath-cum-perpetual-domestic-abuse-victim, especially one D.C. keeps trying (and failing) to turn face. 

Like everybody else, I'm not going to complain about getting more B:TAS styled content, but the inescapable fact of the matter is that Batman and Harley Quinn just doesn't hold up AT ALL to even the most mediocre episodes of the old cartoon. You're much better off getting your Bat-fix revisiting the old classics on the Daily Motions, or even better, checking out all of the Ty Templeton-helmed Batman Adventures comics that have come down the pipe over the last 25 years.

Because if you're expecting a happy return to form here, you're setting yourself up for nothing but a major disappointment.

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DOUBLE REVIEW: 'Atomic Blonde' / 'Chuck'

One's about a chick in a white wig who kicks everybody's ass and the other's about a dude who knocks down Muhammad Ali and does a lot of cocaine - and both are probably better than you'd expect them to be.

By: Jimbo X
JimboXAmerican@gmail.com
@JimboX

Alright kids, I need your help settling a dispute me and an acquaintance got into recently: is it morally OK for white people to use the word "nigger" while being robbed by people who just so happen to be black? 

Now, I've written about the complexities of the dreaded "n-word" plenty of times for this wonderful little site of ours, and the general contemporary U.S. societal consensus is that white people can't say "nigger" or its myriad permutations for any reason other than to reflect on how terrible a word it is and how everybody who uses it ought to feel plumb ashamed of themselves.

But what if a white person has to use the word "nigger" as a survival mechanism - is it still verboten for the slur to pass through a Caucasian person's lips, even if their very lives may hinge on the utterance? 

Here's the scenario me and a buddy cooked up. Let's say you're a white person, and one day you're walking through a parking lot at night and some black fellow decides he wants to carjack you or wallet-jack you or just plain jack you up as atonement for years of perceived racial oppression. In the moment of aggression, would it be socially and ethically permissible for the white victim to use the term "nigger" as a non-physical form of linguistic self-defense? 

We've all read The Gift of Fear and recognize how important "posturing" is as a form of circumventing violent conflict. Furthermore, we've all read The 48 Laws of Power and recognize how important appearing unfazed and emotionless are in gaining the upper-hand in physical confrontations. So wouldn't it at least seem somewhat practical for a white victim of black aggression to attempt to protect himself from further harm by using the term "nigger" as a form of defensive posturing?

Imagine this, dear reader. The scene - the dark, nearly empty parking lot of Walgreens, 3:45 a.m. 34-year-old Chad Robinson, experiencing torrential bouts of diarrhea in the middle of the night, decides to pick up an emergency bucket of Imodium and an extra large bag of pumpkin-shaped Reese's peanut butter cups, because fuck it, they were right there next to the cash register. After making his purchase, he ambles back to his car when - out of the stillness of the night - he's immediately assailed by one 23-year-old Jethro Abraham Washington, a local low-level Oxycontin pusher high on Purple Drank who needs $100 right then and there so he can upgrade his T-Mobile plan. 

"Gimme yo wallet, yo may-naze-skinned mudda-fuggah!" Jethro screams, waving what appears to be a box cutter (or maybe a really big screwdriver, it's kinda hard to tell sometimes.) At this point, Mr. Robinson has four options; he can fork over the wallet (not that it would prevent the robber from still hurting him with the weapon, or even killing him), he can attempt to flee the scene (not smart, especially when you don't know if the other guy has a gun on him), he can attempt to physically attack the robber (definitely not smart, since he might have AIDS-tainted needles underneath his Washington Wizards baseball cap or his second-cousin once removed LeAndrew waiting in the wings with homemade shiv) or he can try to linguistically diffuse the situation. 

Power dynamics aren't difficult to understand. People tend to attack people they perceive as weaker than them, especially those who refrain from defending themselves. Since Chad would be risking life and limb by literally fighting his attacker, perchance there's a way he can stop the robber dead in his tracks without throwing one punch, firing one bullet or swinging one tactical army knife - that's right, he can employ nigger fu. 

Yep, that's right, nigger fu - from the Latin, "fu" meaning "to attack with" and the Roman "nigger," meaning "wait 'til Jesse Jackson hears about this." My thesis is simple. By using the word "nigger" against his attacker, Chad can exemplify a sense of fearlessness and dyadic superiority, which in turn would perhaps scare off the would-be robber (or, at the very least, make him second guess whether or not his target might be a Klansman or a neo-Confederate with a concealed Luger duck-taped to his butthole.) So with that in mind, let's revisit that scenario I put in your head earlier, and see what happens when Chad breaks out his fifth-degree black belt nigger fu skills:

Jethro: "Gimme yo wallet, yo may-naze-skinned mudda-fuggah!"

Chad: "Buzz off, nigger, I've got to get home and do white people things, like listen to Paul Simon's 'You Can Call Me Al.'" 

Jethro: "...whut? How dare yo, honky! Yo know yo ain't spozed to be sayin' dat! If I had my phone on me I'd take yo picture and put it on Instagram and make yo lose yo job!"

Chad: "You heard me, nigger. Part like the Red Sea and let me go back to my birthright, listening to 'The Boy in the Bubble," then skipping straight over 'Graceland' and 'I Know What I Know' so I can thumb dance to 'Gumboots.'" 

Jethro: "Well I never! You can keep yo personal belongings, I wuddn't want noze money from a RAY-CYST no how!"

And ... scene. By simply defensively using two syllables, not only did Chad avert an armed robbery, potential bodily harm and even his own demise, he was able to nonviolently disable his attacker and go on his merry way, preventing any further physical harm to himself or his attacker. Now, I think such a strategy is perfectly reasonable and justified, but don't try telling that to my mixed race amigo DeKeith (I met him at a local slam dance open mic performance, where his 37-line poem "Black Eyes, White Eyes, I's Eyes" positively tore the house down") who told me he thought the idea was both ineffective and problematic.

"Jimbo, saying 'nigger' is never, ever OK, for a white person, even if he is getting robbed," he tried to tell me. "Besides, what if hearing the word 'nigger' just makes the robber even angrier, and more likely to use physical violence to get what he wants?" 

Well, he had me there, I must admit. If there's one thing I don't want happening, it's offending the feelings of someone committing an armed robbery against an innocent victim. After all, we here in the States are A-OK with people getting the shit beat out of them and gunned down in the street like sewer rats for $20 dollars ... but don't you even think about tainting the experience with racial prejudice and bigotry.

I'm sorry, but if they're going to charge me $15 damn dollars for a movie ticket, it's my god-given consumer right to jack off right then and there in the theater.

Speaking of things that are whiter than a Ku Klux Klan snowball fight, our first flick of the week, Atomic Blonde, might just be the only major studio Hollywood movie you'll see this year that's devoid of a single person of color. Granted, you do have that one half-Algerian broad with the quasi-cleft lip from The Mummy showing up to make lesbianic advances towards Scarlett Jo, but beyond that? We're working with a virtually all-Caucasian cast here, something that in this day and age is rarer than finding a Dairy Queen staff that can speak English above a first-grade level.

This is one of those movies that's all style and no substance, which is precisely what you want out of a dumb, late summer action flick. Unfortunately, it's also one of those "visionary" neo-action movies like The Watchmen and John Wick where the filmmakers try to make it seem more artistic and culturally cognizant than it really is, so we wind up getting these long sequences where the director keeps poking the audience going "see, look at this reference to the work of Tarkovsky I put right here! Golly gee, ain't I smart?"

Subtlety is not this movie's forte. There's this one part where Scarlett Johansson walks into a contact's apartment and the camera literally zooms in on a paperback copy of The Prince on his bookcase to let us know he's not to be trusted. Then there's the part where ScarJo gets chased through a movie house by Russian goons, and what movie is playing? Why, what are the odds, it's Stalker ... you know, because SHE is getting stalked, too? And don't think these people are limiting their on-the-nose allusions to arthouse cinema and Machiavellian literature. Just wait until you get to the part where that aforementioned half-Algerian lesbo whispers a damning secret in ScarJo's ear, and fucking "Voices Carry" starts playing over the soundtrack.

As for the formal plot? Well, it's 1989 in Berlin, but it's an alternate reality where the wall never came down and the Ruskies and the Brits still hate each others' guts and ScarJo plays this one U.K. secret spy who wears half her body weight in eyeliner trying to find this one guy who literally memorized 40 years worth of classified Cold War intel so she has to keep making and breaking deals with the KGB, the CIA, the MI6, the BND, the DGSE and I'm pretty sure even AOL and KFC to find him and smuggle him across the English Channel. But the whole thing is told in flashback as John Goodman and Toby Jones grill her on why the mission was all fucked up, and you literally have no idea who's supposed to be the good guys or the bad guys because every 10 minutes some new plot twist is introduced that reveals character X is actually working for character Y, but you really don't notice it because there's also another chop socky knife fight happening every 9 minutes. And to be fair, the kung fu in this one is pretty good, even if it's yet another movie that demands we suspend our disbelief and just roll with the idea that some 110 pound skirt can fight off 13 armed Russian soldiers in a pair of stiletto heels using only an extension cord and a Hello Kitty key ring.

Granted, the final act kinda' falls apart, but at least it keeps the identity politicking to a minimum and it does a pretty good job of following the number one rule of ALL action movies halfway worth a shit - at any juncture in the film, you're never more than five minutes removed from somebody getting shot, stabbed, immolated, garroted, defenestrated or pummeled to death while "Der Kommisar" ironically plays in the background. 

We've got 24 dead bodies. Six breasts. Two exposed female buttocks. Two motor vehicle chases. Six totaled cars, with one underwater submersion. Spike to the eyeball. Knife to the throat. Multiple people getting shot in the head at point blank range. Gratuitous vodka sipping. Gratuitous ice cube baths. Gratuitous Til' Tuesday. Gratuitous "99 Luftballoons." Kung fu. Strangulation fu. Skateboard fu. And the thing more or less responsible for this movie existing in the first place ... Cold War nostalgia fu.

Starring ScarJo as the eponymous quadruple-agent who somehow musters the cardio to regularly judo toss 300 pound assassins around like potato sacks even though she lights up a Marlboro every five minutes; James McAvoy as the guy we think is Russian who has a nasty habit of beating teenagers to death to Eurotrash pop music; Eddie Marsan as the walking Encyclopedia whose life must be protected at all costs (so you KNOW he's going to get offed sooner or later); Sofia Boutello as the French agent provocateur who spends the whole movie trying to dig into ScarJo's fish taco; Toby Jones as the huge-foreheaded CIA interrogator who almost creams his jeans when ScarJo starts recounting her Sapphic exploits in Deutschland; and John Goodman as the CIA operative with the best line in the whole movie - "the Brits got us in a royal goat fuck."

Directed by stuntman turned action movie auteur David Leitch (whose next movie is the Deadpool sequel) and written by Kurt Johnstad, who adapted the screenplay from the comic book The Coldest City, which - like every other acclaimed graphic novel - was written by some bald English fruit. 

I give it two and a half stars out of four. Jimbo says check it out, especially if you prefer your senseless, stylized movie violence without any caramel-colored people in it.

Liev Schreiber, seen here when he isn't forcing his kids to wear nail polish and kiss each other on the mouth for retweets.

But if you do like senseless, stylized movie violence with caramel-colored people in it, boy, do I have a great second bill feature for you. It only took about seven months, but they finally started showing Chuck in my neck of the woods and I've got to say this is a really, really good movie, even if it does star Liev Schreiber - you know, that washed up guy from Scream who started dressing his son up like Harley Quinn and telling him to suck on bicycle handles whenever the paparazzi sprouted up.

It's a biopic focusing on the life and times of one Chuck Wepner, the New Jersey boxer who got called up as a tomato can opponent for Muhammad Ali and shocked the shit out of everybody by not only knocking the loud and proud segregationist and Ku Klux Klan guest speaker down, but making it all the way to the last 19 seconds of the 15th and final round before the refs waved it off. 

This is one of those high-speed biopic movies that cuts right to the chase. By the half-hour mark we've already got the Ali fight and it's over and done with in six minutes. Now, in most boxing movies that would be a huge problem, but there's so much interesting shit happening before and after Chuck gets famous that you don't even really feel short-changed. 

We start off with the movie recapping Wepner's clash with Terry "The Stormin' Mormon" Hinkey and how as a kid, Chuck would just let the bullies pound on his skull Homer Simpson style until they got tired and then he'd turn their lights out. Then he tries to fuck his mailman wife, goes to a bar and hands out those novelty ink pens where the woman flashes her tits when you turn it upside down and quotes Requiem for a Heavyweight a lot. After Muhammad Ali beats George Foreman (strangely enough, though, the movie never acknowledges Chuck's third round TKO loss to George six years earlier), Wepner gets a call from his trainer (played by Hellboy, who somehow looks more intimidating without 20 pounds of latex on his face) who tells him Don King wants him a whitey for Ali's next opponent, and since Chuck's the only honky ranked in the top ten, guess who's next in line for a heavyweight title shot?

Then we've got a lot of press conference scenes, even though the guy they got to play Ali looks nothing like him, and this one reporter asks Chuck if his strategy is to "bleed into his mouth until he drowns." So he goes to the Catskills and trains harder than he's ever trained in his life and watches himself on Mike Douglas and starts having second thoughts about taking the fight. By now everybody knows how the fight turned out, so I won't tell you what you already know, but rest assured the in-ring action is surprisingly decent and realistic-looking.

From there the flick centers on Chuck dealing with his 15 minutes of fame. He goes to see Rocky and starts living up the gimmick, just ambling into discos wearing fur coats and pimp hats and doing line after line of the Bolivian booger sugar in the bathroom while "Gonna' Fly Now" plays in the background. But he starts hitting the Colombian nose candy a little too hard and starts running into money problems so he finagles Sylvester Stallone's agent into a meeting so he can try and get a few bucks from him and when he finally does run into him at a cafe the guy playing Rocky sounds just like him but has a body type closer to Paul Reiser than Rambo. While Stallone doesn't give him any pity dollars, he does give him a role in Rocky 2, but - of course - Wepner gets liquored up and dives into a pool stark-raving naked the night before his big screen test and bombs the audition like it was Hiroshima and Nagasaki. After he shows up at his daughter's parent-teacher conference coked out of his mind, you just know the next 30 minutes are going to be brutal, as Chuck spends the rest of the flick crying in bars and trying to get random skanks in the sack, only to wind up in the slammer for possession with intent to sale for 26 months, where, naturally, he gets a standing ovation from the other inmates as soon as he enters his jail cell. But there is something of a happy ending - after turning down a cameo in Stallone's prison epic Lock Up, Chuck gets paroled for good behavior and marries this one broad who dresses just like Peg Bundy and they walk around taking pictures of crappy Rocky statues at Planet Hollywood and the postscript tells us they're still happily wed to this very day.

Sure, it's a movie that borrows heavily from stuff like American Hustle and Goodfellas in terms of editing, aesthetics and overall atmosphere, but all in all it's a pretty damn solid character dramedy with a great cast, some punchy dialogue and a pace that isn't too slow or too fast. A better movie could've been made about Wepner's life, but for what it's worth, this is still one of the better sports biopics to come down the pipe in quite a while. Raging Bull, it most definitely ain't, but it's still better than a good 75 percent of stuff that's showed up at cineplexes this year - and yes, I did enjoy it more than Creed, in case you were wonderin'. 

We've got no dead bodies. No breasts. Two exposed male buttocks. One dead career (Wepner's.) Three boxing matches (including one against a bear). One wrestling match (against Andre the Giant.) Gratuitous bar crawling. Gratuitous disco. Gratuitous cocaine snorting. And the thing more or less responsible for the movie existing in the first place ... some serious fall from grace fu. 

Starring Liev Schreiber as the eponymous character who tells the press "the sweet science ain't so sweet when you've got a piledriver in your nuts"; Elizabeth Moss as Wepner's second wife, who keeps warning waitresses about how her husband "just falls in love with the freckles on your ass"; Ron Perlman as Chuck's trainer Al Braverman, who keeps calling him a "Polack" and refers to Muhammad Ali as "Muck Luck"; Pooch Hall as the former Cassius Clay, who asks if "they're going to lay feminine napkins in his corner" during a press conference with Chuck; and Morgan Spector as Sly Stallone, who has the absolute perfect voice for the role even though he looks more like Adam Driver than the dude from Cobra.

Written by Jeff Feuerzeig (who also directed The Devil and Daniel Johnston) and former heroin addict/ALF scribe Jerry Stahl and directed by Philippe Falardeau, some Canuck-Froth who did that one movie about Reese Witherspoon helping Sudanese war refugees get bagger jobs at Safeway.

I give it three stars out of four. Jimbo says check it out, despite it putting more money in Liev Schreiber's bank account.

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Why Won't Black Women Date White Guys?

I'll give you a hint: it starts with the letter "r" and rhymes with "tay-cism."

By: Jimbo X
JimboXAmerican@gmail.com
@Jimbo___X

For an entire summer, I was madly in lust with Robyn. Yeah, her first name was spelled just like the singer, and thanks to the ravages of time, I totally forgot what her last name was. Harris? Williams? Henderson? Your guess is as good a mine, folks. 

A little background here. I was fresh out of high school and in that weird part of my life where I wasn't totally dead set on going to college quite yet. Needing money but not really looking for a career, I took a job at a local textbook warehouse - where virtually all of the employees were local college kids trying to pick up a little bit of spare change during the summer break. 

Turnover was high. A month in, I was already one of the senior employees due to worker atrophy, so every time a new herd of recruits came in, I was tasked with showing them the ropes. Mostly, this meant teaching them how to look up ISBN numbers on the ancient Tandy computer terminals we had all over the place and the proper way to make "book squares" (the trick? You do five lairs going one way, then another five lairs going the opposite way and you repeat until the damn stack is taller than you are.) 

Robyn was one of my first trainees, and I was smitten by her. She was a couple of years older than me (maybe three or four?) and she had a nice curvy build - about 5'7, 170 pounds, at least half of it ass and titty. She was also kinda-sorta gothy (she always wore this frilly, black cobweb looking blouses like Morticia Addams) and she nailed pretty much all of the semi-skanky quasi-trashy aesthetics I love about a young woman in the 20-to-30 age range: she chain smoked cigarettes, wore an absurd amount of indigo eyeshadow and made sure her lips were constantly coated in a thick, juicy layer of MAC LipGlass (aka, that clear lip balm stuff all the girls used to wear back in the My Chemical Romance era that at least partially resembled a smudge of semen.) Oh, and one more thing: she was black. 

OK, I guess if we were being sticklers for facts, she was more of a medium brown, but you know what I mean. I had never been with a black girl, and being a male who has lived in the American south his whole life, let me tell you - we desperately, direly want to date black girls. I don't care how gruff or menacing or prejudicial the exterior portrait may be, if a white man has genetic roots in Dixie soil, he's molecularly inclined to want to have sex with African-American women. You get a Grand Cyclops drunk enough, and trust me, it won't be long before he starts blurting out how bad he wants to plow Halle Berry's cotton fields, if you catch my drift. Say what you will about white men in the South being culturally predisposed towards anti-black bigotry, I can attest to this: ain't no real Southern man's dick a racist, at least. 

So, back to Robyn. I'd greet her each morning (usually, she was dual wielding a Marlboro and a Styrofoam cup of coffee) and just listen to her yell at her baby's daddy on her cell phone (the kid was two or three, I think.) The thing that struck me about her voluble calls was the tone of her voice. At times, it almost seemed like she trailed away from her "default black girl voice" and drifted into California mallrat tones. I have no idea, but every time her voice cracked and squeaked and she sounded like a white girl from Stockton named Emily or Hanna (with no second "h," naturally), I would get supremely aroused. As in, "having to mask my boner while clocking in" aroused. And if they whole "seductive white girl with a bompin' black body" thing wasn't enough to get my penis blood a flowing, she also smelled absolutely delicious - this super-intoxicating trifecta of cocoa butter, Afrocentric hair product and grape body spray. I may be able to recall my mother's maiden name, but I assure you I will never forget that wondrous little love potion. 

Of course I flirted with Robyn. Being a 130 pound honky with hair down to his rib cage, however, I assumed I wasn't exactly her type. Still, she'd flirt back a little, sometimes even touching my collarbone and mussing my hair. Which brings me to The Sports Page. 

What was The Sports Page? It was this crappy little bar kinda' sorta' close to the factory. On Friday's, we'd go there and pop a few brews (strangely enough, they never bothered checking my ID - even though I was just 20 at the time.) Now, not that I need to tell you this or anything, but the crew was a pretty diverse mix. About 45 percent white, 45 percent black and 10 percent whatever the fuck Ronaldo was. Straight down the middle, a 50/50 male-to-female ratio. I had already made out with three fellow employees (all female) and even received a blow job from one of them (once again, I feel the need to address the giver of said blow job was a woman.) And since we were mostly horny college kids that considered whatever happened that summer to be non-canonical, meaningless sexual trysts weren't just accepted, they were pretty much encouraged.

Even David Duke beats off to this. 

So, one afternoon, I convinced Robyn to join me and about seven other workers for a few drinks. I even gave her a ride in my piece of shit Toyota, which by that point, used more oil than actual gasoline. We get there and we shoot the shit - she pairs up with a nice, multicultural throng of the womenfolks and I buddy up with a nice, multicultural throng of the sausaged set. After a while, a somewhat slurred Robyn waltzed up to me and asked if I wanted to dance. This is especially peculiar, considering the fact that not only was no one else dancing, there wasn't even any music playing at the bar (unless you count the dulcimer tones of Michael Wilbon and Tony fuckin' Kornheiser on Pardon the Interruption as something you want to cut a jig to.) I look over at her gal pals, and they are all egging her on. Great, I must be some kind of lost bet or something. Still, that delightful miasma of grape scented sex in her hair goaded me into action, and we awkwardly fumbled around in front of God and everybody. "Give him so booty!" one of the hoochies across the bar yelled, so Robyn hiked her ass up and started gyrating just inches away from my most assuredly Caucasian whangdoodle. Naturally, my instinctual reaction was to pop the biggest boner of my life up to that point, which without question managed to tickle the back of Robyn's gold-glitter speckled jeans. I look up at table of dudes from work, and every last one of them have a look on their face like I just took a shit in their cervezas. I glance at the girls' table and they look even more pissed. I swear, I saw one of them mouth "this is disgusting" before slamming her wadded up napkin on the table. 

Of course, I didn't pay their reactions any attention. After all, I had a girl I had a major crush on literally grinding her buttchecks into my pecker in public, and I ain't ever going to complain about that. She gave me a big hug after the debacle was over and done with and retreated to the gals's section. I ambled on over to the guy's table, my Johnson still rock hard - shit, I was worried I might knock a table over on the trip back. 

Everybody was quiet. I mean deathly quiet. The white guys wouldn't look me in the eye and the black guys looked like they wanted to beat the shit out of me. And Ronaldo - well, I don't know what the fuck he was thinking, but come on, like anybody gave a shit what Ronaldo thought. About five minutes later, Robyn comes up to the table and meekly asks me if I can give her a ride home. I paid the tab and downed one more nacho chip (this time, without the salsa) and courted Robyn back to the terrible Toyota. 

She lived about five minutes away, so it wasn't that long of a commute. In fact, she lived in an apartment complex that abutted the apartment complex of the very girl who went down on me a few weeks earlier, so I was quite familiar with the environs. She thanked me for the ride, but before she unbuckled her seatbelt, she leaned over towards me. 

"You ever been with a black girl before?" she posed. 

The answer, of course, was that I hadn't. But considering I was still kinda' liberal back then, I mulled whether saying that could be construed as racist. So, as would any sort with his salt, I just stammered and said nothing. 

"I just gotta' say, I think you're really cute and sweet," she responded. "And if I was a white girl, I'd totally date you." (Keep this line in the back of your head - it's central to the whole damn premise of the article.) 

I was embarrassed/nervous to high heavens. Do I tell her I think she's cute, too, or that I really, really liked the last Geto Boys album and had seen Shaft's Big Score at least five times? I didn't even notice her lacquering her mouth up with that translucent lip goo. 

"If you want, you can gimme' a guh-night kizz," she said. I had to spell it like that because I honestly had no idea what she was saying at the time. I honestly thought she asked me if I wanted a "gonad kit," which I presumed was a very popular dessert in the regional African-American community. It wasn't until she cupped her hand under my chin and started pulling me towards her puckered maw that I realized what she trying to get at - that's right, robbing me. 

That was the first - and so far - only time I've ever had a black girl's lips laced over my own. And it was awesome. Her lips were so puffy and succulent that it felt like I was slurping on four sets of smackers instead of just two. I thought it was just about the most amazing thing in the world - that is, until she crammed her tongue down my esophagus. No, I don't mean that as a euphemism for French kissing, I mean her tongue was so big and long that it literally jabbed me in the uvula and I thought I was going to puke down her throat, which conceivably could've been considered a hate crime. Rather, I gutted it out and tried to pretend I was in the throes of passion while she tried to impregnate my mouth, Alien style. After a good 30 second galocher, she wiped the excess spit and lip gel off her face, opened the car door, and with a downright sing-song intonation, lilted "and if you think that felt good, you ought to feel my pussy." She laughed, closed the door, and said see you Monday. I then went home, my tonsils still bruised and swollen from her literal tongue lashing, and proceeded to jerk my monkey thinking about her no less than three times over a four hour timeframe. Hey - I earned this one.

...because, as we all know, telling a black woman what kind of dick she is allowed to have is the exact OPPOSITE of "racism."

So things are all fine and dandy, but on Monday morning, she's nowhere to be seen (even though her car was there.) That was literally the first time she didn't greet me outside smoking, swigging a coffee and trying to get child support payments. We finally rendezvous in aisle 10 (that's where we kept the middle school biology textbooks) and she wouldn't so much as look me in the eye. Yeah, a pretty big turnaround from frantically tongue kissing me the last time we were in each other's company, I'd say. I said hello, and she let out a very passive aggressive "hey" and kept sliding books around like Tetris pieces. About an hour later, another African-American coworker gently-but-not-that-gently bumped up against me and bluntly told me "it's a good idea to stay away from our women." Since he was wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers shirt at the time, I initially thought he was talking about Steelers fans, but after catching yet ANOTHER sinister glare from yet another black employee - you know, the kind of look like I just performed half the Johnny Rebel discography in front of a burning cross - it slowly dawned on me what was happening. 

I don't know how much the other people at the warehouse knew, but they knew enough that we both kinda' wanted to make some sweet, sweet caramel in the sack, if you catch my drift. And this being before Obama ended any and all racial divisiveness in our country for good, this whole romantic racial intermingling didn't precisely sit while with my black or white brethren (I still don't know what Ronaldo's opinion was, and quite frankly, I don't give a shit neither.)

Here's the thing. My white coworkers were a bit miffed at me for my amorous interracial interactions, but they never actually said anything about it. They were more passive aggressive - you know, just not saying anything at all to me - while the blacks were very, very vocal about my "infringements." I got a text from Robyn after work, saying she didn't want to talk to me anymore. The reason? All the other African-American warehouse workers were giving her too much shit about booty dancing with a white boy (and had they known about our spit-swapping escapade, they probably would've gone Turner Diaries on our asses.) I didn't even respond, and we never spoke again. And without that surname, I can't even stalk her on Facebook and surreptitiously jack off to her public photos - a real bummer, I know. 

Now, I told you all of that to tell you this. I catch shit from time to time because some people think I'm some kind of alt-right Neo-Nazi racist simply because I write about white supremacist propaganda (primarily, to make fun of it) and have the gall to call #BLM and their ilk out for hypocritical bullshit, like when they demand their universities codify actual racial segregation and they get popped by the po-po for owning honest-to-goodness actual slaves. Well, folks, I can tell you this - I don't think whites are inherently superior to black people. In fact, my poor-ass upbringing actually gives me a closer bond with African-American culture than it does Albinoid American artifacts, and my public admiration of Malcolm X, Booker T. Washington and Diff'rent Strokes more than backs up my argument. Hell, I co-habitated with an African-American in college for two years and have been paid to write articles about real racism in African-American journals (for real, yo.) So if I'm a "racist," I'm that really liberal kind that's totally cool with black-on-white French kissin', A-OK signing a lease agreement with members of the African-American community and proudly supports a team so idiosyncratically black even our punter is a brutha. What I'm trying to get at here is a crass and crude double standard when it comes to white/black relationships in these United States. For all the hubbub we hear about whitey being racist, from my own personal experiences, the honkeys I've hooked up with are supportive of miscegenation, or at the very least, tolerant enough of it that they won't make a big fuss out of it in public. And even if they do hold some prejudice against romance a'la Oreo, a good 99 percent of 'em are too guldarn scared to say anything about it, because they KNOW that would get them branded with the Scarlet "R" and they'd get fired and lose their house and have to live out of an R.V. or something.

The thing the media doesn't have the guts to tell you is that - point blank - black people in the U.S. are generally more prejudiced against white people than the other way around, especially when it comes to interracial intercourse. Sure, you can show me Pew data from four years ago that forgets to tell you upfront they count Asians and Hispanics as "white" to argue to the contrary, but trust me - as a person who lives in a state with the largest number of blacks anywhere in the U.S., I can tell you how it really is. 

Now, are there really prudish old-ass white people out there who consider race-mixing a sin on par with bestiality? Yeah, but their numbers are so infinitesimal as to be irrelevant; besides, those fuckers are either so old or so culturally isolated that their impact on prevailing social norms is about as profound as a butterfly's fart during a Raiders home game.

The frank reality is that there's a lot more stigma in the black community about interracial dating than there is in the white community (although, to be perfectly honest, I think the terms "the [insert absurdly reductionistic group here] community" are non-existent segregatory labels concocted by white and black opportunists alike to promote their own rancorous, ethnocentric agendas.) Every white guy I've ever met - yes, even the yokels I grew up with who said the word "nigger" more than the articles "a," an" and "the" - has at least shown some kind of personal approval of black-on-white dalliances - if not for general society, at least for them and their own dicks. I'd venture to guess that a good 95 percent of white people in America don't give a hoot about race-mixing, and of the five percent that are adamantly opposed, I'm guessing at least half of them still jack off pictures of Gabrielle Union and K.D. Aubert on the downlow. But within the general black community - ESPECIALLY when it comes to black woman/white man lovin' - there's still a considerable amount of discomfort over the matter.

Now that's what I call "tolerance!"

The reports don't lie - for whatever reason, black women (in particular, college-educated ones) are absolutely aghast at the idea of getting their wombs nice and spermed by anyone who ISN'T the same color they are. The idea of shacking up with a white dude - by and large - is seen as some form of race betrayal, with black women into honky dong oft considered the post-Obama equivalent of Uncle Toms (err, Aunt Toms, I guess.)

But don't take my word for it - just listen to what Stanford professor Ralph Richard Banks had to say about the root causes of why college-educated black women are so hesitant to give vanilla a try:

"...there is still enormous social pressure on black women to only marry black men — to 'sustain' the race and build strong black families. And this means marrying black men even if they are less educated or earn less money. In short, no matter the personal cost, black women are encourage to marry 'down' before they marry 'out.'"

Sweet mayonnaise on a whole grain cracker, can you imagine the reaction a white woman would get for saying the exact same thing about black dudes? Old blue eyes would be drug out of her house at midnight by her golden locks and prolly sacrificed in the town square for mass linguistic hate homicide. 

So loathe to being loved and embraced and taken care of be a white man, scores and scores of black women VOLUNTARILY elect to marry and breed with practically random black men simply for the sake of maintaining "racial pride." That's LITERALLY the exact same supremacist ideology you'd hear over at The Daily Stormer or whatever Paul Kersey's working on nowadays, but for some reason, nobody in the general public ever raises a stink about it. Let's just come on out and say it, folks: black women won't date white men because - deep down - THEY are racist as fuck. They put arbitrarily-designated racial in-group pride over their own physiological, financial and most distressing of all, emotional wants because that herd identity, apparently, means more to them than their own personal happiness. The mass black consciousness they allow to supercede their own desires, dictating not only their wombs, but their very hearts. What kind of individual life can you have when you feel THAT indebted and tethered to in-group conformity at all times? Prolly not a very enjoyable one - indeed, one could almost say that this rigid adherence to ethnic cultural norms represents a kind of ideological neo-slavery. If it's horrid and backwards and destructive when displayed by white identitarians, then why don't we call a ... shovel ... a shovel and label this individual squelching black identitarianism, which is so despotic that it forces people to reject pure love for another human being on account of him needin' way more sunscreen, as the hateful, bigoted ideology it actually is? 

How weird is it that the P.O.C. at the vanguard of the multicultural movement are also the ones least likely to date outside their own ethnicity and Crayola shade?  Indeed, the white boyfriend taboo alone ought to be enough to get you to see "intersectionality" as the scam and scheme it is. "We celebrate diversity in all its manifestations," the loud and the proud Black African-American Cis-Women of Color (or BAACWOCs, for short) cheerfully clamor, "you know, just as long as it isn't within our reproductive orifices."

On some sleepless nights, when I can hear that morose little pitter patter of raindrops on my windowsill, I think about Robyn and what could have been had the local "black community" not been so damned racist. Who knows? Maybe me and Robyn would've fallen in love and we would've moved in together and decided to get married and have some beautiful toffee-colored children of our own. But no, African-American society thinks that's "culturally unacceptable" because it cheats the black race out of another full-blooded black baby, and their crude ethnocentrist nationalism has to lord over everybody like P.C.-age plantation whip crackers.

How dreadful it must be to be a woman of color in these disunited states, stuck in a racially prejudiced subculture that not only expects BUT demands ethnic supremacism reigns over your every thought and action. Forget about the alleged tyranny of the white patriarchy, the intersectionalist dogma you fearfully force yourself to abide by is doing MUCH more to de-individualize you and goad you into involuntary behavior - indeed, one may even consider such to constitute a form of ideological bondage. 

And at the end of the day, THAT's why black women, even in our super-duper wonderful multiculturalism uber alles utopia, STILL have an aversion to courting, marrying and reproducing with white males. So hateful the racial nationalism coursing through their veins that they've convinced themselves that simply loving another human being makes somebody a bona fide in-group deserter and a biological Benedict Arnold. So maddened by learned hatred of the white man that they consider merely admiring and appreciating a Caucasoid male to be a cultural perversion - an unthinking, illogical form of prejudice every bit as contemptible as the anti-black hatred spewed by a Klansman or the homophobic spoutings of a Neo-nazi. 

Of course, good luck getting anybody in today's America to say anything about this flagrant Albanophobia running rampant throughout black culture, particularly the domain populated by college-educated women of color.

Hate explains a lot, y'know - and unfortunately, that appears to explain why black women won't even consider giving the time of day to old Paleface.

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Ten Famous People I'd Love To Make Out With

An ode to the celebs I've wanted to suck face with for a long, long time.

By: Jimbo X
JimboXAmerican@gmail.com
@Jimbo___X

I'm pretty sure I've already told you kids this, but I don't think there's anything I enjoy in this world more than a good old fashion, hot and heavy, super sticky and slimy, mascara and lipstick smeared all over the place make out. We're talking the kind of all-out snog-fests where your uvulas get tangled up and your tongues wind up somewhere around each other's lower intestines, with your mutual bacteria surfing in on the wave of saliva and plaque build-up like a bunch of refugees making a bee-line for a person-sized hole in a border fence. I so enjoy having the mucus membranes of my mouth poked and prodded that, many times, I'd actually prefer having a steamy Frenchin' session instead of actually doing the nasty. Shit, at least I can swap spit without wrapping a plastic sack over my tongue that cuts off all feeling to my tonsils.  

With surplus Valentine's' Day candies still making the bargain bin rounds (and me really grasping for straws to come up with relevant, seasonal material), I decided to crank out my own top ten list of famous actresses, musicians and models I would most enjoy playing bicuspid lacrosse and ookie-mouth with. There's no real numerical rank here, so I just decided to do the whole shebang alphabetically. Of course, your mileage may vary and I did my best to make the thing as diverse as possible, so if you have any complaints - well, to be honest, I don't give a shit. And without further adieu, onward to the countdown of celebs I definitely wouldn't mind getting mono from!

Adele

Yes, your girlfriend would go gay for this.

I can pinpoint the exact moment I fell in lust with Adele. It was the 2012 Grammys, and it was her first major performance since having surgery on her larynx (or whatever was in her throat that needed fiddling around with.) She came out wearing about 20 layers of Spanx, so it looked like she was going to pop out of her dress like a tube of canned biscuits at any minute. Her hair and makeup looked on point as always (ever notice how the chubbier chicks always seem to have prettier faces than the skinnier ones?) and then, she started making the sexiest "crazy eyes" I've ever seen. Hers was an intense glare that went so far beyond the usual "fuck me" stare that I almost started dry humping the TV right then and there. We've all seen the "I want dick" expression, but this - this - was an "I need my ovaries pressure washed with semen PRONTO" face. Not a "make me come" face, but a "come inside me I'm oh so fertile" primordial face upon which the very survival of the species hinges. Any girl can make you want to have sex, but Adele's focused, hyper-sensual stare? It makes you want to repopulate the planet. She may not be the traditional embodiment of mass marketed sex appeal, but she just exudes a sense of sheer animalistic sexuality, from her mascara-caked, Black Widow eyes to her super-sharp, predator-like fingernails. I'll just tell you folks what I told my girlfriend after Adele's performance was over. "You know, I love you girl, but if Adele started putting the moves on me, I am going to get her pregnant." And perhaps the ultimate testament to the songstress' inherent sex appeal? She didn't even get mad at me - rather, she just shifted her weight on the couch a little and meekly replied, "well, yeah, I couldn't blame you."

Amelia Kinkade

When you type your name into Google and one of the very first images that pops is a a photo of yourself performing fellatio on a firearm, you know you've lived a life well worth living.

An obscure choice that pays homage to my seventh grade fantasies, for sure, but I'll stand by it. For those not in the know, Amelia Kinkade is the actress who portrayed the demonic antagonist of the three Night of the Demons movies (we've already covered parts 2 and 3 in-depth, if you need a little background.) In hindsight, I'm pretty sure she was the origin of my goth chick fetish, and I can't tell you how many times I churned my man butter while thinking of "Angela" writhing around in tight black fishnets and cramming her devil tongue inside other girls mouths to turn them into Satanic sluts. As I've already stated, the thing that got me is how different Kinkade looked in each movie - in the first NOTD, she looked like an anorexic mallrat whose body weight was about 50 percent hairspray and in the second, she looked like a really svelte and spicy Latina chick. My favorite incarnation by far, however, has to be her performance in Part 3, when she had a perm and a couple of extra pounds on her. She wasn't quite MILFy at that point, but she certainly had a more "mature" tinge going on in that one - yes, even when she was performing blow jobs on handguns and turning skanky girls' hands into evil snake sockpuppets. The funny thing is that in "real life," she's actually the opposite of the character - this now very MILFy blonde gal who wears a lot of pink and claims she can psychically communicate with animals (that part, I swear I am not making up.) And yes, she still has that strangely sexy oversized forehead, which - for reasons I can't even begin to describe - still gets me peculiarly antsy.

Amy Paffrath Seeley

Modern science has determined that there's nothing hotter than a psycho bitch wearing way too much berry lipstick. Absolutely nothing.

It's not often that one role instantly besots me, but by Job, Amy Paffrath Seeley (back when she was just plain old Amy Paffrath) managed to pull it off with her stellar work in the Paramore music video "Misery Business." In that MTV staple circa 2007, Paffrath played your stereotypical high school mega bitch, who strangely enough, looked to be about 10 years older than everybody else on campus (indeed, one YouTube commenter threw out the intriguing fan theory that she was actually a psychotic teacher, not your routine teenage queen bee.) My first semester in college, Amy pretty much made my mornings whenever the video was played (and yes, MTV was indeed still playing music videos that late into the aughties ... even if it was solely during a one hour block at 6 a.m.) She just conveyed this strangely sultry demeanor, stalking the hallways in her devil-in-a-blue-dress ensemble, joyously hacking off other girls' ponytails and slamming kids in arm slings against the lockers. But the highlight, of course, is a scene where she waltzes on up to a loving couple, shoves the moon-faced girlfriend out of the way, and then proceeds to plaster her dark red lips all over her poor victim's face - complete with a copious amount of what relationship experts call "breakup tongue." (On Pop Up Video, VH1 said Paffrath wanted her co-kissee to go even further, and start grabbing her posterior and chesticles - alas, he was too chicken.) As it turns out, Paffrath has had a pretty successful career, hosting a couple of one-and-done shows on E! and playing bit parts in straight-to-DVD offerings no one's ever heard of, but her biggest claim to fame is portraying a customer service rep in a Kindle ad from a few years back. Regardless, I'll always remember her as perhaps the most sexily sinister antagonist in the history of the music video medium - and she can still make out with me in front of my girlfriend anytime.

Annett Louisan

No, for the last time - that ISN'T Kirsten Dunst.

I'm probably going to hell for this one, but I don't care. The German songstress makes my list because she's the celebrity who most looks like my current girlfriend. The eyes. The hair. The same heart-shaped facial structure. The first time I saw a photo of Louisan, I thought it was my girlfriend - with the only giveaway that it wasn't being the smoldering cancer stick betwixt her fingers. Though my bizarre desire to bone two of my girlfriends simultaneously is at the heart of this selection, I feel it's important to note that Louisan certainly deserves a spot on the countdown irrespective of any similarities she may bear with my romantic partner. She really is a drop-dead gorgeous woman, whose simple, less-makeuppy aesthetics is a nice throwback to the women of the late 1970s, who as we all know, are the hottest women to have ever walked on God's green earth. Of course, I don't know German so all the songs she's singing could be about Hitler or something, so she may or may not have some skeletons in her closet (and trust me, petite girls who smile a lot always do.) Still, if I'm ever in Deutschland and she ever feels like twisting my tonsils around with her tongue, I am certainly game for it. 

Helen Mirren

I think it was around this point in the movie that I first became aware of the full potential of my own gonads.

It's a dubious distinction, I know, but Helen Mirren is the oldest woman I've ever pounded my knob to. Remember her at the Oscars in 2006? That, my friends, was the night the term "GMILF" entered the global vernacular. Who cares if her breath smelled like Polident and if you stuck your tongue in there you might catch a strand of measles scientists thought went extinct 40 years ago, when a woman on the plus side of 70 STILL looks this baggable, who are you and I to let a little ageism cloud our judgement? Granted, a lot of my reverence for the woman stems from her performance in Excalibur, where she donned a metal bra for half the movie and fucked her on-screen brother so she could give birth to a King Arthur killing machine, so like with Amelia Kinkade, this is at least partially a nostalgia-informed pick. Factor in her puberty-accelerating performances in Caligula, Hussy and the Fiendish Plot of Fu Manchu, and we've got an all-time champion contender on our hands - hell, ol' Mrs. Tingle here can still teach me whatever the hell she pleases.

Kelly Clarkson

Crazy eyes, too much pink lip gloss and biceps beefier than Hulk Hogan's? PLEASE WE NEED TO MAKE OUT RIGHT NOW I'M NOT EVEN JOKING I'LL DIE IF WE DON'T.

Honestly, I never gave a damn about the American Idol singer until AFTER she gained a good 80 or 90 pounds. As a regular old skinny broad, Kelly Clarkson looked like every other brunette gal in Hollywood, but once she started packing on the pounds, I sure as sugar started taking note of her. It's almost like her intrinsic sexiness was activated the moment she crossed over the 200 pound threshold; back in the day, she was just another twig-thin pop-tart singing songs written by creepy ass 50-year-old men, but with all those rolls on her, she overnight turned into some sort of irresistible Greek fertility goddess. Watching her waddle around on stage, trying to catch her breath while sweat turns her eyeshadow into a Picasso painting, it's almost like I can smell her reproductive prowess wafting over the Internet. Her flabby arms and quadruple chins aren't just indicators that she's been mowing down Hot Pockets like a Viet Cong turret, it's also a secret physiological ploy to let you know her hormones are raging and her ovaries are ripe for a nice semen shower. Hey, with hips like these, I for one wouldn't mind renting out a timeshare in Miss Independent's baby hanger - y'know, if you catch my drift (and if you don't, that means I want to engage in saliva-intensive kissing with her as prelude to inseminating her.)

Monika Schnarre

Oh, what I wouldn't trade to get some sweet, sweet forehead from this Canuck.

And here's another obscure C-tier genre actress who really gets my big forehead fetish fuel a goin'. She's this Canadian model who's been in a million-billion B-movies and C-TV shows over the years, running the gamut from Turbulence 3: Heavy Metal to The New Addams Family. Seeing as how she never turned down a role and practically every syndicated sci-fi show in the late 1990s and early 2000s was filmed in Ontario, she was typecast as a super-hot seductress in scores of long-forgotten programs that certainly made my dateless Saturday afternoons as a teenager a lot more bearable. Just look at this resume:

• An evil pirate wizardess on The Adventures of Sinbad
• An interdimensional sex warrioress in a chrome corset and white lipstick on Nightman
• An android sex wizard in a translucent rain coat wearing crucifix earrings who casts spells on Arnold Schwarzenegger stand-ins so they think about boning her while they're doing their wives on Total Recall 2070
• An intergalactic space vixen who convinces Kevin Sorbo to PG fuck her brains out on Andromeda

And that's not even counting the 29 separate appearances she made on Beastmaster playing an evil sorceress with a hideous British accent that you never noticed because her boobs threatened to explode out of her leather ensemble at any minute. If I had to pick a favorite Schnarre role, though, I'd probably go with her one-and-done appearance on the crappy Sci-Fi Channel series Codename: Eternity, where she played this alien model who seduced another autistic alien with top secret pheromone sex juice and made sure she got her cobalt brown lipstick smeared all over him so his female human partner would get jealous. Do yourself a favor and scope this one out on the YouTubes - it's probably about as close as to a live action version of the old B:TAS staple "Pretty Poison" we're ever going to get.

Sarina Valentina

I wouldn't mind having her tongue in my mouth - and maybe her penis, too, pending I'm drunk enough.

SWERVE! That's right, homophobes, I'm including a legitimate male-to-female transsexual on the list, because by golly, we here at The Internet Is In America believe in LGBT rights. But more than than that, we believe in our dicks, and when somebody looks as hot as legendary transgender porn queen Sarina Valentina, we can certainly overlook the fact that there is a secondary Johnson in the mix. With her milk white skin and medically augmented curves, there's really no way around it: Sarina is way more beautiful than a good 99.999 percent of the "biological females" walking around God's green earth these days. And trust me - when you see how hot this guy-turned-gal looks in midnight black latex bondage gear, you WILL call the "certainty" of your heterosexuality into question.

Taylor Swift

Goddamn, white privilege has never looked so good.

Taylor Swift is an absolute outlier in 21st century media. Off the top of my head, she's the only mega-huge pop music star out there I can think of whose commercial success can't be attributed to market tested skankiness - unlike your Demi Lovotas and your Ariana Grandes, whose sexuality is crammed down our esophagus at every turn. Rather, Tay Tay gets by on her subdued, almost stereotypically Aryan good looks - accentuated, of course, by a dazzling array of bare midriff blouses and enough hooker red lipstick to supply half a dozen clown supply shops for at least full year. Tall, lanky, small-breasted and no-assed with mesmerizing, cerulean blue eyes, Swift is a throwback to the old pre-fashion industrial complex takeover of beauty, a gorgeous, statuesque, dignified lady who exudes a strong sense of class and poise instead of your usual desperate prefab overt-sexuality (why, hello there, Nicki Minaj and Katy Perry!) With an awe-inspiring ruby pout like this, I certainly wouldn't feel an ounce of remorse locking lips with Taylor - yes, even in front of my GF. And it was at our wedding.

Tess Holliday

I don't know about you, but I would positively love having that body all over me. Get it, because of "body positivity" and all that hippie shit?

By now, we all know I do love me some thick girls. 200 pounds, you say? Amateur hour, hoss, I've actually dated more than one girl who was north of 300, and lemme tell you something - these lardy lasses are a godsend. It's kind of top secret intel shared between guys offline, but morbidly obese women are scientifically proven to give the best oral sex, and from personal experience, I can firmly attest to that old maxim "the more cushion, the better the pushin'." As such, I've been absolutely besotted by one Tess Holliday/Tess Munster for quite sometime - yes, in spite of her obnoxious SJW tendencies and the fact she routinely commits fraud to go on vacation at DisneyWorld. For fuck's sake, she has an absolutely gorgeous face and don't even try to tell me you don't have just the teeniest, tiniest kink to have all that adipose tissue flowing over you like a plus sized riptide. This girl is big, she's beautiful, and like everybody else on this countdown, I'd swap spit with her until both of us are half dead from dehydration - and from the looks of her, you know that's going to be a hell of a long time.

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