I know you’re tempted. After all, he seems like a good boy. But before long, you’ll see that he never calls his mother and hasn’t had a job in forever. Then where will you be? Sitting alone with way too many jars of peanut butter, that’s where.
Okay, so maybe the rapture really did happen. ‘Cause seriously, this could not happen in a world blessed by a loving god.
A review of the Rocketfish stylus, SketchBook Pro, and Inkpad for the iPad.
Can anyone see a non-racist way to get turned on by this photo?
She keeps her built-in cellphone charger under her skirt this time, but Machete‘s unheralded MVP is back to deliver all the drug-addicted prostitution action you can handle. (If you’re me, that’s a lot. FYI.)
Judging by his wardrobe, he’s also an international spy. Or a cat burglar. Or French, which brings us right back around to “pervert”.
Everyone here who would rather see an actual shot-by-shot remake of Star Wars by Nick & Simon than sit through Paul, raise your hands.
The only way I’d dump her is if She Don’t Like Jews. My penis is a humanitarian, first and foremost.
Trauma doesn’t visit youth lightly. It takes advantage, sinking its teeth deeply into unblunted sensitivities, unknitted wounds, and unexpected realities. The pain is more than just raw; it’s unwieldy, an emotional artifact of such size and shape that untested arms struggle to wrap around it. For the first twenty-five minutes of Make-Out With Violence, that sensation is evoked so tangibly that I was transported, floating on a lazy river of adolescent longing and dread. Those opening scenes –bathed in the gold and crimson of perpetual sunset– capture and embellish feelings so dark and painful that they can only be properly viewed through the dreamy haze of lost summer afternoons.
Conflicted. Uncertain. Apprehensive. These words well describe my feelings about The Daily, Rupert Murdoch’s splashy entrée to the world of purely digital publishing via the Apple iPad. Virtually everything about this new periodical is a mess, with one exception. One vital aspect that the media mogul nailed better than anyone else so far.
I don’t know if Slumdog is the saddest Happy Movie I’ve ever seen, or the other way ’round. The genius of Danny Boyle’s squalid little love story is that it’s probably both; it constantly slaps you in the face with the aggregate horror of life in the slums of Mumbai and Bombay, even as it gently nurtures a vision of individual, indefatigable hope.
It’s amazing, seeing this woman’s transformation. And I mean more than just delightful lines like “Insides? I don’t have any insides.” or “I wish I could talk in Technicolor.” In a few short minutes of film, we get to observe another human being emerging from culture’s cage.
There’s something about stupidity that I find endearing, almost comforting. And Showtime’s Dexter provides lots of comfort.
The most striking thing about Jean-Jacques Annaud’s adaptation of Umberto Eco’s book is how determinedly ugly it is. With the bulk of the cast seemingly picked for their ability to spontaneously trigger the human gag reflex, and a dank, mud-smeared, undoubtedly foul-smelling architectural monstrosity for a setting,
TNOTR is a vision of 14th century squalor which suggests a Europe that keeps going on Crusade just so it won’t have to look at itself.
What must be wrong with someone, that she can be this fine and still have the kind of hobby that even birthday clowns find creepy?
Are you lonely? Sexually frustrated? Has life let you down? Are you at the point where you can see yourself screwing a Pringles can full of cleaning supplies? If so, then here’s a photographic walkthrough for constructing your own disembodied vagina.
Probably more long-term profit potential in this than Arkansas’ “Tour of Random Animals Killed By Demon Sorcery.”
Looks to me like she’s been taken hostage. Seriously, she could only look more like a kidnap victim if she were holding today’s newspaper in her teeth.
Pictured: Julianne Hough laughs light-heartedly as she shows off her favorite holiday gift: a fully-articulated, fully-closeted, 1/3 scale action figure made entirely of money and spray-tan juice.
Between this and giving birth, she’s had enough kids and fabric wedged in there to qualify her vag as a sweat shop.